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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Strictly Business, by O. Henry
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Strictly Business
+
+Author: O. Henry
+
+Release Date: April, 2000 [eBook #2141]
+[Most recently updated: October 4, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteers and Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRICTLY BUSINESS ***
+
+
+
+
+Strictly Business
+
+by O. Henry
+
+
+Contents
+
+ I. STRICTLY BUSINESS
+ II. THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+ III. BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+ IV. THE DAY RESURGENT
+ V. THE FIFTH WHEEL
+ VI. THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+ VII. THE ROBE OF PEACE
+ VIII. THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+ IX. THE CALL OF THE TAME
+ X. THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+ XI. THE THING'S THE PLAY
+ XII. A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+ XIII. A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+ XIV. PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+ XV. A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+ XVI. COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+ XVII. A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+ XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+ XIX. PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+ XX. PAST ONE AT ROONEY’S
+ XXI. THE VENTURERS
+ XXII. THE DUEL
+ XXIII. “WHAT YOU WANT”
+
+
+
+
+I
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+
+I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You’ve been
+touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and
+the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the
+long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your
+ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like
+this:
+
+Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no
+better than your own (madam) if they weren’t padded. Chorus girls are
+inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back
+to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses
+reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their
+step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew’s real name is Boyle O’Kelley. The
+ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first
+sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.
+Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.
+
+All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne
+and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving
+pictures have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.
+
+Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the
+profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the
+players with an eye full of patronizing superiority—and we go home and
+practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking
+glasses.
+
+Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light.
+It seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring
+bacchanalians and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk,
+students and ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real
+estate, and conducting their private affairs in as orderly and
+unsensational a manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the
+chariot wheels of the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.
+
+Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true
+one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little
+story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only
+the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of
+Keetor’s old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of
+gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch—and where I
+last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time
+to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.
+
+The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had
+been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years
+with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes
+with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a
+buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the
+bass-viol player in more than one house—than which no performer ever
+received more satisfactory evidence of good work.
+
+The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful
+performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order
+to give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest
+Broadway corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a
+matinée offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime
+of a minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with
+that most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles—the audible contact of
+the palm of one hand against the palm of the other.
+
+One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known
+vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and
+got his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.
+
+A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and
+passed into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others
+of the audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob
+Hart, “All the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself,” sat with his face
+as long and his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for
+his grandmother to wind into a ball.
+
+But when H came on, “The Mustard” suddenly sat up straight. H was the
+happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs
+and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;
+but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to
+the old man’s account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and
+ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed
+you ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old
+log school-house besides cipherin’ and nouns, especially “When the
+Teach-er Kept Me in.” Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham
+apron-strings, she reappeared in considerably less than a “trice” as a
+fluffy “Parisienne”—so near does Art bring the old red mill to the
+Moulin Rouge. And then—
+
+But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else.
+He thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short
+order stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of
+“Helen Grimes” in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the
+tray of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal
+actor, grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a
+play tucked away somewhere. They tuck ’em in trays of trunks, trunks of
+trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit
+vaults, handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call.
+They belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.
+
+But Bob Hart’s sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He
+called it “Mice Will Play.” He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever
+since he wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception
+of “Helen Grimes.” And here was “Helen” herself, with all the innocent
+abandon, the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that
+his critical taste demanded.
+
+After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and
+got Cherry’s address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty
+old house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.
+
+By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with her
+hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have
+been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon’s daughter, in the
+great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.
+
+“I know your act, Mr. Hart,” she said after she had looked over his
+card carefully. “What did you wish to see me about?”
+
+“I saw you work last night,” said Hart. “I’ve written a sketch that
+I’ve been saving up. It’s for two; and I think you can do the other
+part. I thought I’d see you about it.”
+
+“Come in the parlor,” said Miss Cherry. “I’ve been wishing for
+something of the sort. I think I’d like to act instead of doing turns.”
+
+Bob Hart drew his cherished “Mice Will Play” from his pocket, and read
+it to her.
+
+“Read it again, please,” said Miss Cherry.
+
+And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by
+introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the
+dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the
+pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen
+Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to
+all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on
+the sketch’s weaker points. That was her woman’s intuition that he had
+lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the
+judgment, experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that
+“Mice Will Play” would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of
+the circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings
+of her smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with
+the end of a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.
+
+“Mr. Hart,” said she, “I believe your sketch is going to win out. That
+Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a
+handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the
+Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers’ Bazaar. And I’ve seen you
+work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is
+business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?”
+
+“Two hundred,” answered Hart.
+
+“I get one hundred for mine,” said Cherry. “That’s about the natural
+discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every
+week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all
+right. I love it; but there’s something else I love better—that’s a
+little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six
+ducks wandering around the yard.
+
+“Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me
+to play the opposite part in your sketch, I’ll do it. And I believe we
+can make it go. And there’s something else I want to say: There’s no
+nonsense in my make-up; I’m _on the level_, and I’m on the stage for
+what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I’m
+going to save my money to keep me when I’m past doing my stunts. No Old
+Ladies’ Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.
+
+“If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
+nonsense cut out of it, I’m in on it. I know something about vaudeville
+teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want
+you to know that I’m on the stage for what I can cart away from it
+every pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it,
+where the cashier has licked the flap. It’s kind of a hobby of mine to
+want to cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I
+want you to know just how I am. I don’t know what an all-night
+restaurant looks like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at
+a stage entrance in my life, and I’ve got money in five savings banks.”
+
+“Miss Cherry,” said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, “you’re in
+on your own terms. I’ve got ‘strictly business’ pasted in my hat and
+stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a
+five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap
+cooking clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title
+deeds to the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on
+the side porch, reading Stanley’s ‘Explorations into Africa.’ And
+nobody else around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss
+Cherry?”
+
+“Not any,” said Cherry. “What I’m going to do with my money is to bank
+it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I’ve
+been earning, I’ve figured out that in ten years I’d have an income of
+about $50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest
+some of the principal in a little business—say, trimming hats or a
+beauty parlor, and make more.”
+
+“Well,” said Hart, “You’ve got the proper idea all right, all right,
+anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who
+couldn’t fix themselves for the wet days to come if they’d save their
+money instead of blowing it. I’m glad you’ve got the correct business
+idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this
+sketch will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it
+shaped up.”
+
+The subsequent history of “Mice Will Play” is the history of all
+successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,
+remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and
+business, changed the lines, restored ’em, added more, cut ’em out,
+renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger
+for the pistol, restored the pistol—put the sketch through all the
+known processes of condensation and improvement.
+
+They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the
+rarely used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour
+would occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the
+unloaded revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling
+climax of the sketch.
+
+Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a
+real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen
+Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and
+daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private
+secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,
+“Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch
+that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,
+L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow
+Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving
+you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case
+may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman
+should want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in ’em.
+
+Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of
+play, whether we admit it or not—something along in between “Bluebeard,
+Jr.,” and “Cymbeline” played in the Russian.
+
+There were only two parts and a half in “Mice Will Play.” Hart and
+Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always
+played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a
+panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn
+down the gas fire in the grate by the manager’s orders.
+
+There was another girl in the sketch—a Fifth Avenue society
+swelless—who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine
+when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost his
+money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic
+state—Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan—of the
+Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.
+
+And now for the thriller. Old “Arapahoe” Grimes dies of angina pectoris
+one night—so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the
+footlights—while only his secretary was present. And that same day he
+was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just
+received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts
+for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.
+Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his
+(alleged) croak.
+
+“Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed—” you sabe, don’t
+you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue
+Girl—who doesn’t come on the stage—and can we blame her, with the
+vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be
+buttoned in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?
+
+But, wait. Here’s the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,
+is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine
+is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop
+$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like
+the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to
+make any perfect lady mad. So, then!
+
+They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk
+heads (didn’t the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the
+dénouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a
+play unless it be when the prologue ends.
+
+Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?
+The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra
+hadn’t left their seats; and no man could get past “Old Jimmy,” the
+stage door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as
+a guarantee of eligibility.
+
+Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack
+Valentine: “Robber and thief—and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts,
+this should be your fate!”
+
+With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.
+
+“But I will be merciful,” goes on Helen. “You shall live—that will be
+your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to
+the death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the mantel. I
+will send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have
+pierced your craven heart.”
+
+And she does it. And there’s no fake blank cartridges or assistants
+pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet—the actual bullet—goes through
+the face of the photograph—and then strikes the hidden spring of the
+sliding panel in the wall—and lo! the panel slides, and there is the
+missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.
+It’s great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a
+target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the
+sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,
+covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the
+same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same
+spot, and she had to shoot steady and true every time.
+
+Of course old “Arapahoe” had tucked the funds away there in the secret
+place; and, of course, Jack hadn’t taken anything except his salary
+(which really might have come under the head of “obtaining money
+under”; but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New
+York girl was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the
+Bronx; and, necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson—and
+there you are.
+
+After Hart and Cherry had gotten “Mice Will Play” flawless, they had a
+try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house
+wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a
+theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,
+being dressed for it, swam in tears.
+
+After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed
+fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was
+what it panned out.
+
+That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good
+night at her boarding-house door.
+
+“Mr. Hart,” said she thoughtfully, “come inside just a few minutes.
+We’ve got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to
+do is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can.”
+
+“Right,” said Bob. “It’s business with me. You’ve got your scheme for
+banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap
+cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net
+receipts will engage my attention.”
+
+“Come inside just a few minutes,” repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.
+“I’ve got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a
+lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine—and
+all on business principles.”
+
+“Mice Will Play” had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten
+weeks—rather neat for a vaudeville sketch—and then it started on the
+circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid
+drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.
+
+Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor’s New York houses, said of Hart &
+Cherry:
+
+“As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.
+It’s a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard
+workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,
+straight home after their act, and each of ’em as gentlemanlike as a
+lady. I don’t expect to handle any attractions that give me less
+trouble or more respect for the profession.”
+
+And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of
+the story:
+
+At the end of its second season “Mice Will Play” came back to New York
+for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was
+never any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had
+his bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit
+bank books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the
+instalment plan to hold them.
+
+I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can’t believe it,
+that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
+ambitions—just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
+grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious to
+flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
+allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that
+they often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.
+
+But, listen.
+
+At the first performance of “Mice Will Play” in New York at the
+Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous.
+When she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel,
+the bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the
+disk, went into the lower left side of Bob Hart’s neck. Not expecting
+to get it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most
+artistic manner.
+
+The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy
+in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with
+great enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang
+the curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and
+more or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The
+next turn went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.
+
+The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
+waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B’ty roses. The doctor
+examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.
+
+“No headlines for you, Old Sport,” was his diagnosis. “If it had been
+two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
+far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,
+you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from
+any one of the girls’ Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by
+the parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you’ll be all right.
+Excuse me; I’ve got a serious case outside to look after.”
+
+After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he
+lay came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a
+solemn man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys
+and maple sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played.
+Vincente had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was
+their peripatetic friend.
+
+“Bob,” said Vincente in his serious way, “I’m glad it’s no worse. The
+little lady is wild about you.”
+
+“Who?” asked Hart.
+
+“Cherry,” said the juggler. “We didn’t know how bad you were hurt; and
+we kept her away. It’s taking the manager and three girls to hold her.”
+
+“It was an accident, of course,” said Hart. “Cherry’s all right. She
+wasn’t feeling in good trim or she couldn’t have done it. There’s no
+hard feelings. She’s strictly business. The doctor says I’ll be on the
+job again in three days. Don’t let her worry.”
+
+“Man,” said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,
+“are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry’s crying her
+heart out for you—calling ‘Bob, Bob,’ every second, with them holding
+her hands and keeping her from coming to you.”
+
+“What’s the matter with her?” asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. “The
+sketch’ll go on again in three days. I’m not hurt bad, the doctor says.
+She won’t lose out half a week’s salary. I know it was an accident.
+What’s the matter with her?”
+
+“You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool,” said Vincente. “The girl
+loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What’s the matter with
+_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you.”
+
+“Loves me?” asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which
+he lay. “Cherry loves me? Why, it’s impossible.”
+
+“I wish you could see her and hear her,” said Griggs.
+
+“But, man,” said Bob Hart, sitting up, “it’s impossible. It’s
+impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing.”
+
+“No human being,” said the Tramp Juggler, “could mistake it. She’s wild
+for love of you. How have you been so blind?”
+
+“But, my God,” said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, “it’s _too late_.
+It’s too late, I tell you, Sam; _it’s too late_. It can’t be. You must
+be wrong. It’s _impossible_. There’s some mistake.
+
+“She’s crying for you,” said the Tramp Juggler. “For love of you she’s
+fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don’t dare to raise
+the curtain. Wake up, man.”
+
+“For love of me?” said Bob Hart with staring eyes. “Don’t I tell you
+it’s too late? It’s too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married
+two years!_”
+
+
+
+
+II
+THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+
+
+A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
+you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
+Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not
+gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in
+his bottle of testing acid.
+
+Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George
+the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
+quarter, and this is their shibboleth: “‘Nit,’ says I to Frohman, ‘you
+can’t touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,’ and out I walks.”
+
+Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets
+where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical
+warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is “El
+Refugio,” a café and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from
+the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of
+Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the
+cloaked and sombreroed señores, who are scattered like burning lava by
+the political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to
+lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist
+filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at
+long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.
+
+In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the
+palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the
+story thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the
+Gallic chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a
+fish—bluefish, shad or pompano from the Gulf—baked after the Spanish
+method. Tomatoes give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado
+bestows upon it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish
+piquancy and mystery, and—but its crowning glory deserves a new
+sentence. Around it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity—but never in
+it—hovers an ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that
+only the Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not
+say that garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than
+as if the spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that
+lingers in the parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in
+life, “by hopeless fancy feigned on lips that are for others.” And
+then, when Conchito, the waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles
+and a carafe of wine that has never stood still between Oporto and El
+Refugio—ah, Dios!
+
+One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen.
+Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The
+General was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch
+waist and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache
+of a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas
+congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.
+
+Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire
+his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that
+neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that
+read, “Hotel Español.” In the window was a card in Spanish, “Aqui se
+habla Español.” The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
+
+In the cozy office was Mrs. O’Brien, the proprietress. She had
+blond—oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,
+and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with
+his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables
+sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of
+a bunch.
+
+“Spanish or Dago?” asked Mrs. O’Brien, pleasantly.
+
+“I am a Colombian, madam,” said the General, proudly. “I speak the
+Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
+here. How is that?”
+
+“Well, you’ve been speaking it, ain’t you?” said the madam. “I’m sure I
+can’t.”
+
+At the Hotel Español General Falcon engaged rooms and established
+himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders
+of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the
+wonderful golden hair of Mme. O’Brien. “It is here,” said the General
+to himself, no doubt in his own language, “that one shall find the most
+beautiful señoras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among
+our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to
+think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion.”
+
+At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became
+involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset
+him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an
+inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He
+scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle
+of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. “Válgame Dios! What
+devil’s city is this?”
+
+As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded
+snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was
+“Bully” McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm
+and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of
+the asphalt was “Spider” Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.
+
+In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the
+quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.
+
+“G’wan!” he commanded harshly. “I saw it first.” McGuire slunk away,
+awed by superior intelligence.
+
+“Pardon me,” said Mr. Kelley, to the General, “but you got balled up in
+the shuffle, didn’t you? Let me assist you.” He picked up the General’s
+hat and brushed the dust from it.
+
+The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered
+and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a
+caballero with a most disinterested heart.
+
+“I have a desire,” said the General, “to return to the hotel of
+O’Brien, in which I am stop. Caramba! señor, there is a loudness and
+rapidness of going and coming in the city of this Nueva York.”
+
+Mr. Kelley’s politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to
+brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel
+Español they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the
+street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to
+whom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a “Dago
+joint.” All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of
+“Dagoes” and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
+thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.
+
+An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in
+the conspirator’s corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were
+between them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his
+mission to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase
+arms—2,000 stands of Winchester rifles—for the Colombian
+revolutionists. He had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank
+on its New York correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other
+revolutionists were shouting their political secrets to their
+fellow-plotters; but none was as loud as the General. He pounded the
+table; he hallooed for some wine; he roared to his friend that his
+errand was a secret one, and not to be hinted at to a living soul. Mr.
+Kelley himself was stirred to sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the
+General’s hand across the table.
+
+“Monseer,” he said, earnestly, “I don’t know where this country of
+yours is, but I’m for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United
+States, though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us
+Columbia, too, sometimes. It’s a lucky thing for you that you butted
+into me to-night. I’m the only man in New York that can get this gun
+deal through for you. The Secretary of War of the United States is me
+best friend. He’s in the city now, and I’ll see him for you to-morrow.
+In the meantime, monseer, you keep them drafts tight in your inside
+pocket. I’ll call for you to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that
+ain’t the District of Columbia you’re talking about, is it?” concluded
+Mr. Kelley, with a sudden qualm. “You can’t capture that with no 2,000
+guns—it’s been tried with more.”
+
+“No, no, no!” exclaimed the General. “It is the Republic of Colombia—it
+is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.
+Yes.”
+
+“All right,” said Mr. Kelley, reassured. “Now suppose we trek along
+home and go by-by. I’ll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date
+with him. It’s a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky
+himself can’t do it.”
+
+They parted at the door of the Hotel Español. The General rolled his
+eyes at the moon and sighed.
+
+“It is a great country, your Nueva York,” he said. “Truly the cars in
+the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly
+makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Señor Kelley—the señoras with hair
+of much goldness, and admirable fatness—they are magnificas! Muy
+magnificas!”
+
+Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary’s
+café, far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.
+
+“Is that Jimmy Dunn?” asked Kelley.
+
+“Yes,” came the answer.
+
+“You’re a liar,” sang back Kelley, joyfully. “You’re the Secretary of
+War. Wait there till I come up. I’ve got the finest thing down here in
+the way of a fish you ever baited for. It’s a Colorado-maduro, with a
+gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and
+a statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I’ll be up on the next
+car.”
+
+Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence
+line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout
+drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but
+the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing
+in New York. It was the ambition of “Spider” Kelley to elevate himself
+into Jimmy’s class.
+
+These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary’s. Kelley
+explained.
+
+“He’s as easy as a gumshoe. He’s from the Island of Colombia, where
+there’s a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they’ve sent
+him up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He
+showed me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank
+here. ’S truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn’t have
+it in thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now,
+we’ve got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us.”
+
+They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; “Bring him to
+No. –––– Broadway, at four o’clock to-morrow afternoon.”
+
+In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Español for the General. He
+found the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs.
+O’Brien.
+
+“The Secretary of War is waitin’ for us,” said Kelley.
+
+The General tore himself away with an effort.
+
+“Ay, señor,” he said, with a sigh, “duty makes a call. But, señor, the
+señoras of your Estados Unidos—how beauties! For exemplification, take
+you la Madame O’Brien—que magnifica! She is one goddess—one Juno—what
+you call one ox-eyed Juno.”
+
+Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the
+fire of their own imagination.
+
+“Sure!” he said with a grin; “but you mean a peroxide Juno, don’t you?”
+
+Mrs. O’Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye
+rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except
+in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.
+
+When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway
+address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then
+admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,
+with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to
+the Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known
+by his old friend, Mr. Kelley.
+
+“Ah—Colombia!” said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to
+understand; “I’m afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.
+The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the
+established government, while I—” the secretary gave the General a
+mysterious but encouraging smile. “You, of course, know, General
+Falcon, that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed
+requiring all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this
+country to pass through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything
+for you I will be glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley.
+But it must be in absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said,
+does not regard favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in
+Colombia. I will have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now
+in the warehouse.”
+
+The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T.
+on his cap stepped promptly into the room.
+
+“Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory,” said the Secretary.
+
+The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary
+studied it closely.
+
+“I find,” he said, “that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is
+shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the
+Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule
+is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.
+My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of
+arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer’s price. And you will
+forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the
+Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!”
+
+As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his
+esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War
+was extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases
+and filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse
+rented for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to
+the Hotel Español, Mrs. O’Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from
+his lapel, and said:
+
+“Say, señor, I don’t want to ‘butt in,’ but what does that
+monkey-faced, cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?”
+
+“Sangre de mi vida!” exclaimed the General. “Impossible it is that you
+speak of my good friend, Señor Kelley.”
+
+“Come into the summer garden,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “I want to have a
+talk with you.”
+
+Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.
+
+“And you say,” said the General, “that for the sum of $18,000 can be
+purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with
+this garden so lovely—so resembling unto the patios of my cara
+Colombia?”
+
+“And dirt cheap at that,” sighed the lady.
+
+“Ah, Dios!” breathed General Falcon. “What to me is war and politics?
+This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to
+continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of
+mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel
+Español and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on
+guns.”
+
+Mrs. O’Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the
+Colombian patriot.
+
+“Oh, señor,” she sighed, happily, “ain’t you terrible!”
+
+Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to
+the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented
+warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his
+friend Kelley to fetch the victim.
+
+Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Español. He found the
+General behind the desk adding up accounts.
+
+“I have decide,” said the General, “to buy not guns. I have to-day buy
+the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General
+Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O’Brien.”
+
+Mr. Kelley almost strangled.
+
+“Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish,” he spluttered,
+“you’re a swindler—that’s what you are! You’ve bought a boarding house
+with money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is.”
+
+“Ah,” said the General, footing up a column, “that is what you call
+politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best
+that one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to
+keep hotels and be with that Juno—that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of
+the gold it is that she have!”
+
+Mr. Kelley choked again.
+
+“Ah, Senor Kelley!” said the General, feelingly and finally, “is it
+that you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O’Brien
+she make?”
+
+
+
+
+III
+BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+
+
+Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West,
+says to me once in Little Rock: “If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and
+get too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In
+the West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in
+chunks of roe—you can’t count ’em!”
+
+Two years afterward I found that I couldn’t remember the names of the
+Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I
+knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver’s advice.
+
+I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And
+I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of
+haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his
+nails with a silk handkerchief.
+
+“Paresis or superannuated?” I asks him.
+
+“Hello, Billy,” says Silver; “I’m glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me
+that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I’ve been
+saving New York for dessert. I know it’s a low-down trick to take
+things from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and
+fro and think ever and anon. I’d hate for my mother to know I was
+skinning these weak-minded ones. She raised me better.”
+
+“Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
+does skin grafting?” I asks.
+
+“Well, no,” says Silver; “you needn’t back Epidermis to win to-day.
+I’ve only been here a month. But I’m ready to begin; and the members of
+Willie Manhattan’s Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to
+contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well
+send their photos to the _Evening Daily_.
+
+“I’ve been studying the town,” says Silver, “and reading the papers
+every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an
+O’Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when
+you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my
+room and I’ll tell you. We’ll work the town together, Billy, for the
+sake of old times.”
+
+Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects
+lying about.
+
+“There’s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,”
+says Silver, “than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C.
+They’ll bite at anything. The brains of most of ’em commute. The wiser
+they are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have.
+Why, didn’t a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of
+Rockefeller, Jr., for Andrea del Sarto’s celebrated painting of the
+young Saint John!
+
+“You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That’s gold
+mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
+hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy
+it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,
+and then I took it off the market. I don’t want people to give me their
+money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction
+to keep my pride from being hurt. I want ’em to guess the missing
+letter in Chic—go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent
+of money.
+
+“Now there’s another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit
+it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor
+on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told ’em I was Admiral
+Dewey’s nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand,
+but I didn’t know my uncle’s first name. It shows, though, what an easy
+town it is. As for burglars, they won’t go in a house now unless
+there’s a hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on ’em.
+They’re slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I
+guess, taking the town from end to end, it’s a plain case of assault
+and Battery.”
+
+“Monty,” says I, when Silver had slacked, up, “you may have Manhattan
+correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I’ve only
+been in town two hours, but it don’t dawn upon me that it’s ours with a
+cherry in it. There ain’t enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I’d
+be a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or
+more in their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch
+charms. They don’t look easy to me.”
+
+“You’ve got it, Billy,” says Silver. “All emigrants have it. New York’s
+bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You’ll
+be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because
+they don’t send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide
+sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears
+the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper’s wife, and
+Bella, the Buncosteerer’s bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than
+a blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I’ll
+break the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of
+twenties.”
+
+“I hope you are right, Monty,” says I; “but I wish all the same I had
+been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of
+farmers is never so short out there but what you can get a few of ’em
+to sign a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200
+at the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of
+self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured
+enough to tackle this game.”
+
+“Don’t worry,” says Silver. “I’ve got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown
+correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River
+ain’t a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway
+who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their
+lives! A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous
+enough here inside of three months to incur either Jerome’s clemency or
+Lawson’s displeasure.”
+
+“Hyperbole aside,” says I, “do you know of any immediate system of
+buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the
+Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould’s doorsteps?”
+
+“Dozens of ’em,” says Silver. “How much capital have you got, Billy?”
+
+“A thousand,” I told him.
+
+“I’ve got $1,200,” says he. “We’ll pool and do a big piece of business.
+There’s so many ways we can make a million that I don’t know how to
+begin.”
+
+The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous
+and stirred with a kind of silent joy.
+
+“We’re to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon,” says he. “A man I know in
+the hotel wants to introduce us. He’s a friend of his. He says he likes
+to meet people from the West.”
+
+“That sounds nice and plausible,” says I. “I’d like to know Mr.
+Morgan.”
+
+“It won’t hurt us a bit,” says Silver, “to get acquainted with a few
+finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with
+strangers.”
+
+The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o’clock Klein brought his
+Wall Street friend to see us in Silver’s room. “Mr. Morgan” looked some
+like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left
+foot, and he walked with a cane.
+
+“Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud,” says Klein. “It sounds superfluous,” says
+he, “to mention the name of the greatest financial—”
+
+“Cut it out, Klein,” says Mr. Morgan. “I’m glad to know you gents; I
+take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you’re from Little
+Rock. I think I’ve a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of
+you guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I—”
+
+“Now, Pierpont,” cuts in Klein, “you forget!”
+
+“Excuse me, gents!” says Morgan; “since I’ve had the gout so bad I
+sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never
+knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He
+lived in Seattle, New Mexico.”
+
+Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane
+and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.
+
+“They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?”
+asks Klein, smiling.
+
+“Stocks! No!” roars Mr. Morgan. “It’s that picture I sent an agent to
+Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it
+ain’t to be found in all Italy. I’d pay $50,000 to-morrow for that
+picture—yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I
+cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to—”
+
+“Why, Mr. Morgan,” says Klein; “I thought you owned all of the De
+Vinchy paintings.”
+
+“What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?” asks Silver. “It must be as big
+as the side of the Flatiron Building.”
+
+“I’m afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver,” says Morgan.
+“The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called ‘Love’s Idle Hour.’
+It represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank
+of a purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to
+this country. My collection will never be complete without that
+picture. Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours.”
+
+Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked
+about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said
+what a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I
+said I thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a
+stroll after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward
+Seventh Avenue to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that
+instigate his admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while
+he buys ’em.
+
+After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me
+and waves his hands.
+
+“Did you see it?” says he. “Did you see it, Billy?”
+
+“What?” I asks.
+
+“Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It’s hanging in that pawnshop,
+behind the desk. I didn’t say anything because Klein was there. It’s
+the article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can
+make them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any
+skirts, and they’re doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with
+the blues. What did Mr. Morgan say he’d give for it? Oh, don’t make me
+tell you. They can’t know what it is in that pawnshop.”
+
+When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing
+there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a
+drink. We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains.
+
+“That’s a violent specimen of a chromo you’ve got up there,” remarked
+Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. “But I kind of enthuse over the girl
+with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for
+it cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in
+hurrying it off the nail?”
+
+The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.
+
+“That picture,” says he, “was pledged a year ago by an Italian
+gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called ‘Love’s Idle Hour,’
+and it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired,
+and it became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is
+worn a great deal now.”
+
+At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and
+walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started
+for Morgan’s office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two
+hours Silver comes back.
+
+“Did you see Mr. Morgan?” I asks. “How much did he pay you for it?”
+
+Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.
+
+“I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan,” he says, “because Mr. Morgan’s been
+in Europe for a month. But what’s worrying me, Billy, is this: The
+department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for
+$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone—that’s what I can’t
+understand.”
+
+
+
+
+IV
+THE DAY RESURGENT
+
+
+I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes
+to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions
+of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.
+
+First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have
+free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper
+number of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the
+well-known model, will pose for it in the “Lethergogallagher,” or
+whatever it was that Trilby called it.
+
+Second—the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.
+This is magazine-covery, but reliable.
+
+Third—Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.
+
+Fourth—Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy
+and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.
+
+Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the
+higher criticism has hard-boiled them.
+
+The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of
+all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our
+conception. It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented
+it. Going back still further to the first spring, we can see Eve
+choosing with pride a new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_.
+
+Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth
+the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a
+holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in
+the footsteps of Danny McCree.
+
+Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on
+the calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at
+10.30 Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed
+his face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his
+hard, smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of
+soap, and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot
+grounder between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant
+lot in Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the
+front room of the flat Danny’s father sat by an open window smoking his
+pipe, with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He
+still clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two
+years before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off
+without permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason
+that they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news
+read to you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors
+of the headlines?
+
+“’Tis Easter Day,” said Mrs. McCree.
+
+“Scramble mine,” said Danny.
+
+After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of
+the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur—frock coat, striped
+trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest, and
+wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein’s
+(between Fourteenth Street and Tony’s fruit stand) Saturday night sale.
+
+“You’ll be goin’ out this day, of course, Danny,” said old man McCree,
+a little wistfully. “’Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it’s fine
+spring weather. I can feel it in the air.”
+
+“Why should I not be going out?” demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest
+tones. “Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my
+team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
+you’ve just eat, I’d like to know? Answer me that!”
+
+“All right, lad,” said the old man. “I’m not complainin’. While me two
+eyes was good there was nothin’ better to my mind than a Sunday out.
+There’s a smell of turf and burnin’ brush comin’ in the windy. I have
+me tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your
+mother had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the
+hippopotamus—but let that be.”
+
+“Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?” asked Danny
+of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. “Have you been taking
+him to the Zoo? And for what?”
+
+“I have not,” said Mrs. McCree. “He sets by the windy all day. ’Tis
+little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I’m thinkin’
+they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without
+stoppin’ for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there’s lard
+burnin’ in the fryin’ pan. There is not. He says I do not understand.
+’Tis weary days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny.
+There was no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes.
+’Tis a fine day, son. Injoy yeself ag’inst the morning. There will be
+cold supper at six.”
+
+“Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?” asked Danny of Mike, the
+janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.
+
+“I have not,” said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. “But ’tis the
+only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that
+I’ve not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or
+else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,
+then?”
+
+“It was the old man who spoke of it,” said Danny. “Likely there’s
+nothing in it.”
+
+Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into
+the heart of the district where Easter—modern Easter, in new, bright
+raiment—leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the
+blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were
+moving parterres of living flowers—so it seemed when your eye looked
+upon the Easter girl.
+
+Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the
+background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands.
+The windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most
+opulent creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
+
+Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked
+Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
+
+“Why, Corrigan,” he asked, “is Easter? I know it comes the first time
+you’re full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March—but why?
+Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it
+out of politics?”
+
+“’Tis an annual celebration,” said Corrigan, with the judicial air of
+the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, “peculiar to New York. It extends
+up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and
+Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion ’tis not political.”
+
+“Thanks,” said Danny. “And say—did you ever hear a man complain of
+hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean.”
+
+“Nothing larger than sea turtles,” said Corrigan, reflecting, “and
+there was wood alcohol in that.”
+
+Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously
+a Sunday and a festival day was his.
+
+The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often
+that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made
+garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the
+griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the
+Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,
+attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,
+and took his pleasure sadly.
+
+The family entrance of Dugan’s café was feasible; so Danny yielded to
+the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,
+linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the
+mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.
+
+“Say, Tim,” he said to the waiter, “why do they have Easter?”
+
+“Skiddoo!” said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. “Is that a new one?
+All right. Tony Pastor’s for you last night, I guess. I give it up.
+What’s the answer—two apples or a yard and a half?”
+
+From Dugan’s Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir
+in him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong
+diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.
+
+A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They
+pumped hands on the corner.
+
+“Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up,” said Katy. “What’s wrong?
+Come away with me to church and be cheerful.”
+
+“What’s doing at church?” asked Danny.
+
+“Why, it’s Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin’
+you might come around to go.”
+
+“What does this Easter stand for, Katy,” asked Danny gloomily. “Nobody
+seems to know.”
+
+“Nobody as blind as you,” said Katy with spirit. “You haven’t even
+looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it’s when all the girls put on
+new spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?”
+
+“I will,” said Danny. “If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought
+to be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain’t a beauty.
+The green roses are great.”
+
+At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke
+rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;
+but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his
+theme—resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of
+the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a
+wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth
+pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.
+
+After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique
+in her sky-blue eyes.
+
+“Are you coming along to the house?” she asked. “But don’t mind me.
+I’ll get there all right. You seem to be studyin’ a lot about
+something. All right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr.
+McCree?”
+
+“I’ll be around Wednesday night as usual,” said Danny, turning and
+crossing the street.
+
+Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny
+stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,
+at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep in
+his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening
+that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender
+than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and
+deeper-rooted than the love of woman—for had he not turned away from
+green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny
+did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his
+dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to
+follow the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.
+
+Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.
+
+“Hippopotamus!” he shouted to an elevated road pillar. “Well, how is
+that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was
+driving at now.
+
+“Hippopotamus! Wouldn’t that send you to the Bronx! It’s been a year
+since he heard it; and he didn’t miss it so very far. We quit at 469 B.
+C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn’t have guessed what
+he was trying to get out of him.”
+
+Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his
+labor supported.
+
+Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on
+the sill.
+
+“Will that be you, lad?” he asked.
+
+Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the
+outset of committing a good deed.
+
+“Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?” he
+snapped, viciously. “Have I no right to come in?”
+
+“Ye’re a faithful lad,” said old man McCree, with a sigh. “Is it
+evening yet?”
+
+Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt
+letters, “The History of Greece.” Dust was on it half an inch thick. He
+laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of
+paper. And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:
+
+“Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?”
+
+“Did I hear ye open the book?” said old man McCree. “Many and weary be
+the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great
+likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. ’Tis a fine day
+outside, lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used
+to me chair by the windy and me pipe.”
+
+“Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
+hippopotamus,” said Danny. “The war began there. It kept something
+doing for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of
+Macedon, in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision
+at the battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I’ll read it.”
+
+With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree
+sat for an hour, listening.
+
+Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree
+was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man
+McCree’s eyes.
+
+“Do you hear our lad readin’ to me?” he said. “There is none finer in
+the land. My two eyes have come back to me again.”
+
+After supper he said to Danny: “’Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now
+ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough.”
+
+“Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?” said
+Danny, angrily. “Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is
+yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the
+kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman
+Empire. Am I nothing in this house?”
+
+
+
+
+V
+THE FIFTH WHEEL
+
+
+The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They
+were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of
+Fifth Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet,
+looked at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had
+evicted them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues.
+The Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture
+looming mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood
+for the tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by
+the winged walking delegate of the Lord.
+
+Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the
+Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north
+wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you
+a man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you
+credit.
+
+The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over
+the list of things one may do for one’s fellow man, and had assumed for
+himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box
+on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for
+other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,
+this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all
+might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and
+the rent man and business go to the deuce.
+
+The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
+dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth’s
+monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with
+conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the
+Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
+coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a
+squad of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in
+terms beautifully devoid of eloquence—splendid with the deadly,
+accusative monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners
+fades you must hear one phrase of the Preacher’s—the one that formed
+his theme that night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white
+ribbons in the world.
+
+_“No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky.”_
+
+Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to
+the Potter’s Field.
+
+A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
+emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his
+coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still
+showed signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling
+goose. But, conscientiously, I must warn the milliner’s apprentice who
+reads this, expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no
+further. The young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman,
+discharged for drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the
+grimy ranks of the one-night bed seekers.
+
+If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family
+carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The
+carriage is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old
+lady Van Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year’s Eve
+feather tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van
+Smuythe bays and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady’s
+maid. But it is one of the saddest things about romance that a tight
+shoe or an empty commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary
+heretic of any Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas’s physical troubles were not
+few. Therefore, his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost
+lady’s maid than it was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent
+things that his racked nerves almost convinced him were flying,
+dancing, crawling, and wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above
+and around the dismal campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of
+straight whisky and a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles
+often guarantees a psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing,
+angry, beset by phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy
+and intercourse.
+
+The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own
+age, shabby but neat.
+
+“What’s the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?” asked Thomas, with the
+freemasonic familiarity of the damned—“Booze? That’s mine. You don’t
+look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the
+lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that
+ever made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now!
+Say; how do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale.”
+
+The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy
+ex-coachman.
+
+“No,” said he, “mine isn’t exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow
+that Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion
+of my unforgiving relatives. I’ve been out of work for a year because I
+don’t know how to work; and I’ve been sick in Bellevue and other
+hospitals for months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I
+was turned out of the hospital yesterday. And I haven’t a cent. That’s
+my tale of woe.”
+
+“Tough luck,” said Thomas. “A man alone can pull through all right. But
+I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it.”
+
+Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,
+so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that
+it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and
+pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.
+
+When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire
+became loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in
+the wake of the flying car.
+
+Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among
+the Preacher’s goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
+swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
+both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
+canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up
+with the lost tire.
+
+One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so
+grand an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and
+save his pride.
+
+Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
+chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
+sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.
+
+Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner and
+a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be
+suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to
+higher denominations.
+
+But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received
+the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,
+and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
+
+“Strange—strange!” said he. “Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied
+that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?”
+
+Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful
+Thomas.
+
+“Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
+if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
+Washington Square North?”
+
+“Oughtn’t I to?” replied Thomas. “I lived there. Wish I did yet.”
+
+The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
+
+“Step in please,” he said. “You have been expected.”
+
+Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
+motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
+the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
+course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.
+
+“Maybe the guy hasn’t got any change,” was his diagnosis. “Lots of
+these swell rounders don’t lug about any ready money. Guess he’ll dump
+me out when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug.
+Anyhow, it’s a cinch that I’ve got that open-air bed convention beat to
+a finish.”
+
+Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed,
+himself, to marvel at the surprises of life. “Wonderful! amazing!
+strange!” he repeated to himself constantly.
+
+When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
+a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front
+houses.
+
+“Be kind enough to enter my house with me,” said the sealskinned
+gentleman when they had alighted. “He’s going to dig up, sure,”
+reflected Thomas, following him inside.
+
+There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a
+door to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute
+darkness. Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly
+in the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly
+appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy
+tales.
+
+The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
+fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
+portières of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The
+furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman’s
+feet sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three
+or four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet
+drapery.
+
+Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with
+one eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor—to find
+that he had disappeared.
+
+“B’gee!” muttered Thomas, “this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn’t
+wonder if it ain’t one of these Moravian Nights’ adventures that you
+read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy.”
+
+Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the
+illuminated globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a
+brilliant electric glow.
+
+With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
+Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
+terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
+crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
+light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
+portières parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered
+the room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and
+accurate taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long
+and wavy hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult
+eyes gave him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can
+conceive a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah’s throne-room advancing to
+greet a visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of
+his manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t’s_ to be mindful
+of his _p’s_ and _q’s_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and
+somewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.
+
+“Say, doc,” said he resentfully, “that’s a hot bird you keep on tap. I
+hope I didn’t break anything. But I’ve nearly got the williwalloos, and
+when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a
+snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the
+sideboard.”
+
+“That is merely a mechanical toy,” said the gentleman with a wave of
+his hand. “May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you
+to my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with
+the psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to
+the point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know
+the Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North.”
+
+“Any silver missing?” asked Thomas tartly. “Any joolry displaced? Of
+course I know ’em. Any of the old ladies’ sunshades disappeared? Well,
+I know ’em. And then what?”
+
+The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.
+
+“Wonderful!” he murmured. “Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the
+Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you,” he continued, “that
+there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you
+that very good fortune awaits you. We will see.”
+
+“Do they want me back?” asked Thomas, with something of his old
+professional pride in his voice. “I’ll promise to cut out the booze and
+do the right thing if they’ll try me again. But how did you get wise,
+doc? B’gee, it’s the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its
+flashlight owls and so forth.”
+
+With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two
+minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the
+chauffeur, who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious
+apartment, he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by
+his witty and genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the
+cold streets from which he had been so recently and so singularly
+rescued. A servant brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a
+glass of miraculous wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop
+him. Thus half an hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned
+motor car at the door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with
+another soft petition for a brief absence.
+
+Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front
+door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall
+through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was
+screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double
+portières. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely
+tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were
+scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or
+toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.
+
+The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She
+was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,
+took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an
+attendant might have done.
+
+“You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco,” said the elder woman, wearily.
+“I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I’ve about
+lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to
+your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it.”
+
+“Madam,” said the professor, with his princeliest smile, “the true Art
+cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes
+requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the
+crystal, the stars, the magic formulæ of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of Po.
+But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean
+Chiroscope has been successful in our search.”
+
+The professor’s voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in
+his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more
+interest.
+
+“Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on
+it,” she said. “What do you mean?”
+
+“The words were these,” said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full
+magnificent height: “_‘By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall
+come.’_”
+
+“I haven’t seen many chariots,” said the lady, “but I never saw one
+with five wheels.”
+
+“Progress,” said the professor—“progress in science and mechanics has
+accomplished it—though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an
+extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I
+repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only
+answer the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before
+your eyes the proof thereof.”
+
+And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.
+
+“O professor!” she cried anxiously—“When?—where? Has he been found? Do
+not keep me in suspense.”
+
+“I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes,” said Professor
+Cherubusco, “and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the
+true Art.”
+
+Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl
+when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.
+
+“Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
+welcome and restoration to favor?” he asked, with his courteous, royal
+smile.
+
+“Do I look bughouse?” answered Thomas. “Enough of the footback life for
+me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways
+as a nut on a new axle.”
+
+“My dear young man,” said the other, “she has been searching for you
+everywhere.”
+
+“Great!” said Thomas. “I’m on the job. That team of dropsical
+dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman
+like myself; but I’ll take the job back, sure, doc. They’re good people
+to be with.”
+
+And now a change came o’er the suave countenance of the Caliph of
+Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.
+
+“May I ask what your name is?” he said shortly.
+
+“You’ve been looking for me,” said Thomas, “and don’t know my name?
+You’re a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office
+gumshoers. I’m Thomas McQuade, of course; and I’ve been chauffeur of
+the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago
+for—well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on
+booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing
+in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.
+Now, what’s the prize for the best answer to all this?”
+
+To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and
+dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was
+opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,
+disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian’s shoe.
+
+As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he
+hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.
+
+“Crazy guy,” was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. “Just
+wanted to have some fun kiddin’, I guess. He might have dug up a
+dollar, anyhow. Now I’ve got to hurry up and get back to that gang of
+bum bed hunters before they all get preached to sleep.”
+
+When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of
+the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the
+proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file
+in front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals
+and something of a wife and child.
+
+“Sorry to see you back again,” said the young man, turning to speak to
+him. “I hoped you had struck something better than this.”
+
+“Me?” said Thomas. “Oh, I just took a run around the block to keep
+warm! I see the public ain’t lending to the Lord very fast to-night.”
+
+“In this kind of weather,” said the young man, “charity avails itself
+of the proverb, and both begins and ends at home.”
+
+And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of
+petition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes
+still registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in.
+
+In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with
+wind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight
+toward him from the opposite sidewalk. “Annie!” he yelled, and ran
+toward her.
+
+“You fool, you fool!” she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging upon
+his neck, “why did you do it?”
+
+“The Stuff,” explained Thomas briefly. “You know. But subsequently nit.
+Not a drop.” He led her to the curb. “How did you happen to see me?”
+
+“I came to find you,” said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. “Oh, you
+big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you here.”
+
+“Professor Ch–––– Don’t know the guy. What saloon does he work in?”
+
+“He’s a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found you
+with the Chaldean telescope, he said.”
+
+“He’s a liar,” said Thomas. “I never had it. He never saw me have
+anybody’s telescope.”
+
+“And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something.”
+
+“Annie,” said Thoms solicitously, “you’re giving me the wheels now. If
+I had a chariot I’d have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any
+singing and preaching for a nightcap, either.”
+
+“Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she’ll take you back. I begged
+her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;
+and your old room over the stable is ready.”
+
+“Great!” said Thomas earnestly. “You are It, Annie. But when did these
+stunts happen?”
+
+“To-night at Professor Cherubusco’s. He sent his automobile for the
+Missis, and she took me along. I’ve been there with her before.”
+
+“What’s the professor’s line?”
+
+“He’s a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows
+everything. But he hasn’t done the Missis any good yet, though she’s
+paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told him we
+could find you here.”
+
+“What’s the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?”
+
+“That’s a family secret,” said Annie. “And now you’ve asked enough
+questions. Come on home, you big fool.”
+
+They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped.
+
+“Got any dough with you, Annie?” he asked.
+
+Annie looked at him sharply.
+
+“Oh, I know what that look means,” said Thomas. “You’re wrong. Not
+another drop. But there’s a guy that was standing next to me in the bed
+line over there that’s in bad shape. He’s the right kind, and he’s got
+wives or kids or something, and he’s on the sick list. No booze. If you
+could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a decent bed I’d
+like it.”
+
+Annie’s fingers began to wiggle in her purse.
+
+“Sure, I’ve got money,” said she. “Lots of it. Twelve dollars.” And
+then she added, with woman’s ineradicable suspicion of vicarious
+benevolence: “Bring him here and let me see him first.”
+
+Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As
+the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:
+
+“Mr. Walter— Oh—Mr. Walter!
+
+“Is that you, Annie?” said the young man meekly.
+
+“Oh, Mr. Walter!—and the Missis hunting high and low for you!”
+
+“Does mother want to see me?” he asked, with a flush coming out on his
+pale cheek.
+
+“She’s been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see you.
+She wants you to come home. She’s tried police and morgues and lawyers
+and advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she
+took up clearvoyants. You’ll go right home, won’t you, Mr. Walter?”
+
+“Gladly, if she wants me,” said the young man. “Three years is a long
+time. I suppose I’ll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars
+are giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of
+bays we used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?”
+
+“They have,” said Thomas, feelingly. “And they’ll have ’em ten years
+from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one
+hundred and forty-nine years. I’m the coachman. Just got my
+reappointment five minutes ago. Let’s all ride up in a surface car—that
+is—er—if Annie will pay the fares.”
+
+On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to
+pay the conductor.
+
+“Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of
+money around,” said Thomas sarcastically.
+
+“In that purse,” said Annie decidedly, “is exactly $11.85. I shall take
+every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the
+greatest man in the world.”
+
+“Well,” said Thomas, “I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe off
+things the way he does. I’m glad his spooks told him where you could
+find me. If you’ll give me his address, some day I’ll go up there,
+myself, and shake his hand.”
+
+Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt
+an abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.
+
+“Say, Annie,” said he confidentially, maybe it’s one of the last dreams
+of booze, but I’ve a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile
+with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights.
+He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front
+steps. If it was the _d t’s_, why am I so sore?”
+
+“Shut up, you fool,” said Annie.
+
+“If I could find that funny guy’s house,” said Thomas, in conclusion,
+“I’d go up there some day and punch his nose for him.”
+
+
+
+
+VI
+THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+
+
+The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion
+with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.
+
+It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
+song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
+
+When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak
+dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:
+
+“Too artificial.”
+
+Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and
+swallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls.
+
+And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a
+well-arrived writer of fiction—a man who had trod on asphalt all his
+life, and who had never looked upon bucolic scenes except with
+sensations of disgust from the windows of express trains.
+
+Conant wrote a poem and called it “The Doe and the Brook.” It was a
+fine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had
+strayed with Amaryllis only as far as the florist’s windows, and whose
+sole ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter.
+Conant signed this poem, and we sent it to the same editor.
+
+But this has very little to do with the story.
+
+Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next
+morning, a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped
+slowly up Forty-second Street.
+
+The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and
+hair the exact color of the little orphan’s (afterward discovered to be
+the earl’s daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney’s plays. His trousers were
+corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his
+back. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,
+though in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating
+the suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.
+In his hand was a valise—description of it is an impossible task; a
+Boston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office
+in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay—the rustic’s
+letter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of
+the Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men.
+
+Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw
+stranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall
+buildings. At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It
+had been done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what
+Coney “attraction” or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning
+into his memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the
+newsboys looked bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the
+way of cabs and street cars.
+
+At Eighth Avenue stood “Bunco Harry,” with his dyed mustache and shiny,
+good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
+sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman,
+who had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook
+his head.
+
+“Too thick, pal,” he said, critically—“too thick by a couple of inches.
+I don’t know what your lay is; but you’ve got the properties too thick.
+That hay, now—why, they don’t even allow that on Proctor’s circuit any
+more.”
+
+“I don’t understand you, mister,” said the green one. “I’m not lookin’
+for any circus. I’ve just run down from Ulster County to look at the
+town, bein’ that the hayin’s over with. Gosh! but it’s a whopper. I
+thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times
+as big.”
+
+“Oh, well,” said “Bunco Harry,” raising his eyebrows, “I didn’t mean to
+butt in. You don’t have to tell. I thought you ought to tone down a
+little, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success at your graft,
+whatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow.”
+
+“I wouldn’t mind having a glass of lager beer,” acknowledged the other.
+
+They went to a café frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty
+eyes, and sat at their drinks.
+
+“I’m glad I come across you, mister,” said Haylocks. “How’d you like to
+play a game or two of seven-up? I’ve got the keerds.”
+
+He fished them out of Noah’s valise—a rare, inimitable deck, greasy
+with bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields.
+
+“Bunco Harry” laughed loud and briefly.
+
+“Not for me, sport,” he said, firmly. “I don’t go against that make-up
+of yours for a cent. But I still say you’ve overdone it. The Reubs
+haven’t dressed like that since ’79. I doubt if you could work Brooklyn
+for a key-winding watch with that layout.”
+
+“Oh, you needn’t think I ain’t got the money,” boasted Haylocks. He
+drew forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and
+laid it on the table.
+
+“Got that for my share of grandmother’s farm,” he announced. “There’s
+$950 in that roll. Thought I’d come to the city and look around for a
+likely business to go into.”
+
+“Bunco Harry” took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost
+respect in his smiling eyes.
+
+“I’ve seen worse,” he said, critically. “But you’ll never do it in them
+clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw
+hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and
+freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work
+off phony stuff like that.”
+
+“What’s his line?” asked two or three shifty-eyed men of “Bunco Harry”
+after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed.
+
+“The queer, I guess,” said Harry. “Or else he’s one of Jerome’s men. Or
+some guy with a new graft. He’s too much hayseed. Maybe that his—I
+wonder now—oh, no, it couldn’t have been real money.”
+
+Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived
+into a dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight
+of him their eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated
+rusticity became apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion.
+
+Haylocks swung his valise across the bar.
+
+“Keep that a while for me, mister,” he said, chewing at the end of a
+virulent claybank cigar. “I’ll be back after I knock around a spell.
+And keep your eye on it, for there’s $950 inside of it, though maybe
+you wouldn’t think so to look at me.”
+
+Somewhere outside a phonograph struck up a band piece, and Haylocks was
+off for it, his coat-tail buttons flopping in the middle of his back.
+
+“Divvy, Mike,” said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at one
+another.
+
+“Honest, now,” said the bartender, kicking the valise to one side. “You
+don’t think I’d fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he ain’t no jay.
+One of McAdoo’s come-on squad, I guess. He’s a shine if he made himself
+up. There ain’t no parts of the country now where they dress like that
+since they run rural free delivery to Providence, Rhode Island. If he’s
+got nine-fifty in that valise it’s a ninety-eight cent Waterbury that’s
+stopped at ten minutes to ten.”
+
+When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse he
+returned for his valise. And then down Broadway he gallivanted, culling
+the sights with his eager blue eyes. But still and evermore Broadway
+rejected him with curt glances and sardonic smiles. He was the oldest
+of the “gags” that the city must endure. He was so flagrantly
+impossible, so ultra rustic, so exaggerated beyond the most freakish
+products of the barnyard, the hayfield and the vaudeville stage, that
+he excited only weariness and suspicion. And the wisp of hay in his
+hair was so genuine, so fresh and redolent of the meadows, so
+clamorously rural that even a shell-game man would have put up his peas
+and folded his table at the sight of it.
+
+Haylocks seated himself upon a flight of stone steps and once more
+exhumed his roll of yellow-backs from the valise. The outer one, a
+twenty, he shucked off and beckoned to a newsboy.
+
+“Son,” said he, “run somewhere and get this changed for me. I’m mighty
+nigh out of chicken feed. I guess you’ll get a nickel if you’ll hurry
+up.”
+
+A hurt look appeared through the dirt on the newsy’s face.
+
+“Aw, watchert’ink! G’wan and get yer funny bill changed yerself. Dey
+ain’t no farm clothes yer got on. G’wan wit yer stage money.”
+
+On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He saw
+Haylocks, and his expression suddenly grew cold and virtuous.
+
+“Mister,” said the rural one. “I’ve heard of places in this here town
+where a fellow could have a good game of old sledge or peg a card at
+keno. I got $950 in this valise, and I come down from old Ulster to see
+the sights. Know where a fellow could get action on about $9 or $10?
+I’m goin’ to have some sport, and then maybe I’ll buy out a business of
+some kind.”
+
+The steerer looked pained, and investigated a white speck on his left
+forefinger nail.
+
+“Cheese it, old man,” he murmured, reproachfully. “The Central Office
+must be bughouse to send you out looking like such a gillie. You
+couldn’t get within two blocks of a sidewalk crap game in them Tony
+Pastor props. The recent Mr. Scotty from Death Valley has got you beat
+a crosstown block in the way of Elizabethan scenery and mechanical
+accessories. Let it be skiddoo for yours. Nay, I know of no gilded
+halls where one may bet a patrol wagon on the ace.”
+
+Rebuffed once again by the great city that is so swift to detect
+artificialities, Haylocks sat upon the curb and presented his thoughts
+to hold a conference.
+
+“It’s my clothes,” said he; “durned if it ain’t. They think I’m a
+hayseed and won’t have nothin’ to do with me. Nobody never made fun of
+this hat in Ulster County. I guess if you want folks to notice you in
+New York you must dress up like they do.”
+
+So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through their
+noses and rubbed their hands and ran the tape line ecstatically over
+the bulge in his inside pocket where reposed a red nubbin of corn with
+an even number of rows. And messengers bearing parcels and boxes
+streamed to his hotel on Broadway within the lights of Long Acre.
+
+At 9 o’clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom Ulster
+County would have foresworn. Bright tan were his shoes; his hat the
+latest block. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue
+silk handkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant English
+walking coat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond
+hair was trimmed close; the wisp of hay was gone.
+
+For an instant he stood, resplendent, with the leisurely air of a
+boulevardier concocting in his mind the route for his evening
+pleasures. And then he turned down the gay, bright street with the easy
+and graceful tread of a millionaire.
+
+But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in
+the city had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with
+gray eyes picked two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from
+the row of loungers in front of the hotel.
+
+“The juiciest jay I’ve seen in six months,” said the man with gray
+eyes. “Come along.”
+
+It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh
+Street Police Station with the story of his wrongs.
+
+“Nine hundred and fifty dollars,” he gasped, “all my share of
+grandmother’s farm.”
+
+The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust
+Valley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the
+strong-arm gentlemen.
+
+When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was
+received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is
+decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown.
+
+“When I read the first line of ‘The Doe and the Brook,’” said the
+editor, “I knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to
+heart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to
+that fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild,
+free child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and
+walk down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show.”
+
+“Thanks,” said Conant. “I suppose the check will be round on Thursday,
+as usual.”
+
+The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your
+choice of “Stay on the Farm” or “Don’t Write Poetry.”
+
+
+
+
+VII
+THE ROBE OF PEACE
+
+
+Mysteries follow one another so closely in a great city that the
+reading public and the friends of Johnny Bellchambers have ceased to
+marvel at his sudden and unexplained disappearance nearly a year ago.
+This particular mystery has now been cleared up, but the solution is so
+strange and incredible to the mind of the average man that only a
+select few who were in close touch with Bellchambers will give it full
+credence.
+
+Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically
+inner circle of the _élite_. Without any of the ostentation of the
+fashionable ones who endeavor to attract notice by eccentric display of
+wealth and show he still was _au fait_ in everything that gave deserved
+lustre to his high position in the ranks of society.
+
+Especially did he shine in the matter of dress. In this he was the
+despair of imitators. Always correct, exquisitely groomed, and
+possessed of an unlimited wardrobe, he was conceded to be the
+best-dressed man in New York, and, therefore, in America. There was not
+a tailor in Gotham who would not have deemed it a precious boon to have
+been granted the privilege of making Bellchambers’ clothes without a
+cent of pay. As he wore them, they would have been a priceless
+advertisement. Trousers were his especial passion. Here nothing but
+perfection would he notice. He would have worn a patch as quickly as he
+would have overlooked a wrinkle. He kept a man in his apartments always
+busy pressing his ample supply. His friends said that three hours was
+the limit of time that he would wear these garments without exchanging.
+
+Bellchambers disappeared very suddenly. For three days his absence
+brought no alarm to his friends, and then they began to operate the
+usual methods of inquiry. All of them failed. He had left absolutely no
+trace behind. Then the search for a motive was instituted, but none was
+found. He had no enemies, he had no debts, there was no woman. There
+were several thousand dollars in his bank to his credit. He had never
+showed any tendency toward mental eccentricity; in fact, he was of a
+particularly calm and well-balanced temperament. Every means of tracing
+the vanished man was made use of, but without avail. It was one of
+those cases—more numerous in late years—where men seem to have gone out
+like the flame of a candle, leaving not even a trail of smoke as a
+witness.
+
+In May, Tom Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam, two of Bellchambers’ old
+friends, went for a little run on the other side. While pottering
+around in Italy and Switzerland, they happened, one day, to hear of a
+monastery in the Swiss Alps that promised something outside of the
+ordinary tourist-beguiling attractions. The monastery was almost
+inaccessible to the average sightseer, being on an extremely rugged and
+precipitous spur of the mountains. The attractions it possessed but did
+not advertise were, first, an exclusive and divine cordial made by the
+monks that was said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse. Next a
+huge brass bell so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceased
+sounding since it was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it
+was asserted that no Englishman had ever set foot within its walls.
+Eyres and Gilliam decided that these three reports called for
+investigation.
+
+It took them two days with the aid of two guides to reach the monastery
+of St. Gondrau. It stood upon a frozen, wind-swept crag with the snow
+piled about it in treacherous, drifting masses. They were hospitably
+received by the brothers whose duty it was to entertain the infrequent
+guest. They drank of the precious cordial, finding it rarely potent and
+reviving. They listened to the great, ever-echoing bell, and learned
+that they were pioneer travelers, in those gray stone walls, over the
+Englishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly every corner of the
+earth.
+
+At three o’clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young
+Gothamites stood with good Brother Cristofer in the great, cold hallway
+of the monastery to watch the monks march past on their way to the
+refectory. They came slowly, pacing by twos, with their heads bowed,
+treading noiselessly with sandaled feet upon the rough stone flags. As
+the procession slowly filed past, Eyres suddenly gripped Gilliam by the
+arm. “Look,” he whispered, eagerly, “at the one just opposite you
+now—the one on this side, with his hand at his waist—if that isn’t
+Johnny Bellchambers then I never saw him!”
+
+Gilliam saw and recognized the lost glass of fashion.
+
+“What the deuce,” said he, wonderingly, “is old Bell doing here? Tommy,
+it surely can’t be he! Never heard of Bell having a turn for the
+religious. Fact is, I’ve heard him say things when a four-in-hand
+didn’t seem to tie up just right that would bring him up for
+court-martial before any church.”
+
+“It’s Bell, without a doubt,” said Eyres, firmly, “or I’m pretty badly
+in need of an oculist. But think of Johnny Bellchambers, the Royal High
+Chancellor of swell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here in cold
+storage doing penance in a snuff-colored bathrobe! I can’t get it
+straight in my mind. Let’s ask the jolly old boy that’s doing the
+honors.”
+
+Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the
+monks had passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one
+they referred. Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned
+their worldly names when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to
+speak with one of the brothers? If they would come to the refectory and
+indicate the one they wished to see, the reverend abbot in authority
+would, doubtless, permit it.
+
+Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother
+Cristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They
+saw his face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never
+looking up, eating broth from a coarse, brown bowl.
+
+Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two
+travelers by the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to
+come. When he did come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and
+Gilliam looked at him in perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny
+Bellchambers, but he had a different look. Upon his smooth-shaven face
+was an expression of ineffable peace, of rapturous attainment, of
+perfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly erect, his eyes
+shone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and well-groomed
+as in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now he
+seemed clothed in but a single garment—a long robe of rough brown
+cloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose
+folds nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old
+ease and grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that
+meeting it was not manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no
+seats; they stood to converse.
+
+“Glad to see you, old man,” said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. “Wasn’t
+expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all.
+Society’s an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and
+retire to—er—contemplation and—er—prayer and hymns, and those things.
+
+“Oh, cut that, Tommy,” said Bellchambers, cheerfully. “Don’t be afraid
+that I’ll pass around the plate. I go through these thing-um-bobs with
+the rest of these old boys because they are the rules. I’m Brother
+Ambrose here, you know. I’m given just ten minutes to talk to you
+fellows. That’s rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn’t
+it, Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?”
+
+“It’s the same old Johnny,” said Gilliam, joyfully. “What the devil—I
+mean why— Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?”
+
+“Peel the bathrobe,” pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, “and go back with
+us. The old crowd’ll go wild to see you. This isn’t in your line, Bell.
+I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you
+shook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a
+dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice
+factory. You’ll get catarrh here, Johnny—and— My God! you haven’t any
+socks on!”
+
+Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled.
+
+“You fellows don’t understand,” he said, soothingly. “It’s nice of you
+to want me to go back, but the old life will never know me again. I
+have reached here the goal of all my ambitions. I am entirely happy and
+contented. Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days. You see
+this robe that I wear?” Bellchambers caressingly touched the
+straight-hanging garment: “At last I have found something that will not
+bag at the knees. I have attained—”
+
+At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated
+through the monastery. It must have been a summons to immediate
+devotions, for Brother Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the
+chamber without another word. A slight wave of his hand as he passed
+through the stone doorway seemed to say a farewell to his old friends.
+They left the monastery without seeing him again.
+
+And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought
+back with them from their latest European tour.
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+
+
+The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is a
+conscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is the
+Western Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from
+speculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden
+toys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to
+a pulp.
+
+Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for a
+rest. He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the
+wilderness business is about as much rest and pleasure to him as
+sliding down the bumps at Coney would be to President Taft. “Give me,”
+says Pogue, “a big city for my vacation. Especially New York. I’m not
+much fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the
+globe where I don’t find any.”
+
+While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places.
+One is a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads
+books about his hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at the
+other—his hall bedroom in Eighteenth Street—where he sat in his
+stocking feet trying to pluck “The Banks of the Wabash” out of a small
+zither. Four years he has practised this tune without arriving near
+enough to cast the longest trout line to the water’s edge. On the
+dresser lay a blued-steel Colt’s forty-five and a tight roll of tens
+and twenties large enough around to belong to the spring
+rattlesnake-story class. A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air
+fluttered nearby in the hall, unable to enter or to flee, scandalized
+by the stocking feet, aghast at the Colt’s, yet powerless, with her
+metropolitan instincts, to remove herself beyond the magic influence of
+the yellow-hued roll.
+
+I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker
+or more candid in his conversation. Beside his expression the cry of
+Henry James for lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have
+seemed like a Chaldean cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession
+with pride, for he considered it an art. And I was curious enough to
+ask him whether he had known any women who followed it.
+
+“Ladies?” said Pogue, with Western chivalry. “Well, not to any great
+extent. They don’t amount to much in special lines of graft, because
+they’re all so busy in general lines. What? Why, they have to. Who’s
+got the money in the world? The men. Did you ever know a man to give a
+woman a dollar without any consideration? A man will shell out his dust
+to another man free and easy and gratis. But if he drops a penny in one
+of the machines run by the Madam Eve’s Daughters’ Amalgamated
+Association and the pineapple chewing gum don’t fall out when he pulls
+the lever you can hear him kick to the superintendent four blocks away.
+Man is the hardest proposition a woman has to go up against. He’s the
+low-grade one, and she has to work overtime to make him pay. Two times
+out of five she’s salted. She can’t put in crushers and costly
+machinery. He’d notice ’em and be onto the game. They have to pan out
+what they get, and it hurts their tender hands. Some of ’em are natural
+sluice troughs and can carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones
+have to depend on signed letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo
+walk, cowhide whips, ability to cook, sentimental juries,
+conversational powers, silk underskirts, ancestry, rouge, anonymous
+letters, violet sachet powders, witnesses, revolvers, pneumatic forms,
+carbolic acid, moonlight, cold cream and the evening newspapers.”
+
+“You are outrageous, Ferg,” I said. “Surely there is none of this
+‘graft’ as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious matrimonial union!”
+
+“Well,” said Pogue, “nothing that would justify you every time in
+calling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a
+vaudeville manager on a dead run. But it’s this way: Suppose you’re a
+Fifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and
+cappers.
+
+“You come home at night and bring a $9,000,000 diamond brooch to the
+lady who’s staked you for a claim. You hand it over. She says, ‘Oh,
+George!’ and looks to see if it’s backed. She comes up and kisses you.
+You’ve waited for it. You get it. All right. It’s graft.
+
+“But I’m telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and she
+suggested corn in all of its phases. Her hair was as yellow as the
+silk; her form was as tall and graceful as a stalk in the low grounds
+during a wet summer; her eyes were as big and startling as bunions, and
+green was her favorite color.
+
+“On my last trip into the cool recesses of your sequestered city I met
+a human named Vaucross. He was worth—that is, he had a million. He told
+me he was in business on the street. ‘A sidewalk merchant?’ says I,
+sarcastic. ‘Exactly,’ says he, ‘Senior partner of a paving concern.’
+
+“I kind of took to him. For this reason, I met him on Broadway one
+night when I was out of heart, luck, tobacco and place. He was all silk
+hat, diamonds and front. He was all front. If you had gone behind him
+you would have only looked yourself in the face. I looked like a cross
+between Count Tolstoy and a June lobster. I was out of luck. I had—but
+let me lay my eyes on that dealer again.
+
+“Vaucross stopped and talked to me a few minutes and then he took me to
+a high-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then some
+Beethoven, and Bordelaise sauce, and cussing in French, and
+frangipangi, and some hauteur and cigarettes. When I am flush I know
+them places.
+
+“I declare, I must have looked as bad as a magazine artist sitting
+there without any money and my hair all rumpled like I was booked to
+read a chapter from ‘Elsie’s School Days’ at a Brooklyn Bohemian
+smoker. But Vaucross treated me like a bear hunter’s guide. He wasn’t
+afraid of hurting the waiter’s feelings.
+
+“‘Mr. Pogue,’ he explains to me, ‘I am using you.’
+
+“‘Go on,’ says I; ‘I hope you don’t wake up.’
+
+“And then he tells me, you know, the kind of man he was. He was a New
+Yorker. His whole ambition was to be noticed. He wanted to be
+conspicuous. He wanted people to point him out and bow to him, and tell
+others who he was. He said it had been the desire of his life always.
+He didn’t have but a million, so he couldn’t attract attention by
+spending money. He said he tried to get into public notice one time by
+planting a little public square on the east side with garlic for free
+use of the poor; but Carnegie heard of it, and covered it over at once
+with a library in the Gaelic language. Three times he had jumped in the
+way of automobiles; but the only result was five broken ribs and a
+notice in the papers that an unknown man, five feet ten, with four
+amalgam-filled teeth, supposed to be the last of the famous Red Leary
+gang had been run over.
+
+“‘Ever try the reporters,’ I asked him.
+
+“‘Last month,’ says Mr. Vaucross, ‘my expenditure for lunches to
+reporters was $124.80.’
+
+“‘Get anything out of that?’ I asks.
+
+“‘That reminds me,’ says he; ‘add $8.50 for pepsin. Yes, I got
+indigestion.’
+
+“‘How am I supposed to push along your scramble for prominence?’ I
+inquires. ‘Contrast?’
+
+“‘Something of that sort to-night,’ says Vaucross. ‘It grieves me; but
+I am forced to resort to eccentricity.’ And here he drops his napkin in
+his soup and rises up and bows to a gent who is devastating a potato
+under a palm across the room.
+
+“‘The Police Commissioner,’ says my climber, gratified. ‘Friend’, says
+I, in a hurry, ‘have ambitions but don’t kick a rung out of your
+ladder. When you use me as a stepping stone to salute the police you
+spoil my appetite on the grounds that I may be degraded and
+incriminated. Be thoughtful.’
+
+“At the Quaker City squab en casserole the idea about Artemisia Blye
+comes to me.
+
+“‘Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,’ says I—‘a column or
+two every day in all of ’em and your picture in most of ’em for a week.
+How much would it be worth to you?’
+
+“‘Ten thousand dollars,’ says Vaucross, warm in a minute. ‘But no
+murder,’ says he; ‘and I won’t wear pink pants at a cotillon.’
+
+“‘I wouldn’t ask you to,’ says I. ‘This is honorable, stylish and
+uneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and some other
+beans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.’
+
+“We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I
+telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple
+of photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth
+Presbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and
+$80. She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior
+and a valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage
+book and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.
+
+“The fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all
+décolletée and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to dinner in
+one of these New York feminine apartment houses where a man can’t get
+in unless he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder cigarettes.
+
+“‘She’s a stunner,’ says Vaucross when he saw her. ‘They’ll give her a
+two-column cut sure.’
+
+“This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business
+straight through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and
+display and emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to
+nothing as far as his ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a
+white tie and patent leather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large
+end of a cornucopia to purchase nutriment and heartsease for tall,
+willowy blondes in New York is as common a sight as blue turtles in
+delirium tremens. But he was to write her love letters—the worst kind
+of love letters, such as your wife publishes after you are dead—every
+day. At the end of the month he was to drop her, and she would bring
+suit for $100,000 for breach of promise.
+
+“Miss Artemisia was to get $10,000. If she won the suit that was all;
+and if she lost she was to get it anyhow. There was a signed contract
+to that effect.
+
+“Sometimes they had me out with ’em, but not often. I couldn’t keep up
+to their style. She used to pull out his notes and criticize them like
+bills of lading.
+
+“‘Say, you!’ she’d say. ‘What do you call this—letter to a Hardware
+Merchant from His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash? You
+Eastern duffers know as much about writing love letters as a Kansas
+grasshopper does about tugboats. “My dear Miss Blye!”—wouldn’t that put
+pink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake? How long do
+you expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?
+You want to get down to business, and call me “Tweedlums Babe” and
+“Honeysuckle,” and sign yourself “Mama’s Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy”
+if you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs.
+Get sappy.’
+
+“After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His notes
+read like something or other in the original. I could see a jury
+sitting up, and women tearing one another’s hats to hear ’em read. And
+I could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as
+Archbishop Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever
+enjoyed. He seemed mighty pleased at the prospects.
+
+“They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn
+restaurant and watched ’em. A process-server walked in and handed
+Vaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at ’em; and he
+looked as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent
+cigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.
+
+“About two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood
+Vaucross and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging—yes, sir, clinging—to
+his arm. And they tells me they’d been out and got married. And they
+articulated some trivial cadences about love and such. And they laid
+down a bundle on the table and said ‘Good night’ and left.
+
+“And that’s why I say,” concluded Ferguson Pogue, “that a woman is too
+busy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft such as
+is given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great
+success in special lines.”
+
+“What was in the bundle that they left?” I asked, with my usual
+curiosity.
+
+“Why,” said Ferguson, “there was a scalper’s railroad ticket as far as
+Kansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross’s old pants.”
+
+
+
+
+IX
+THE CALL OF THE TAME
+
+
+When the inauguration was accomplished—the proceedings were made smooth
+by the presence of the Rough Riders—it is well known that a herd of
+those competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The
+newspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats
+and leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed
+with the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the
+wonderful plural “tenderfeet” in each of the scribe’s stories. The
+Westerners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third
+story, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel
+corridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of
+Ye Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from
+his valet.
+
+Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy’s Gentlemen of
+the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz.
+
+The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue’s rush hour swept him away from the
+company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts
+filled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky
+deafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes
+confused his vision.
+
+The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier’s first impulse
+was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the
+disturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with
+a grin into a doorway.
+
+The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West
+was not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their
+eyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the
+bright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar,
+pattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters
+on the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the
+out-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of the
+half-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the
+circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest sun of
+Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that
+unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they
+were being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and
+solemnity of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have
+not intruded upon him nearer than a day’s ride—these brands of the West
+were set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat,
+gentle reader—just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail
+carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.
+
+Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan
+cattle, seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him a
+buffet upon his collar-bone that sent him reeling against a wall.
+
+The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who
+has suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But
+he looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration
+of love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its
+friends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its
+enemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the
+welcoming bullet demands.
+
+“God in the mountains!” cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg
+of his cull. “Can this be Longhorn Merritt?”
+
+The other man was—oh, look on Broadway any day for the pattern—business
+man—latest rolled-brim derby—good barber, business, digestion and
+tailor.
+
+“Greenbrier Nye!” he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten him.
+“My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to—oh, to be
+sure—the inaugural ceremonies—I remember you joined the Rough Riders.
+You must come and have luncheon with me, of course.”
+
+Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the
+size, shape and color of a McClellan saddle.
+
+“Longy,” he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic, “what
+have they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen. They done
+made you into an inmate of the city directory. You never made no such
+Johnny Branch execration of yourself as that out on the Gila. ‘Come and
+have lunching with me!’ You never defined grub by any such terms of
+reproach in them days.”
+
+“I’ve been living in New York seven years,” said Merritt. “It’s been
+eight since we punched cows together in Old Man Garcia’s outfit. Well,
+let’s go to a café, anyhow. It sounds good to hear it called ‘grub?’
+again.”
+
+They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by
+a natural law, to the bar.
+
+“Speak up,” invited Greenbrier.
+
+“A dry Martini,” said Merritt.
+
+“Oh, Lord!” cried Greenbrier; “and yet me and you once saw the same
+pink Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in Cañon
+Diablo! A dry—but let that pass. Whiskey straight—and they’re on you.”
+
+Merritt smiled, and paid.
+
+They lunched in a small extension of the dining room that connected
+with the café. Merritt dexterously diverted his friend’s choice, that
+hovered over ham and eggs, to a purée of celery, a salmon cutlet, a
+partridge pie and a desirable salad.
+
+“On the day,” said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, “when I can’t
+hold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I ain’t seen in
+eight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o’clock on the
+third day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me forty times over
+a 640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?”
+
+“Right, old man,” laughed Merritt. “Waiter, bring an absinthe frappé
+and—what’s yours, Greenbrier?”
+
+“Whiskey straight,” mourned Nye. “Out of the neck of a bottle you used
+to take it, Longy—straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping
+pony—Arizona redeye, not this ab—oh, what’s the use? They’re on you.”
+
+Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass.
+
+“All right. I suppose you think I’m spoiled by the city. I’m as good a
+Westerner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can’t make up my mind
+to go back out there. New York is comfortable—comfortable. I make a
+good living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in
+snowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months
+for me. I reckon I’ll hang out here in the future. We’ll take in the
+theatre to-night, Greenbrier, and after that we’ll dine at—”
+
+“I’ll tell you what you are, Merritt,” said Greenbrier, laying one
+elbow in his salad and the other in his butter. “You are a
+concentrated, effete, unconditional, short-sleeved, gotch-eared Miss
+Sally Walker. God made you perpendicular and suitable to ride straddle
+and use cuss words in the original. Wherefore you have suffered his
+handiwork to elapse by removing yourself to New York and putting on
+little shoes tied with strings, and making faces when you talk. I’ve
+seen you rope and tie a steer in 42½. If you was to see one now you’d
+write to the Police Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks
+that you inoculate your system with—these little essences of cowslip
+with acorns in ’em, and paregoric flip—they ain’t anyways in assent
+with the cordiality of manhood. I hate to see you this way.”
+
+“Well, Mr. Greenbrier,” said Merritt, with apology in his tone, “in a
+way you are right. Sometimes I do feel like I was being raised on the
+bottle. But, I tell you, New York is comfortable—comfortable. There’s
+something about it—the sights and the crowds, and the way it changes
+every day, and the very air of it that seems to tie a one-mile-long
+stake rope around a man’s neck, with the other end fastened somewhere
+about Thirty-fourth Street. I don’t know what it is.”
+
+“God knows,” said Greenbrier sadly, “and I know. The East has gobbled
+you up. You was venison, and now you’re veal. You put me in mind of a
+japonica in a window. You’ve been signed, sealed and diskivered.
+Requiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty.”
+
+“A green chartreuse here,” said Merritt to the waiter.
+
+“Whiskey straight,” sighed Greenbrier, “and they’re on you, you
+renegade of the round-ups.”
+
+“Guilty, with an application for mercy,” said Merritt. “You don’t know
+how it is, Greenbrier. It’s so comfortable here that—”
+
+“Please loan me your smelling salts,” pleaded Greenbrier. “If I hadn’t
+seen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an empty gun
+in Phoenix—”
+
+Greenbrier’s voice died away in pure grief.
+
+“Cigars!” he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion.
+
+“A pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine,” said Merritt.
+
+“They’re on you,” chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal his
+contempt.
+
+At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column.
+
+That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o’er
+fair women and br—let it go, anyhow—brave men. The orchestra played
+charmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a
+waiter when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you
+contributed to it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity.
+
+Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old
+friend, and he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail.
+
+“I take the horehound tea,” said Greenbrier, “for old times’ sake. But
+I’d prefer whiskey straight. They’re on you.”
+
+“Right!” said Merritt. “Now, run your eye down that bill of fare and
+see if it seems to hitch on any of these items.”
+
+“Lay me on my lava bed!” said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. “All these
+specimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What’s this? Horse with the
+heaves? I pass. But look along! Here’s truck for twenty round-ups all
+spelled out in different directions. Wait till I see.”
+
+The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list.
+
+“This Medoc isn’t bad,” he suggested.
+
+“You’re the doc,” said Greenbrier. “I’d rather have whiskey straight.
+It’s on you.”
+
+Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took
+dishes away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd
+enjoying itself.
+
+“How was the range when you left the Gila?” asked Merritt.
+
+“Fine,” said Greenbrier. “You see that lady in the red speckled silk at
+that table. Well, she could warm over her beans at my campfire. Yes,
+the range was good. She looks as nice as a white mustang I see once on
+Black River.”
+
+When the coffee came, Greenbrier put one foot on the seat of the chair
+next to him.
+
+“You said it was a comfortable town, Longy,” he said, meditatively.
+“Yes, it’s a comfortable town. It’s different from the plains in a blue
+norther. What did you call that mess in the crock with the handle,
+Longy? Oh, yes, squabs in a cash roll. They’re worth the roll. That
+white mustang had just such a way of turning his head and shaking his
+mane—look at her, Longy. If I thought I could sell out my ranch at a
+fair price, I believe I’d—
+
+“Gyar—song!” he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed every knife
+and fork in the restaurant.
+
+The waiter dived toward the table.
+
+“Two more of them cocktail drinks,” ordered Greenbrier.
+
+Merritt looked at him and smiled significantly.
+
+“They’re on me,” said Greenbrier, blowing a puff of smoke to the
+ceiling.
+
+
+
+
+X
+THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+
+
+The poet Longfellow—or was it Confucius, the inventor of
+wisdom?—remarked:
+
+“Life is real, life is earnest;
+And things are not what they seem.”
+
+
+As mathematics are—or is: thanks, old subscriber!—the only just rule by
+which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means, adjust
+our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the great
+goddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures—unassailable sums in
+addition—shall be set over against whatever opposing element there may
+be.
+
+A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would
+say: “Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus—that is, that
+life is real—then things (all of which life includes) are real.
+Anything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the
+proposition that ‘things are not what they seem,’ why—”
+
+But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we
+would conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued,
+satisfying, mysterious X.
+
+Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an
+old New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that
+bread is made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that
+the flour crop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no
+perceptible effect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the
+flour market.
+
+The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never
+had to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought a
+five-cent loaf of bread you laid down an additional two cents, which
+went to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity.
+
+A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000
+prof—er—rake-off.
+
+Mr. Kinsolving’s son Dan was at college when the mathematical
+experiment in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and
+found the old gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading “Little Dorrit”
+on the porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square.
+He had retired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from
+bread buyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the
+earth and lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay.
+
+Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village
+to see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired
+Kenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious,
+mathematical, studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of
+oligarchies. Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning
+watch-making in his father’s jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial,
+easy-tempered and tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two
+foregathered joyously, being opposites. And then Dan went back to
+college, and Kenwitz to his mainsprings—and to his private library in
+the rear of the jewelry shop.
+
+Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the
+accumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took
+a filial look at Septimus Kinsolving’s elaborate tombstone in Greenwood
+and a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the family
+lawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire,
+hurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue.
+
+Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his
+parent from a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches
+for outdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington
+Square. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity
+that was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more
+intense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic.
+
+“I know about it now,” said Dan, finally. “I pumped it out of the
+eminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad’s collections
+of bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that
+he squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of
+bread at little bakeries around the corner. You’ve studied economics,
+Dan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses,
+and the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those things
+before. Football and trying to be white to my fellow-man were about the
+extent of my college curriculum.
+
+“But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I’ve been
+thinking. I’d like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to give
+up too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income
+for a good many yards; but I’d like to make it square with ’em. Is
+there any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?”
+
+Kenwitz’s big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face
+took on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan’s arm with the grip of a
+friend and a judge.
+
+“You can’t do it!” he said, emphatically. “One of the chief punishments
+of you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find
+that you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I
+admire your good intentions, Dan, but you can’t do anything. Those
+people were robbed of their precious pennies. It’s too late to remedy
+the evil. You can’t pay them back”
+
+“Of course,” said Dan, lighting his pipe, “we couldn’t hunt up every
+one of the duffers and hand ’em back the right change. There’s an awful
+lot of ’em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have—I never
+cared for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the
+Roquefort. But we might find a few of ’em and chuck some of dad’s cash
+back where it came from. I’d feel better if I could. It seems tough for
+people to be held up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn’t mind
+standing a rise in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and
+think, Ken. I want to pay back all of that money I can.”
+
+“There are plenty of charities,” said Kenwitz, mechanically.
+
+“Easy enough,” said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. “I suppose I could give
+the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don’t
+want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold
+Peter. It’s the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken.”
+
+The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.
+
+“Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of
+consumers during that corner in flour?” he asked.
+
+“I do not.” said Dan, stoutly. “My lawyer tells me that I have two
+millions.”
+
+“If you had a hundred millions,” said Kenwitz, vehemently, “you
+couldn’t repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You
+cannot conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.
+Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a
+thousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how
+hopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance
+can it be done.”
+
+“Back up, philosopher!” said Dan. “The penny has no sorrow that the
+dollar cannot heal.”
+
+“Not in one instance,” repeated Kenwitz. “I will give you one, and let
+us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.
+He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he
+had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,
+Boyne’s business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital—all he had in
+the world.”
+
+Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
+
+“I accept the instance,” he cried. “Take me to Boyne. I will repay his
+thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery.”
+
+“Write your check,” said Kenwitz, without moving, “and then begin to
+write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one
+for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the
+building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to
+that much. Boyne died in an asylum.”
+
+“Stick to the instance,” said Dan. “I haven’t noticed any insurance
+companies on my charity list.”
+
+“Draw your next check for $100,000,” went on Kenwitz. “Boyne’s son fell
+into bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He
+was acquitted last week after a three years’ legal battle, and the
+state draws upon taxpayers for that much expense.”
+
+“Back to the bakery!” exclaimed Dan, impatiently. “The Government
+doesn’t need to stand in the bread line.”
+
+“The last item of the instance is—come and I will show you,” said
+Kenwitz, rising.
+
+The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by
+nature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath
+that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch
+needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.
+
+He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,
+poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid
+brick tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked
+on a door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.
+
+In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She
+nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of
+sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color
+of an ancient Tuscan’s shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz
+and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.
+
+Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in
+heart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last
+item of the Instance.
+
+“How many this week, Miss Mary?” asked the watchmaker. A mountain of
+coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
+
+“Nearly thirty dozen,” said the young woman cheerfully. “I’ve made
+almost $4. I’m improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so
+much money.” Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A
+little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
+
+Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
+
+“Miss Boyne,” he said, “let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the
+man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do
+something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act.”
+
+The smile left the young woman’s face. She rose and pointed her
+forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in
+the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
+
+The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism
+and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the
+moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared
+to be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him
+warmly.
+
+“I’m obliged to you, Ken, old man,” he said, vaguely—“a thousand times
+obliged.”
+
+“Mein Gott! you are crazy!” cried the watchmaker, dropping his
+spectacles for the first time in years.
+
+Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway
+with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the
+proprietor.
+
+A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
+
+“These loaves are ten cents,” said the clerk.
+
+“I always get them at eight cents uptown,” said the lady. “You need not
+fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home.”
+
+The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.
+
+“Mr. Kenwitz!” cried the lady, heartily. “How do you do?”
+
+Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension
+on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
+
+“Why, Miss Boyne!” he began.
+
+“Mrs. Kinsolving,” she corrected. “Dan and I were married a month ago.”
+
+
+
+
+XI
+THE THING’S THE PLAY
+
+
+Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free
+passes, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the
+popular vaudeville houses.
+
+One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much
+past forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a
+taste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I
+regarded the man.
+
+“There was a story about that chap a month or two ago,” said the
+reporter. “They gave me the assignment. It was to run a column and was
+to be on the extremely light and joking order. The old man seems to
+like the funny touch I give to local happenings. Oh, yes, I’m working
+on a farce comedy now. Well, I went down to the house and got all the
+details; but I certainly fell down on that job. I went back and turned
+in a comic write-up of an east side funeral instead. Why? Oh, I
+couldn’t seem to get hold of it with my funny hooks, somehow. Maybe you
+could make a one-act tragedy out of it for a curtain-raiser. I’ll give
+you the details.”
+
+After the performance my friend, the reporter, recited to me the facts
+over the Würzburger.
+
+“I see no reason,” said I, when he had concluded, “why that shouldn’t
+make a rattling good funny story. Those three people couldn’t have
+acted in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had been real
+actors in a real theatre. I’m really afraid that all the stage is a
+world, anyhow, and all the players men and women. ‘The thing’s the
+play,’ is the way I quote Mr. Shakespeare.”
+
+“Try it,” said the reporter.
+
+“I will,” said I; and I did, to show him how he could have made a
+humorous column of it for his paper.
+
+There stands a house near Abingdon Square. On the ground floor there
+has been for twenty-five years a little store where toys and notions
+and stationery are sold.
+
+One night twenty years ago there was a wedding in the rooms above the
+store. The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen was
+married to Frank Barry. John Delaney was best man. Helen was eighteen,
+and her picture had been printed in a morning paper next to the
+headlines of a “Wholesale Female Murderess” story from Butte, Mont. But
+after your eye and intelligence had rejected the connection, you seized
+your magnifying glass and read beneath the portrait her description as
+one of a series of Prominent Beauties and Belles of the lower west
+side.
+
+Frank Barry and John Delaney were “prominent” young beaux of the same
+side, and bosom friends, whom you expected to turn upon each other
+every time the curtain went up. One who pays his money for orchestra
+seats and fiction expects this. That is the first funny idea that has
+turned up in the story yet. Both had made a great race for Helen’s
+hand. When Frank won, John shook his hand and congratulated
+him—honestly, he did.
+
+After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was
+getting married in a traveling dress. She and Frank were going to Old
+Point Comfort for a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering
+cave-dwellers were waiting with their hands full of old Congress
+gaiters and paper bags of hominy.
+
+Then there was a rattle of the fire-escape, and into her room jumps the
+mad and infatuated John Delaney, with a damp curl drooping upon his
+forehead, and made violent and reprehensible love to his lost one,
+entreating her to flee or fly with him to the Riviera, or the Bronx, or
+any old place where there are Italian skies and _dolce far niente_.
+
+It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him.
+With blazing and scornful eyes she fairly withered him by demanding
+whatever he meant by speaking to respectable people that way.
+
+In a few moments she had him going. The manliness that had possessed
+him departed. He bowed low, and said something about “irresistible
+impulse” and “forever carry in his heart the memory of”—and she
+suggested that he catch the first fire-escape going down.
+
+“I will away,” said John Delaney, “to the furthermost parts of the
+earth. I cannot remain near you and know that you are another’s. I will
+to Africa, and there amid other scenes strive to for—”
+
+“For goodness sake, get out,” said Helen. “Somebody might come in.”
+
+He knelt upon one knee, and she extended him one white hand that he
+might give it a farewell kiss.
+
+Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever
+vouchsafed you—to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the
+one you don’t want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to
+you and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall
+forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to
+feel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky
+one, broken-hearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself
+as he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are
+well manicured—say, girls, it’s galluptious—don’t ever let it get by
+you.
+
+And then, of course—how did you guess it?—the door opened and in
+stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.
+
+The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen’s hand, and out of the
+window and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.
+
+A little slow music, if you please—faint violin, just a breath in the
+clarinet and a touch of the ‘cello. Imagine the scene. Frank,
+white-hot, with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him.
+Helen, rushing and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her
+wrists and tears them from his shoulders—once, twice, thrice he sways
+her this way and that—the stage manager will show you how—and throws
+her from him to the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he
+cries, will he look upon her face again, and rushes from the house
+through the staring groups of astonished guests.
+
+And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must
+stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray,
+rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which
+must precede the rising of the curtain again.
+
+Mrs. Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could
+have bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and
+general results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but
+she made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth
+balls, nor did she sell it to a magazine.
+
+One day a middle-aged money-making lawyer, who bought his legal cap and
+ink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him.
+
+“I’m really much obliged to you,” said Helen, cheerfully, “but I
+married another man twenty years ago. He was more a goose than a man,
+but I think I love him yet. I have never seen him since about half an
+hour after the ceremony. Was it copying ink that you wanted or just
+writing fluid?”
+
+The lawyer bowed over the counter with old-time grace and left a
+respectful kiss on the back of her hand. Helen sighed. Parting salutes,
+however romantic, may be overdone. Here she was at thirty-eight,
+beautiful and admired; and all that she seemed to have got from her
+lovers were approaches and adieus. Worse still, in the last one she had
+lost a customer, too.
+
+Business languished, and she hung out a Room to Let card. Two large
+rooms on the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers
+came, and went regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode
+of neatness, comfort and taste.
+
+One day came Ramonti, the violinist, and engaged the front room above.
+The discord and clatter uptown offended his nice ear; so a friend had
+sent him to this oasis in the desert of noise.
+
+Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short,
+pointed, foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and
+his artist’s temperament—revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic
+manner—was a welcome tenant in the old house near Abingdon Square.
+
+Helen lived on the floor above the store. The architecture of it was
+singular and quaint. The hall was large and almost square. Up one side
+of it, and then across the end of it ascended an open stairway to the
+floor above. This hall space she had furnished as a sitting room and
+office combined. There she kept her desk and wrote her business
+letters; and there she sat of evenings by a warm fire and a bright red
+light and sewed or read. Ramonti found the atmosphere so agreeable that
+he spent much time there, describing to Mrs. Barry the wonders of
+Paris, where he had studied with a particularly notorious and noisy
+fiddler.
+
+Next comes lodger No. 2, a handsome, melancholy man in the early 40’s,
+with a brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes.
+He, too, found the society of Helen a desirable thing. With the eyes of
+Romeo and Othello’s tongue, he charmed her with tales of distant climes
+and wooed her by respectful innuendo.
+
+From the first Helen felt a marvelous and compelling thrill in the
+presence of this man. His voice somehow took her swiftly back to the
+days of her youth’s romance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to it,
+and it led her to an instinctive belief that he had been a factor in
+that romance. And then with a woman’s reasoning (oh, yes, they do,
+sometimes) she leaped over common syllogisms and theory, and logic, and
+was sure that her husband had come back to her. For she saw in his eyes
+love, which no woman can mistake, and a thousand tons of regret and
+remorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously near to love requited,
+which is the _sine qua non_ in the house that Jack built.
+
+But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twenty
+years and then drops in again should not expect to find his slippers
+laid out too conveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar.
+There must be expiation, explanation, and possibly execration. A little
+purgatory, and then, maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be
+trusted with a harp and crown. And so she made no sign that she knew or
+suspected.
+
+And my friend, the reporter, could see nothing funny in this! Sent out
+on an assignment to write up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing
+story of—but I will not knock a brother—let us go on with the story.
+
+One evening Ramonti stopped in Helen’s hall-office-reception-room and
+told his love with the tenderness and ardor of the enraptured artist.
+His words were a bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the
+heart of a man who is a dreamer and doer combined.
+
+“But before you give me an answer,” he went on, before she could accuse
+him of suddenness, “I must tell you that ‘Ramonti?’ is the only name I
+have to offer you. My manager gave me that. I do not know who I am or
+where I came from. My first recollection is of opening my eyes in a
+hospital. I was a young man, and I had been there for weeks. My life
+before that is a blank to me. They told me that I was found lying in
+the street with a wound on my head and was brought there in an
+ambulance. They thought I must have fallen and struck my head upon the
+stones. There was nothing to show who I was. I have never been able to
+remember. After I was discharged from the hospital, I took up the
+violin. I have had success. Mrs. Barry—I do not know your name except
+that—I love you; the first time I saw you I realized that you were the
+one woman in the world for me—and”—oh, a lot of stuff like that.
+
+Helen felt young again. First a wave of pride and a sweet little thrill
+of vanity went all over her; and then she looked Ramonti in the eyes,
+and a tremendous throb went through her heart. She hadn’t expected that
+throb. It took her by surprise. The musician had become a big factor in
+her life, and she hadn’t been aware of it.
+
+“Mr. Ramonti,” she said sorrowfully (this was not on the stage,
+remember; it was in the old home near Abingdon Square), “I’m awfully
+sorry, but I’m a married woman.”
+
+And then she told him the sad story of her life, as a heroine must do,
+sooner or later, either to a theatrical manager or to a reporter.
+
+Ramonti took her hand, bowed low and kissed it, and went up to his
+room.
+
+Helen sat down and looked mournfully at her hand. Well she might. Three
+suitors had kissed it, mounted their red roan steeds and ridden away.
+
+In an hour entered the mysterious stranger with the haunting eyes.
+Helen was in the willow rocker, knitting a useless thing in
+cotton-wool. He ricocheted from the stairs and stopped for a chat.
+Sitting across the table from her, he also poured out his narrative of
+love. And then he said: “Helen, do you not remember me? I think I have
+seen it in your eyes. Can you forgive the past and remember the love
+that has lasted for twenty years? I wronged you deeply—I was afraid to
+come back to you—but my love overpowered my reason. Can you, will you,
+forgive me?”
+
+Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a
+strong and trembling clasp.
+
+There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene
+like that and her emotions to portray.
+
+For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal
+love for her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory
+of her first choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure
+feeling. Honor and faith and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it.
+But the other half of her heart and soul was filled with something
+else—a later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against
+the new.
+
+And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,
+petitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the
+noblest. The daws may peck upon one’s sleeve without injury, but
+whoever wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the
+neck.
+
+This music and the musician called her, and at her side honor and the
+old love held her back.
+
+“Forgive me,” he pleaded.
+
+“Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you
+love,” she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
+
+“How could I tell?” he begged. “I will conceal nothing from you. That
+night when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark
+street I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had
+struck a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and
+jealousy. I hid near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although
+you married him, Helen—”
+
+“_Who Are You?_” cried the woman, with wide-open eyes, snatching her
+hand away.
+
+“Don’t you remember me, Helen—the one who has always loved you best? I
+am John Delaney. If you can forgive—”
+
+But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs
+toward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for
+his in each of his two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed,
+cried and sang: “Frank! Frank! Frank!”
+
+Three mortals thus juggling with years as though they were billiard
+balls, and my friend, the reporter, couldn’t see anything funny in it!
+
+
+
+
+XII
+A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+
+
+My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She
+left her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she
+plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act
+of woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I
+had no cold. Next came her kiss of parting—the level kiss of
+domesticity flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the
+extemporaneous, of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft
+touch of long malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf pin; and
+then, as I closed the door, I heard her morning slippers pattering back
+to her cooling tea.
+
+When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur.
+The attack came suddenly.
+
+For many weeks I had been toiling, almost night and day, at a famous
+railroad law case that I won triumphantly but a few days previously. In
+fact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for
+many years. Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician,
+had warned me.
+
+“If you don’t slacken up, Bellford,” he said, “you’ll go suddenly to
+pieces. Either your nerves or your brain will give way. Tell me, does a
+week pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of
+aphasia—of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his
+identity blotted out—and all from that little brain clot made by
+overwork or worry?”
+
+“I always thought,” said I, “that the clot in those instances was
+really to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters.”
+
+Doctor Volney shook his head.
+
+“The disease exists,” he said. “You need a change or a rest.
+Court-room, office and home—there is the only route you travel. For
+recreation you—read law books. Better take warning in time.”
+
+“On Thursday nights,” I said, defensively, “my wife and I play
+cribbage. On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother.
+That law books are not a recreation remains yet to be established.”
+
+That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney’s words. I was
+feeling as well as I usually did—possibly in better spirits than usual.
+
+I awoke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the
+incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and
+tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: “I must have a name
+of some sort.” I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a
+paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly
+$3,000 in bills of large denomination. “I must be some one, of course,”
+I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.
+
+The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there
+must have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and
+seemed in the best good humor and spirits. One of them—a stout,
+spectacled gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and
+aloes—took the vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded
+a newspaper. In the intervals between his periods of reading, we
+conversed, as travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able
+to sustain the conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to
+my memory. By and by my companion said:
+
+“You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this
+time. I’m glad they held the convention in New York; I’ve never been
+East before. My name’s R. P. Bolder—Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove,
+Missouri.”
+
+Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it.
+Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent.
+My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of
+drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper,
+where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.
+
+“My name,” said I, glibly, “is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and
+my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas.”
+
+“I knew you were a druggist,” said my fellow traveler, affably. “I saw
+the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the
+pestle rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention.”
+
+“Are all these men druggists?” I asked, wonderingly.
+
+“They are. This car came through from the West. And they’re your
+old-time druggists, too—none of your patent tablet-and-granule
+pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk.
+We percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain’t
+above handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side
+line of confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I’ve got an idea
+to spring on this convention—new ideas is what they want. Now, you know
+the shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot. Tart.
+and Sod. et Pot. Tart.—one’s poison, you know, and the other’s
+harmless. It’s easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do
+druggists mostly keep ’em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different
+shelves. That’s wrong. I say keep ’em side by side, so when you want
+one you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you
+catch the idea?”
+
+“It seems to me a very good one,” I said.
+
+“All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We’ll
+make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream
+professors that think they’re the only lozenges in the market look like
+hypodermic tablets.”
+
+“If I can be of any aid,” I said, warming, “the two bottles of—er—”
+
+“Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash.”
+
+“Shall henceforth sit side by side,” I concluded, firmly.
+
+“Now, there’s another thing,” said Mr. Bolder. “For an excipient in
+manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer—the magnesia carbonate or
+the pulverised glycerrhiza radix?”
+
+“The—er—magnesia,” I said. It was easier to say than the other word.
+
+Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
+
+“Give me the glycerrhiza,” said he. “Magnesia cakes.”
+
+“Here’s another one of these fake aphasia cases,” he said, presently,
+handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. “I
+don’t believe in ’em. I put nine out of ten of ’em down as frauds. A
+man gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good
+time. He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to
+have lost his memory—don’t know his own name, and won’t even recognize
+the strawberry mark on his wife’s left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why
+can’t they stay at home and forget?”
+
+I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:
+
+“DENVER, June 12.—Elwyn C. Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is
+mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all
+efforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known
+citizen of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and lucrative
+law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the most extensive
+private library in the State. On the day of his disappearance, he drew
+quite a large sum of money from his bank. No one can be found who saw
+him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford was a man of singularly quiet
+and domestic tastes, and seemed to find his happiness in his home and
+profession. If any clue at all exists to his strange disappearance, it
+may be found in the fact that for some months he has been deeply
+absorbed in an important law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z.
+Railroad Company. It is feared that overwork may have affected his
+mind. Every effort is being made to discover the whereabouts of the
+missing man.”
+
+
+“It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder,” I said,
+after I had read the despatch. “This has the sound, to me, of a genuine
+case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected,
+choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of
+memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name,
+a history or a home.”
+
+“Oh, gammon and jalap!” said Mr. Bolder. “It’s larks they’re after.
+There’s too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they
+use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it’s all over they
+look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: ‘He
+hypnotized me.’”
+
+Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and
+philosophy.
+
+We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel,
+and I wrote my name “Edward Pinkhammer” in the register. As I did so I
+felt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy—a sense of
+unlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born
+into the world. The old fetters—whatever they had been—were stricken
+from my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as
+an infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man’s
+learning and experience.
+
+I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no
+baggage.
+
+“The Druggists’ Convention,” I said. “My trunk has somehow failed to
+arrive.” I drew out a roll of money.
+
+“Ah!” said he, showing an auriferous tooth, “we have quite a number of
+the Western delegates stopping here.” He struck a bell for the boy.
+
+I endeavored to give color to my rôle.
+
+“There is an important movement on foot among us Westerners,” I said,
+“in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles
+containing the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of
+sodium and potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf.”
+
+“Gentleman to three-fourteen,” said the clerk, hastily. I was whisked
+away to my room.
+
+The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life
+of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve
+problems of the past.
+
+It was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up
+to my lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to
+him who is able to bear them. You must be either the city’s guest or
+its victim.
+
+The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet
+counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having
+come upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat
+entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens,
+that transported one into strange and delightful lands full of
+frolicsome music, pretty girls and grotesque drolly extravagant
+parodies upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will,
+bound by no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird
+cabarets, at weirder _tables d’hôte_ to the sound of Hungarian music
+and the wild shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or, again,
+where the night life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic
+picture, and the millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones
+whom they adorn, and the men who make all three possible are met for
+good cheer and the spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that
+I have mentioned I learned one thing that I never knew before. And that
+is that the key to liberty is not in the hands of License, but
+Convention holds it. Comity has a toll-gate at which you must pay, or
+you may not enter the land of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming
+disorder, the parade, the abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet
+like iron, prevail. Therefore, in Manhattan you must obey these
+unwritten laws, and then you will be freest of the free. If you decline
+to be bound by them, you put on shackles.
+
+Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly
+murmuring palm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate
+restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in
+steamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks
+and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there
+was always Broadway—glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable
+Broadway—growing upon one like an opium habit.
+
+One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a
+black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed
+around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.
+
+“Hello, Bellford!” he cried, loudly. “What the deuce are you doing in
+New York? Didn’t know anything could drag you away from that old book
+den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,
+eh?”
+
+“You have made a mistake, sir,” I said, coldly, releasing my hand from
+his grasp. “My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me.”
+
+The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the
+clerk’s desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about
+telegraph blanks.
+
+“You will give me my bill,” I said to the clerk, “and have my baggage
+brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am
+annoyed by confidence men.”
+
+I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on
+lower Fifth Avenue.
+
+There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be
+served almost _al fresco_ in a tropic array of screening flora. Quiet
+and luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to
+take luncheon or refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way
+to a table among the ferns when I felt my sleeve caught.
+
+“Mr. Bellford!” exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.
+
+I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone—a lady of about thirty,
+with exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been
+her very dear friend.
+
+“You were about to pass me,” she said, accusingly. “Don’t tell me you
+do not know me. Why should we not shake hands—at least once in fifteen
+years?”
+
+I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the
+table. I summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was
+philandering with an orange ice. I ordered a _crème de menthe_. Her
+hair was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you could
+not look away from her eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are
+conscious of sunset while you look into the profundities of a wood at
+twilight.
+
+“Are you sure you know me?” I asked.
+
+“No,” she said, smiling. “I was never sure of that.”
+
+“What would you think,” I said, a little anxiously, “if I were to tell
+you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas?”
+
+“What would I think?” she repeated, with a merry glance. “Why, that you
+had not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I do
+wish you had. I would have liked to see Marian.” Her voice lowered
+slightly—“You haven’t changed much, Elwyn.”
+
+I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
+
+“Yes, you have,” she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in
+her latest tones; “I see it now. You haven’t forgotten. You haven’t
+forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could.”
+
+I poked my straw anxiously in the _crème de menthe_.
+
+“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. “But
+that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I’ve forgotten everything.”
+
+She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed
+to see in my face.
+
+“I’ve heard of you at times,” she went on. “You’re quite a big lawyer
+out West—Denver, isn’t it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of
+you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You
+may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand
+dollars.”
+
+She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
+
+“Would it be too late,” I asked, somewhat timorously, “to offer you
+congratulations?”
+
+“Not if you dare do it,” she answered, with such fine intrepidity that
+I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb
+nail.
+
+“Tell me one thing,” she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly—“a
+thing I have wanted to know for many years—just from a woman’s
+curiosity, of course—have you ever dared since that night to touch,
+smell or look at white roses—at white roses wet with rain and dew?”
+
+I took a sip of _crème de menthe_.
+
+“It would be useless, I suppose,” I said, with a sigh, “for me to
+repeat that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory
+is completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it.”
+
+The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained
+my words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She
+laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound—it was a laugh of
+happiness—yes, and of content—and of misery. I tried to look away from
+her.
+
+“You lie, Elwyn Bellford,” she breathed, blissfully. “Oh, I know you
+lie!”
+
+I gazed dully into the ferns.
+
+“My name is Edward Pinkhammer,” I said. “I came with the delegates to
+the Druggists’ National Convention. There is a movement on foot for
+arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and
+tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little
+interest.”
+
+A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her
+hand, and bowed.
+
+“I am deeply sorry,” I said to her, “that I cannot remember. I could
+explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
+Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the—the roses and
+other things.”
+
+“Good-by, Mr. Bellford,” she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as
+she stepped into her carriage.
+
+I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet
+man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails
+with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
+
+ “Mr. Pinkhammer,” he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his
+ forefinger, “may I request you to step aside with me for a little
+ conversation? There is a room here.”
+
+“Certainly,” I answered.
+
+He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman
+were there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually
+good-looking had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen
+worry and fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring
+and features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling
+dress; she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and
+pressed an unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started
+forward, but the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative
+motion of his hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of
+forty, a little gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful
+face.
+
+“Bellford, old man,” he said, cordially, “I’m glad to see you again. Of
+course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that
+you were overdoing it. Now, you’ll go back with us, and be yourself
+again in no time.”
+
+I smiled ironically.
+
+“I have been ‘Bellforded’ so often,” I said, “that it has lost its
+edge. Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at
+all to entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and
+that I never saw you before in my life?”
+
+Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She
+sprang past his detaining arm. “Elwyn!” she sobbed, and cast herself
+upon me, and clung tight. “Elwyn,” she cried again, “don’t break my
+heart. I am your wife—call my name once—just once. I could see you dead
+rather than this way.”
+
+I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
+
+“Madam,” I said, severely, “pardon me if I suggest that you accept a
+resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity,” I went on, with an amused
+laugh, as the thought occurred to me, “that this Bellford and I could
+not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium
+and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the
+allusion,” I concluded airily, “it may be necessary for you to keep an
+eye on the proceedings of the Druggists’ National Convention.”
+
+The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
+
+“What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?” she moaned.
+
+He led her to the door.
+
+“Go to your room for a while,” I heard him say. “I will remain and talk
+with him. His mind? No, I think not—only a portion of the brain. Yes, I
+am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him.”
+
+The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still
+manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
+
+“I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may,” said
+the gentleman who remained.
+
+“Very well, if you care to,” I replied, “and will excuse me if I take
+it comfortably; I am rather tired.” I stretched myself upon a couch by
+a window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
+
+“Let us speak to the point,” he said, soothingly. “Your name is not
+Pinkhammer.”
+
+“I know that as well as you do,” I said, coolly. “But a man must have a
+name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire
+the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one’s self suddenly, the
+fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been
+Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer.”
+
+“Your name,” said the other man, seriously, “is Elwyn C. Bellford. You
+are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an
+attack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The
+cause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a
+life too bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has
+just left the room is your wife.”
+
+“She is what I would call a fine-looking woman,” I said, after a
+judicial pause. “I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair.”
+
+“She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two
+weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were
+in New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man
+from Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you
+did not recognize him.”
+
+“I think I remember the occasion,” I said. “The fellow called me
+‘Bellford,’ if I am not mistaken. But don’t you think it about time,
+now, for you to introduce yourself?”
+
+“I am Robert Volney—Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for
+twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford
+to trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man—try to
+remember!”
+
+“What’s the use to try?” I asked, with a little frown. “You say you are
+a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it
+return slowly, or suddenly?”
+
+“Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it
+went.”
+
+“Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?” I asked.
+
+“Old friend,” said he, “I’ll do everything in my power, and will have
+done everything that science can do to cure you.”
+
+“Very well,” said I. “Then you will consider that I am your patient.
+Everything is in confidence now—professional confidence.”
+
+“Of course,” said Doctor Volney.
+
+I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the
+centre table—a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.
+I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the
+couch again.
+
+“It will be best, Bobby,” I said, “to have this cure happen suddenly.
+I’m rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in.
+But, oh, Doc,” I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin—“good
+old Doc—it was glorious!”
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+
+
+     The cities are full of pride,
+            Challenging each to each—
+     This from her mountainside,
+            That from her burthened beach.
+
+
+R. KIPLING.
+
+
+Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,
+Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that
+are “story cities”—New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the
+lot, San Francisco.—FRANK NORRIS.
+
+
+East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.
+Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a
+State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no
+less loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and
+speak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians
+go into detail.
+
+Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half
+an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.
+But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction,
+madness comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate
+as the Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no
+refutation is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve
+descended), it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and
+say: “In this town there can be no romance—what could happen here?”
+Yes, it is a bold and a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history,
+romance, and Rand and McNally.
+
+NASHVILLE—A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of
+Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the N. C. & St. L. and the
+L. & N. railroads.  This city is regarded as the most important
+educational centre in the South.
+
+
+I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain
+for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the
+form of a recipe.
+
+Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;
+dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of
+honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.
+
+The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville
+drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup;
+but ’tis enough—’twill serve.
+
+I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for
+me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of
+Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and
+driven by something dark and emancipated.
+
+I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it
+the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).
+I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old
+“marster” or anything that happened “befo’ de wah.”
+
+The hotel was one of the kind described as “renovated.” That means
+$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass
+cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph
+of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The
+management was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite
+Southern courtesy, the service as slow as the progress of a snail and
+as good-humored as Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a
+thousand miles for. There is no other hotel in the world where you can
+get such chicken livers _en brochette_.
+
+At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town.
+He pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: “Well, boss, I
+don’t really reckon there’s anything at all doin’ after sundown.”
+
+Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long
+before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the
+streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.
+
+It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted by
+electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.
+
+
+As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a
+company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with—no, I saw with
+relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan
+of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, “Kyar you
+anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents,” I reasoned that I was
+merely a “fare” instead of a victim.
+
+I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those
+streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn’t until they were
+“graded.” On a few of the “main streets” I saw lights in stores here
+and there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and
+yon; saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a
+burst of semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream
+parlor. The streets other than “main” seemed to have enticed upon their
+borders houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them
+lights shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos
+tinkled orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little
+“doing.” I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.
+
+In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against
+Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The
+latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible
+conflict.
+
+
+All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine
+marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the
+tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There
+were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the
+great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the
+crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a
+ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible
+battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.
+Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of
+Jefferson Brick! the tile floor—the beautiful tile floor! I could not
+avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my
+foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
+
+Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I
+knew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him.
+A rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as
+he so well said almost everything:
+
+  Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,
+  And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
+
+
+Let us regard the word “British” as interchangeable _ad lib_. A rat is
+a rat.
+
+This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had
+forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage,
+red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.
+He possessed one single virtue—he was very smoothly shaven. The mark of
+the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a
+stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would
+have repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world
+would have been spared the addition of one murder.
+
+I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major
+Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive
+that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles;
+so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to
+apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes
+he had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.
+
+I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one
+by profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the
+Prince Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and
+plug chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a
+little lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another
+Würzburger and wish that Longstreet had—but what’s the use?
+
+Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort
+Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to
+hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam was
+only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.
+Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family
+matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and
+profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in
+the land of Nod.
+
+By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure
+by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that I
+would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he
+crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another
+serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of
+him brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained
+my release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received,
+and showed a handful of silver money.
+
+When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: “If
+that man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a
+complaint, we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and
+without any known means of support, although he seems to have some
+money most the time. But we don’t seem to be able to hit upon any means
+of throwing him out legally.”
+
+“Why, no,” said I, after some reflection; “I don’t see my way clear to
+making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as
+asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town,” I continued,
+“seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or
+excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?”
+
+“Well, sir,” said the clerk, “there will be a show here next Thursday.
+It is—I’ll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room
+with the ice water. Good night.”
+
+After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about
+ten o’clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued,
+spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at
+the Ladies’ Exchange.
+
+“A quiet place,” I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling
+of the occupant of the room beneath mine. “Nothing of the life here
+that gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a
+good, ordinary, humdrum, business town.”
+
+Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centres of
+the country.  It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United
+States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South,
+and does an enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery, and drug business.
+
+
+I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the
+digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was
+traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a
+Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal
+connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea
+Adair.
+
+Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had
+sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors
+swear approvingly over their one o’clock luncheon. So they had
+commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or
+her output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her
+ten or twenty.
+
+At nine o’clock the next morning, after my chicken livers _en
+brochette_ (try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into
+the drizzle, which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first
+corner I came upon Uncle Cæsar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the
+pyramids, with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a
+second afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most
+remarkable coat that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to
+his ankles and had once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and
+sun and age had so variegated it that Joseph’s coat, beside it, would
+have faded to a pale monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it
+has to do with the story—the story that is so long in coming, because
+you can hardly expect anything to happen in Nashville.
+
+Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it
+had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled
+magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead
+had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving “black
+mammy”) new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This
+twine was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as
+a substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking
+devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing
+frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all its
+buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone
+remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the
+buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There
+was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many
+mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of
+yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine.
+
+This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have
+started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals
+hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a
+feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling
+tones:
+
+“Step right in, suh; ain’t a speck of dust in it—jus’ got back from a
+funeral, suh.”
+
+I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra
+cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was
+little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked
+in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.
+
+“I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street,” I said, and was about to step
+into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of
+the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of
+sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly
+returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: “What are you gwine there
+for, boss?”
+
+“What is it to you?” I asked, a little sharply.
+
+“Nothin’, suh, jus’ nothin’. Only it’s a lonesome kind of part of town
+and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is
+clean—jes’ got back from a funeral, suh.”
+
+A mile and a half it must have been to our journey’s end. I could hear
+nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven
+brick paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further
+flavored with coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and
+oleander blossoms. All I could see through the streaming windows were
+two rows of dim houses.
+
+The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which
+137 miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost $2,000,000, with
+77 miles of mains.
+
+
+Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards
+back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees
+and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid
+the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose
+that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when
+you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of
+former grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got
+inside.
+
+When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came to
+a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter,
+feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.
+
+“It’s two dollars, suh,” he said.
+
+“How’s that?” I asked. “I plainly heard you call out at the hotel:
+‘Fifty cents to any part of the town.’”
+
+“It’s two dollars, suh,” he repeated obstinately. “It’s a long ways
+from the hotel.”
+
+“It is within the city limits and well within them.” I argued. “Don’t
+think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those
+hills over there?” I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see
+them, myself, for the drizzle); “well, I was born and raised on their
+other side. You old fool nigger, can’t you tell people from other
+people when you see ’em?”
+
+The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. “Is you from the South, suh?
+I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin’ sharp
+in the toes for a Southern gen’l’man to wear.”
+
+“Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?” said I inexorably.
+
+His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned,
+remained ten seconds, and vanished.
+
+“Boss,” he said, “fifty cents is right; but I _needs_ two dollars, suh;
+I’m _obleeged_ to have two dollars. I ain’t _demandin’_ it now, suh;
+after I know whar you’s from; I’m jus’ sayin’ that I _has_ to have two
+dollars to-night, and business is mighty po’.”
+
+Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been
+luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn,
+ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.
+
+“You confounded old rascal,” I said, reaching down to my pocket, “you
+ought to be turned over to the police.”
+
+For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; _he knew_. HE KNEW.
+
+I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that
+one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was
+missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A
+strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its
+negotiability.
+
+Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted
+the rope and opened a creaky gate.
+
+The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in
+twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled
+it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that
+hugged it close—the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still
+drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and
+cold.
+
+Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the
+cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the
+cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a
+queen’s, received me.
+
+The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in
+it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a
+cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two
+or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon
+drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of
+Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.
+
+Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated
+to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the
+sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of
+splendid originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been
+educated at home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from
+inference and by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of
+essayists made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers,
+trying, unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the
+half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne
+and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly
+everybody nowadays knows too much—oh, so much too much—of real life.
+
+I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a
+dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to
+the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought
+Thomas in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which
+was like a harpsichord’s, and found that I could not speak of
+contracts. In the presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one
+hesitated to lower the topic to two cents. There would have to be
+another colloquy after I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of
+my mission, and three o’clock of the next afternoon was set for the
+discussion of the business proposition.
+
+“Your town,” I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the
+time for smooth generalities), “seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A
+home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever
+happen.”
+
+It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with the
+West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity of more
+than 2,000 barrels.
+
+
+Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.
+
+“I have never thought of it that way,” she said, with a kind of sincere
+intensity that seemed to belong to her. “Isn’t it in the still, quiet
+places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the
+earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one’s
+window and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built
+up the everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world—I
+mean the building of the Tower of Babel—result in finally? A page and a
+half of Esperanto in the _North American Review_.”
+
+“Of course,” said I platitudinously, “human nature is the same
+everywhere; but there is more color—er—more drama and movement
+and—er—romance in some cities than in others.”
+
+“On the surface,” said Azalea Adair. “I have traveled many times around
+the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings—print and dreams. I
+have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring
+with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in
+public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets
+because his wife was going out with her face covered—with rice powder.
+In San Francisco’s Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped
+slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would
+never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil
+had reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East
+Nashville the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her
+schoolmates and lifelong friends because she had married a house
+painter. The boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish
+you could have seen the fine little smile that she carried from table
+to table. Oh, yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick
+houses and mud and lumber yards.”
+
+Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair
+breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came
+back in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her
+cheeks, and ten years lifted from her shoulders.
+
+“You must have a cup of tea before you go,” she said, “and a sugar
+cake.”
+
+She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro
+girl about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb
+in mouth and bulging eyes.
+
+Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill, a
+dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two
+pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It
+was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro—there was no doubt
+about it.
+
+“Go up to Mr. Baker’s store on the corner, Impy,” she said, handing the
+girl the dollar bill, “and get a quarter of a pound of tea—the kind he
+always sends me—and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The
+supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted,” she explained to
+me.
+
+Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet had
+died away on the back porch, a wild shriek—I was sure it was
+hers—filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry
+man’s voice mingled with the girl’s further squeals and unintelligible
+words.
+
+Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two
+minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man’s voice; then something
+like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her
+chair.
+
+“This is a roomy house,” she said, “and I have a tenant for part of it.
+I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible
+to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr. Baker
+will be able to supply me.”
+
+I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired
+concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on my
+way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair’s name. But
+to-morrow would do.
+
+That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this
+uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but in
+that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an
+accomplice—after the fact, if that is the correct legal term—to a
+murder.
+
+As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the
+polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door
+of his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began
+his ritual: “Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean—jus’ got back from
+a funeral. Fifty cents to any—”
+
+And then he knew me and grinned broadly. “’Scuse me, boss; you is de
+gen’l’man what rid out with me dis mawnin’. Thank you kindly, suh.”
+
+“I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three,” said I,
+“and if you will be here, I’ll let you drive me. So you know Miss
+Adair?” I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.
+
+“I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh,” he replied.
+
+“I judge that she is pretty poor,” I said. “She hasn’t much money to
+speak of, has she?”
+
+For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King
+Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack
+driver.
+
+“She ain’t gwine to starve, suh,” he said slowly. “She has reso’ces,
+suh; she has reso’ces.”
+
+“I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,” said I.
+
+“Dat is puffeckly correct, suh,” he answered humbly. “I jus’ _had_ to
+have dat two dollars dis mawnin’, boss.”
+
+I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: “A.
+Adair holds out for eight cents a word.”
+
+The answer that came back was: “Give it to her quick you duffer.”
+
+Just before dinner “Major” Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the
+greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so
+instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was
+standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the
+white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks,
+hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable,
+roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks
+attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.
+
+With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a
+pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the
+dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the
+middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar
+bill again. It could have been no other.
+
+I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary,
+eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that
+just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar
+bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective
+story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: “Seems as if a
+lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver’s Trust. Pays dividends
+promptly, too. Wonder if—” Then I fell asleep.
+
+King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over
+the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I
+was ready.
+
+Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked
+on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per
+word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without
+much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa
+and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored
+Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him,
+he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the
+value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired
+and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight
+cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of
+mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old
+Negro.
+
+“Uncle Cæsar,” he said calmly, “Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to
+give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port
+wine. And hurry back. Don’t drive—run. I want you to get back sometime
+this week.”
+
+It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the
+speeding powers of the land-pirate’s steeds. After Uncle Cæsar was
+gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me
+over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he had
+decided that I might do.
+
+“It is only a case of insufficient nutrition,” he said. “In other
+words, the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has
+many devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept
+nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle Cæsar, who was once owned by
+her family.”
+
+“Mrs. Caswell!” said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract
+and saw that she had signed it “Azalea Adair Caswell.”
+
+“I thought she was Miss Adair,” I said.
+
+“Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir,” said the doctor. “It is
+said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant
+contributes toward her support.”
+
+When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea
+Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that
+were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to
+her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart.
+Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere,
+and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power
+and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on
+future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.
+
+“By the way,” he said, “perhaps you would like to know that you have
+had royalty for a coachman. Old Cæsar’s grandfather was a king in
+Congo. Cæsar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed.”
+
+As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Cæsar’s voice inside: “Did
+he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis’ Zalea?”
+
+“Yes, Cæsar,” I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in
+and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the
+responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary
+formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Cæsar drove me back to
+the hotel.
+
+Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The
+rest must be only bare statements of facts.
+
+At about six o’clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Cæsar was at his
+corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster
+and began his depressing formula: “Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to
+anywhere in the city—hack’s puffickly clean, suh—jus’ got back from a
+funeral—”
+
+And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His
+coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings
+were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button—the button of
+yellow horn—was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle Cæsar!
+
+About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of a
+drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I
+wedged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and
+chairs was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth
+Caswell. A doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His
+decision was that it was conspicuous by its absence.
+
+The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by
+curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being
+had been engaged in terrific battle—the details showed that. Loafer and
+reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had
+lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not
+be opened. The gentle citizens who had known him stood about and
+searched their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were
+possible, to speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much
+thought: “When ‘Cas’ was about fo’teen he was one of the best spellers
+in school.”
+
+While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of “the man that was”
+which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped
+something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little
+later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last
+struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it
+in a death grip.
+
+At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the
+possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of
+Major Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners:
+
+“In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these
+no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon
+which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found
+the money was not on his person.”
+
+I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing
+the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow
+horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends
+of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the
+slow, muddy waters below.
+
+_I wonder what’s doing in Buffalo!_
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+
+
+If you are a philosopher you can do this thing: you can go to the top
+of a high building, look down upon your fellow-men 300 feet below, and
+despise them as insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on
+summer ponds, they crawl and circle and hustle about idiotically
+without aim or purpose. They do not even move with the admirable
+intelligence of ants, for ants always know when they are going home.
+The ant is of a lowly station, but he will often reach home and get his
+slippers on while you are left at your elevated station.
+
+Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a
+creeping, contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires,
+bootblacks, beauties, hod-carriers and politicians become little black
+specks dodging bigger black specks in streets no wider than your thumb.
+
+From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an
+unintelligible mass of distorted buildings and impossible perspectives;
+the revered ocean is a duck pond; the earth itself a lost golf ball.
+All the minutiae of life are gone. The philosopher gazes into the
+infinite heavens above him, and allows his soul to expand to the
+influence of his new view. He feels that he is the heir to Eternity and
+the child of Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his
+immortal heritage, and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind
+shall traverse those mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet.
+The tiny world beneath his feet upon which this towering structure of
+steel rests as a speck of dust upon a Himalayan mountain—it is but one
+of a countless number of such whirling atoms. What are the ambitions,
+the achievements, the paltry conquests and loves of those restless
+black insects below compared with the serene and awful immensity of the
+universe that lies above and around their insignificant city?
+
+It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They
+have been expressly compiled from the philosophies of the world and set
+down with the proper interrogation point at the end of them to
+represent the invariable musings of deep thinkers on high places. And
+when the philosopher takes the elevator down his mind is broader, his
+heart is at peace, and his conception of the cosmogony of creation is
+as wide as the buckle of Orion’s summer belt.
+
+But if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an Eighth
+Avenue candy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet
+by eight, and earned $6 per week, and ate ten-cent lunches and were
+nineteen years old, and got up at 6.30 and worked till 9, and never had
+studied philosophy, maybe things wouldn’t look that way to you from the
+top of a skyscraper.
+
+Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who
+kept the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a
+tool-box of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow’s nest against a
+corner of a down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit,
+candies, newspapers, song books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season.
+When stern winter shook his congealed locks and Joe had to move himself
+and the fruit inside, there was exactly room in the store for the
+proprietor, his wares, a stove the size of a vinegar cruet, and one
+customer.
+
+Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues
+and fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and
+wanted Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her.
+
+“I got money saved up, Daisy,” was his love song; “and you know how bad
+I want you. That store of mine ain’t very big, but—”
+
+“Oh, ain’t it?” would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one.
+“Why, I heard Wanamaker’s was trying to get you to sublet part of your
+floor space to them for next year.”
+
+Daisy passed Joe’s corner every morning and evening.
+
+“Hello, Two-by-Four!” was her usual greeting. “Seems to me your store
+looks emptier. You must have sold a pack of chewing gum.”
+
+“Ain’t much room in here, sure,” Joe would answer, with his slow grin,
+“except for you, Daise. Me and the store are waitin’ for you whenever
+you’ll take us. Don’t you think you might before long?”
+
+“Store!”—a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy’s uptilted nose—“sardine
+box! Waitin’ for me, you say? Gee! you’d have to throw out about a
+hundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of it, Joe.”
+
+“I wouldn’t mind an even swap like that,” said Joe, complimentary.
+
+Daisy’s existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways
+between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall
+bedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were
+so near to one another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of
+noise. She could light the gas with one hand and close the door with
+the other without taking her eyes off the reflection of her brown
+pompadour in the mirror. She had Joe’s picture in a gilt frame on the
+dresser, and sometimes—but her next thought would always be of Joe’s
+funny little store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great
+building, and away would go her sentiment in a breeze of laughter.
+
+Daisy’s other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board
+in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a
+philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like
+continental labels on a Passaic (N. J.) suit-case. Knowledge he had
+kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as
+for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without
+so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the
+proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the
+shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails
+required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the
+population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of Mr.
+H. McKay Twombly’s second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac
+Tunnel, the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway
+post-office messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, Pa., and
+the number of bones in the foreleg of a cat.
+
+The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were
+the sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk
+that he would set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And
+again he used them as breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse.
+Firing at you a volley of figures concerning the weight of a lineal
+foot of bar-iron 5 × 2¾ inches, and the average annual rainfall at Fort
+Snelling, Minn., he would transfix with his fork the best piece of
+chicken on the dish while you were trying to rally sufficiently to ask
+him weakly why does a hen cross the road.
+
+Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good
+looks, of a hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon
+kind, it seems that Joe, of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival
+worthy of his steel. But Joe carried no steel. There wouldn’t have been
+room in his store to draw it if he had.
+
+One Saturday afternoon, about four o’clock, Daisy and Mr. Dabster
+stopped before Joe’s booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and—well, Daisy
+was a woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until
+Joe had seen it. A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible
+object of the call. Joe supplied it through the open side of his store.
+He did not pale or falter at sight of the hat.
+
+“Mr. Dabster’s going to take me on top of the building to observe the
+view,” said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. “I never was
+on a skyscraper. I guess it must be awfully nice and funny up there.”
+
+“H’m!” said Joe.
+
+“The panorama,” said Mr. Dabster, “exposed to the gaze from the top of
+a lofty building is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy has a
+decided pleasure in store for her.”
+
+“It’s windy up there, too, as well as here,” said Joe. “Are you dressed
+warm enough, Daise?”
+
+“Sure thing! I’m all lined,” said Daisy, smiling slyly at his clouded
+brow. “You look just like a mummy in a case, Joe. Ain’t you just put in
+an invoice of a pint of peanuts or another apple? Your stock looks
+awful over-stocked.”
+
+Daisy giggled at her favorite joke; and Joe had to smile with her.
+
+“Your quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.—er—er,” remarked Dabster, “in
+comparison with the size of this building. I understand the area of its
+side to be about 340 by 100 feet. That would make you occupy a
+proportionate space as if half of Beloochistan were placed upon a
+territory as large as the United States east of the Rocky Mountains,
+with the Province of Ontario and Belgium added.”
+
+“Is that so, sport?” said Joe, genially. “You are Weisenheimer on
+figures, all right. How many square pounds of baled hay do you think a
+jackass could eat if he stopped brayin’ long enough to keep still a
+minute and five eighths?”
+
+A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to
+the top floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and
+out upon the roof. Dabster led her to the parapet so she could look
+down at the black dots moving in the street below.
+
+“What are they?” she asked, trembling. She had never been on a height
+like this before.
+
+And then Dabster must needs play the philosopher on the tower, and
+conduct her soul forth to meet the immensity of space.
+
+“Bipeds,” he said, solemnly. “See what they become even at the small
+elevation of 340 feet—mere crawling insects going to and fro at
+random.”
+
+“Oh, they ain’t anything of the kind,” exclaimed Daisy,
+suddenly—“they’re folks! I saw an automobile. Oh, gee! are we that high
+up?”
+
+“Walk over this way,” said Dabster.
+
+He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far
+below, starred here and there, early as it was, by the first beacon
+lights of the winter afternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south
+and east vanishing mysteriously into the sky.
+
+“I don’t like it,” declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes. “Say we go
+down.”
+
+But the philosopher was not to be denied his opportunity. He would let
+her behold the grandeur of his mind, the half-nelson he had on the
+infinite, and the memory he had for statistics. And then she would
+nevermore be content to buy chewing gum at the smallest store in New
+York. And so he began to prate of the smallness of human affairs, and
+how that even so slight a removal from earth made man and his works
+look like one tenth part of a dollar thrice computed. And that one
+should consider the sidereal system and the maxims of Epictetus and be
+comforted.
+
+“You don’t carry me with you,” said Daisy. “Say, I think it’s awful to
+be up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them we saw might have
+been Joe. Why, Jiminy! we might as well be in New Jersey! Say, I’m
+afraid up here!”
+
+The philosopher smiled fatuously.
+
+“The earth,” said he, “is itself only as a grain of wheat in space.
+Look up there.”
+
+Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short day was spent and the
+stars were coming out above.
+
+“Yonder star,” said Dabster, “is Venus, the evening star. She is
+66,000,000 miles from the sun.”
+
+“Fudge!” said Daisy, with a brief flash of spirit, “where do you think
+I come from—Brooklyn? Susie Price, in our store—her brother sent her a
+ticket to go to San Francisco—that’s only three thousand miles.”
+
+The philosopher smiled indulgently.
+
+“Our world,” he said, “is 91,000,000 miles from the sun. There are
+eighteen stars of the first magnitude that are 211,000 times further
+from us than the sun is. If one of them should be extinguished it would
+be three years before we would see its light go out. There are six
+thousand stars of the sixth magnitude. It takes thirty-six years for
+the light of one of them to reach the earth. With an eighteen-foot
+telescope we can see 43,000,000 stars, including those of the
+thirteenth magnitude, whose light takes 2,700 years to reach us. Each
+of these stars—”
+
+“You’re lyin’,” cried Daisy, angrily. “You’re tryin’ to scare me. And
+you have; I want to go down!”
+
+She stamped her foot.
+
+“Arcturus—” began the philosopher, soothingly, but he was interrupted
+by a demonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was
+endeavoring to portray with his memory instead of his heart. For to the
+heart-expounder of nature the stars were set in the firmament expressly
+to give soft light to lovers wandering happily beneath them; and if you
+stand tiptoe some September night with your sweetheart on your arm you
+can almost touch them with your hand. Three years for their light to
+reach us, indeed!
+
+Out of the west leaped a meteor, lighting the roof of the skyscraper
+almost to midday. Its fiery parabola was limned against the sky toward
+the east. It hissed as it went, and Daisy screamed.
+
+“Take me down,” she cried, vehemently, “you—you mental arithmetic!”
+
+Dabster got her to the elevator, and inside of it. She was wild-eyed,
+and she shuddered when the express made its debilitating drop.
+
+Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her.
+She vanished; and he stood, bewildered, without figures or statistics
+to aid him.
+
+Joe had a lull in trade, and by squirming among his stock succeeded in
+lighting a cigarette and getting one cold foot against the attenuated
+stove.
+
+The door was burst open, and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit
+and candies, tumbled into his arms.
+
+“Oh, Joe, I’ve been up on the skyscraper. Ain’t it cozy and warm and
+homelike in here! I’m ready for you, Joe, whenever you want me.”
+
+
+
+
+XV
+A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+
+
+Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al
+Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
+
+Quigg’s restaurant is in Fourth Avenue—that street that the city seems
+to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue—born and bred in the
+Bowery—staggers northward full of good resolutions.
+
+Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly
+in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit
+mate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring,
+polyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and
+here the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling
+the tread of marching hosts—Hooray! But now come the silent and
+terrible mountains—buildings square as forts, high as the clouds,
+shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all
+day. On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and
+book shops, where you see copies of “Littell’s Living Age” and G. W. M.
+Reynold’s novels in the windows. And next—poor Fourth Avenue!—the
+street glides into a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted
+to “Antiques.”
+
+Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and
+menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks
+and helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks,
+creeses, and the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone
+gallants gleam dully in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner
+saloon (lit with Jack-o’-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth
+shuddering, home-bound citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their
+fearsome journey adown that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained
+weapons of the fighting dead. What street could live inclosed by these
+mortuary relics, and trod by these spectral citizens in whose sunken
+hearts scarce one good whoop or tra-la-la remained?
+
+Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the
+Little Rialto—not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There
+need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; ’tis but the suicide of a
+street. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the
+tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
+
+Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare’s dissolution stood the modest
+restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its
+crumbling red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges,
+tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus—its papier-mâché lobster
+and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce—if you care to sit
+at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the
+yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance—to sit
+there with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle
+from which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed
+charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the “Nobleman
+in India.”
+
+Quigg’s title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a
+Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of the
+dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become a
+reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a
+restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave
+him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house
+bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other gave him
+the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg,
+the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave—the Caliph—the Prince of
+Bohemia—going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious, the
+inexplicable, the recondite.
+
+One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth
+upon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and
+the artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under
+his short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward toward the
+more central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an
+assortment of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out
+of doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its
+face value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and
+coffee; others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of
+full meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in
+effect, meal tickets good for a week.
+
+Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph’s
+heart—it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of
+Harun Al Rashid’s. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put
+less warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars than had
+Quigg’s beef stew among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of
+Manhattan.
+
+Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of
+distress that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering
+crowd that whooped and fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and
+the crosstown street that he was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he
+beheld a young man of an exceedingly melancholy and preoccupied
+demeanor engaged in the pastime of casting silver money from his
+pockets in the middle of the street. With each motion of the generous
+one’s hand the crowd huddled upon the falling largesse with yells of
+joy. Traffic was suspended. A policeman in the centre of the mob
+stooped often to the ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
+
+The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after
+knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his
+way swiftly to the young man’s side and took his arm. “Come with me at
+once,” he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had
+learned to fear.
+
+“Pinched,” remarked the young man, looking up at him with
+expressionless eyes. “Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away,
+flatty, and give me gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a
+hen?”
+
+Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed
+Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
+
+There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph’s
+mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to
+know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving
+him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and
+stores.
+
+“I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn’t
+I?” asked the young man.
+
+“You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to
+scramble after,” said the Margrave.
+
+“That’s it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw
+chicken feed to— Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,
+roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!”
+
+“Young sir,” said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, “though I do
+not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know
+humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist
+eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his
+bounty—through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure and
+distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated
+misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You
+may be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler,
+the Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among
+his people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving
+so much of their distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I
+seek for romance and adventure in city streets—not in ruined castles or
+in crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those
+that take place in men’s hearts when acted upon by the furious and
+diverse forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this
+evening I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper than
+the wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance
+the certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat—I invite
+your confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise.
+Will you not trust me?”
+
+“Gee, how you talk!” exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration
+supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. “You’ve got the
+Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that
+old Turk you speak of. I read ‘The Arabian Nights’ when I was a kid. He
+was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say,
+you might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon
+giants all night without ever touching me. My case won’t yield to that
+kind of treatment.”
+
+“If I could hear your story,” said the Margrave, with his lofty,
+serious smile.
+
+“I’ll spiel it in about nine words,” said the young man, with a deep
+sigh, “but I don’t think you can help me any. Unless you’re a peach at
+guessing it’s back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum.”
+
+THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER’S RIDDLE
+
+
+“I work in Hildebrant’s saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street.
+I’ve worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That’s enough to marry
+on, ain’t it? Well, I’m not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one
+of these funny Dutchmen—you know the kind—always getting off bum jokes.
+He’s got about a million riddles and things that he faked from Rogers
+Brothers’ great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill
+have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it? Well,
+jobs ain’t to be picked off every Anheuser bush— And then there’s
+Laura.
+
+“What? The old man’s daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About
+nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of
+the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of
+straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness
+blacking—think of that!
+
+“Me? well, it’s either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal.
+Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?—well, you saw me
+plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-night. That
+was on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot
+not of what I wouldst.
+
+“How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: ‘Boys,
+one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles
+antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide—is
+not that—hein?’ And he hands us a riddle—a conundrum, some calls it—and
+he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till to-morrow morning to
+work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us guesses the
+repartee end of it goes to his house o’ Wednesday night to his
+daughter’s birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us goes,
+for she’s naturally aching for a husband, and it’s either me or Bill
+Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry
+somebody that’ll carry on the business after he’s stitched his last
+pair of traces.
+
+“The riddle? Why, it was this: ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest?
+Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain’t it like a
+Dutchman to risk a man’s happiness on a fool proposition like that?
+Now, what’s the use? What I don’t know about hens would fill several
+incubators. You say you’re giving imitations of the old Arab guy that
+gave away—libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy
+that’ll solve this hen query, or not?”
+
+When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by
+the park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in
+grave and impressive tones:
+
+“I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in
+search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered
+a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have
+overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their habits,
+their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and
+cross-breedings, their span of life, their—”
+
+“Oh, don’t make an Ibsen drama of it!” interrupted the young man,
+flippantly. “Riddles—especially old Hildebrant’s riddles—don’t have to
+be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and
+Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can’t strike just
+the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well,
+Your Majesty, I’m glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time
+away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of
+his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I’ll say
+good night. Peace fo’ yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah.”
+
+The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
+
+“I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I
+found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the
+longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called
+the Plymouth Rock that—”
+
+“Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious
+one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s
+defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”
+
+From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a
+card and handed it to the young man.
+
+“Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said. “The time may come
+when it might be of use to you.”
+
+“Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. “My name is
+Simmons.”
+
+
+Shame to him who would hint that the reader’s interest shall altogether
+pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed
+astray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser’s heart
+would follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door
+of Hildebrant, harness maker.
+
+Hildebrant’s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw
+leather martingale.
+
+Bill Watson came in first.
+
+“Vell,” said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the
+joke-maker, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der
+longest?’”
+
+“Er—why, I think so,” said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. “I think so,
+Mr. Hildebrant—the one that lives the longest— Is that right?”
+
+“Nein!” said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. “You haf not
+guessed der answer.”
+
+Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
+
+In came the young man of the Arabian Night’s fiasco—pale, melancholy,
+hopeless.
+
+“Vell,” said Hildebrant, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays
+der longest?’”
+
+Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse
+this mountain of pernicious humor—curse him and die? Why should— But
+there was Laura.
+
+Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and
+stood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave’s card.
+He drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a
+crawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg’s bold, round hand:
+“Good for one roast chicken to bearer.”
+
+Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
+
+“A dead one!” said he.
+
+“Goot!” roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. “Dot is
+right! You gome at mine house at 8 o’clock to der party.”
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+
+
+There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted; and
+newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young
+journalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic
+view of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced to
+very questionable sources—facts and philosophy. We will begin
+with—whichever you choose to call it.
+
+Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope
+under a bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish
+sorrows overwhelm them are we put to our wits’ end. We exhaust our
+paltry store of consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep.
+Then we grovel in the dust of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we
+call out of the rat-trap. As for the children, no one understands them
+except old maids, hunchbacks, and shepherd dogs.
+
+Now comes the facts in the case of the Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion,
+and the Twenty-fifth of December.
+
+On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her
+rag-doll. There were many servants in the Millionaire’s palace on the
+Hudson, and these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding
+the lost treasure. The child was a girl of five, and one of those
+perverse little beasts that often wound the sensibilities of wealthy
+parents by fixing their affections upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy
+instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and pony phaetons.
+
+The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the
+Millionaire, to whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as
+Bay State Gas; and to the Lady, the Child’s mother, who was all
+form—that is, nearly all, as you shall see.
+
+The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed,
+spindling, and corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire
+smiled and tapped his coffers confidently. The pick of the output of
+the French and German toymakers was rushed by special delivery to the
+mansion; but Rachel refused to be comforted. She was weeping for her
+rag child, and was for a high protective tariff against all foreign
+foolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside manners and
+stop-watches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely about
+peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their
+stop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or
+place. Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon as
+possible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at
+therapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this
+time cablegrams were coming from Santa Claus saying that he would soon
+be here and enjoining us to show a true Christian spirit and let up on
+the pool-rooms and tontine policies and platoon systems long enough to
+give him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing
+itself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawn-brokers had doubled
+their gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red
+sleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you
+waited on one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows
+of the stores, they who had ’em were getting their furs. You hardly
+knew which was the best bet in balls—three, high, moth, or snow. It was
+no time at which to lose the rag-doll or your heart.
+
+If Doctor Watson’s investigating friend had been called in to solve
+this mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the
+Millionaire’s wall a copy of “The Vampire.” That would have quickly
+suggested, by induction, “A rag and a bone and a hank of hair.” “Flip,”
+a Scotch terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child’s heart, frisked
+through the halls. The hank of hair! Aha! X, the unfound quantity,
+represented the rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones
+they—Done! It were an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip’s
+forefeet. Look, Watson! Earth—dried earth between the toes. Of course,
+the dog—but Sherlock was not there. Therefore it devolves. But
+topography and architecture must intervene.
+
+The Millionaire’s palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a
+lawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man’s face two days after a shave.
+At one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce
+trimmed to a leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had
+ravished the rag-doll from the nursery, dragged it to a corner of the
+lawn, dug a hole, and buried it after the manner of careless
+undertakers. There you have the mystery solved, and no checks to write
+for the hypodermical wizard or fi’-pun notes to toss to the sergeant.
+Then let’s get down to the heart of the thing, tiresome readers—the
+Christmas heart of the thing.
+
+Fuzzy was drunk—not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or
+I might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes
+a gentleman down on his luck.
+
+Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the park
+bench, the kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary
+beds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly
+garnered largesse of great cities—these formed the chapters of his
+history.
+
+Fuzzy walked toward the river, down the street that bounded one side of
+the Millionaire’s house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost
+rag-doll, protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputian murder mystery,
+from its untimely grave in a corner of the fence. He dragged forth the
+maltreated infant, tucked it under his arm, and went on his way
+crooning a road song of his brethren that no doll that has been brought
+up to the sheltered life should hear. Well for Betsy that she had no
+ears. And well that she had no eyes save unseeing circles of black; for
+the faces of Fuzzy and the Scotch terrier were those of brothers, and
+the heart of no rag-doll could withstand twice to become the prey of
+such fearsome monsters.
+
+Though you may not know it, Grogan’s saloon stands near the river and
+near the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled. In Grogan’s,
+Christmas cheer was already rampant.
+
+Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast
+of Saturn he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup.
+
+He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously,
+seasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as
+one entertaining his lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught
+the farce of it, and roared. The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many
+of us carry rag-dolls.
+
+“One for the lady?” suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another
+contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat.
+
+He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a
+success. Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.
+
+In a group near the stove sat “Pigeon” McCarthy, Black Riley, and
+“One-ear” Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring
+district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a
+newspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and
+blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed “One Hundred
+Dollars Reward.” To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed,
+or stolen from the Millionaire’s mansion. It seemed that grief still
+ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the
+terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to
+distract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking,
+mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The
+advertisement was a last resort.
+
+Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his
+one-sided parabolic way.
+
+The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his
+arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates
+elsewhere.
+
+“Say, ‘Bo,” said Black Riley to him, “where did you cop out dat doll?”
+
+“This doll?” asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure
+that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by
+the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country
+home in Newport. This doll—”
+
+“Cheese the funny business,” said Riley. “You swiped it or picked it up
+at de house on de hill where—but never mind dat. You want to take fifty
+cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother’s kid at home might be
+wantin’ to play wid it. Hey—what?”
+
+He produced the coin.
+
+Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to
+the office of Sarah Bernhardt’s manager and propose to him that she be
+released from a night’s performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum
+and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy’s laugh.
+
+Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler
+does. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine
+from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel
+unaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three
+inches of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by
+dingy linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small,
+circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed
+the quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the
+moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without
+abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black
+Riley temporized.
+
+“Wot’ll you take for it, den?” he asked.
+
+“Money,” said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, “cannot buy her.”
+
+He was intoxicated with the artist’s first sweet cup of attainment. To
+set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic
+converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of
+plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in
+his honor—could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will
+perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament.
+
+Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other
+cafés to conquer.
+
+Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were
+beginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet.
+Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the
+hour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted
+red. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the
+Saturnalians.
+
+“Pigeon” McCarthy, Black Riley, and “One-ear” Mike held a hasty
+converse outside Grogan’s. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings,
+not fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare
+than the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have
+eaten the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already
+doomed.
+
+They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan’s Casino.
+They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy
+could read—and more.
+
+“Boys,” said he, “you are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week
+to think it over.”
+
+The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
+
+The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were
+soulless, and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by
+the morrow.
+
+“A cool hundred,” said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
+
+“Boys,” said he, “you are true friends. I’ll go up and claim the
+reward. The show business is not what it used to be.”
+
+Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the
+foot of the rise on which stood the Millionaire’s house. There Fuzzy
+turned upon them acrimoniously.
+
+“You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds,” he roared. “Go away.”
+
+They went away—a little way.
+
+In “Pigeon” McCarthy’s pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight
+inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.
+One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a
+slung-shot, being a conventional thug. “One-ear” Mike relied upon a
+pair of brass knucks—an heirloom in the family.
+
+“Why fetch and carry,” said Black Riley, “when some one will do it for
+ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey—what?”
+
+“We can chuck him in the river,” said “Pigeon” McCarthy, “with a stone
+tied to his feet.”
+
+“Youse guys make me tired,” said “One-ear” Mike sadly. “Ain’t progress
+ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on ’im, and
+drop ’im on the Drive—well?”
+
+Fuzzy entered the Millionaire’s gate and zigzagged toward the softly
+glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate
+and lingered—one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They
+fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.
+
+Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic
+instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But
+he wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.
+
+The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and
+laces shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his
+passport, his card of admission, his surety of welcome—the lost
+rag-doll of the daughter of the house dangling under his arm.
+
+Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen
+lights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child.
+The doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling
+to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of
+childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious
+being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy
+wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic
+smile and blattering small talk that is supposed to charm the budding
+intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging
+her Betsy close.
+
+There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and
+worshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy’s hand ten
+ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to
+James, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with
+the other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial
+regions.
+
+James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far
+as the front door.
+
+When the money touched fuzzy’s dingy palm his first instinct was to
+take to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that
+blunder of etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It—and, oh,
+what an elysium it opened to the gaze of his mind’s eye! He had tumbled
+to the foot of the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged,
+cold, drifting; and he held in his hand the key to a paradise of the
+mud-honey that he craved. The fairy doll had waved a wand with her
+rag-stuffed hand; and now wherever he might go the enchanted palaces
+with shining foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glassware
+would be open to him.
+
+He followed James to the door.
+
+He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for
+him to pass into the vestibule.
+
+Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his
+two pals casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably
+fatal weapons that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.
+
+Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire’s door and bethought himself. Like
+little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green
+thoughts and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite
+drunk, mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths
+and festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall
+gay—where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known
+polished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and—and some one
+was singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before.
+Some one singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas—Fuzzy
+thought he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that.
+
+And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of
+some impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white,
+transient, forgotten ghost—the spirit of _noblesse oblige_. Upon a
+gentleman certain things devolve.
+
+James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled
+walk to the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and “One-ear” Mike saw,
+and carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate.
+
+With a more imperious gesture than James’s master had ever used or
+could ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a
+gentleman certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season.
+
+“It is cust—customary,” he said to James, the flustered, “when a
+gentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the season
+with the lady of the house. You und’stand? I shall not move shtep till
+I pass compl’ments season with lady the house. Und’stand?”
+
+There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it
+through the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He
+was simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.
+
+A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving
+Fuzzy in the hall. James explained somewhere to some one.
+
+Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.
+
+The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than
+any picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a
+doll. Fuzzy didn’t understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.
+
+A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped
+sterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to
+Fuzzy.
+
+As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities
+dropped from him for one brief moment. He straightened himself; and
+Time, so disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate
+Fuzzy.
+
+Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most
+opulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan’s whisky. What
+had the Millionaire’s mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia
+hall, where the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl,
+drinking the ancient toast of the House? And why should the patter of
+the cab horses’ hoofs on the frozen street be in any wise related to
+the sound of the saddled hunters stamping under the shelter of the west
+veranda? And what had Fuzzy to do with any of it?
+
+The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile
+fade away like a false dawn. Her eyes turned serious. She saw something
+beneath the rags and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not
+understand. But it did not matter.
+
+Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly.
+
+“P-pardon, lady,” he said, “but couldn’t leave without exchangin’
+comp’ments sheason with lady th’ house. ’Gainst princ’ples gen’leman do
+sho.”
+
+And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the
+House when men wore lace ruffles and powder.
+
+“The blessings of another year—”
+
+Fuzzy’s memory failed him. The Lady prompted:
+
+“—Be upon this hearth.”
+
+“—The guest—” stammered Fuzzy.
+
+“—And upon her who—” continued the Lady, with a leading smile.
+
+“Oh, cut it out,” said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly. “I can’t remember. Drink
+hearty.”
+
+Fuzzy had shot his arrow. They drank. The Lady smiled again the smile
+of her caste. James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front
+door. The harp music still softly drifted through the house.
+
+Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate.
+
+“I wonder,” said the Lady to herself, musing, “who—but there were so
+many who came. I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing to them
+after they have fallen so low.”
+
+Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door. The Lady called: “James!”
+
+James stalked back obsequiously, leaving Fuzzy waiting unsteadily, with
+his brief spark of the divine fire gone.
+
+Outside, Black Riley stamped his cold feet and got a firmer grip on his
+section of gas-pipe.
+
+“You will conduct this gentleman,” said the lady, “Downstairs. Then
+tell Louis to get out the Mercedes and take him to whatever place he
+wishes to go.”
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+
+
+The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces,
+bazaars, khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers
+disguises, seeking diversion and victims for their unbridled
+generosity. You can scarcely find a poor beggar whom they are willing
+to let enjoy his spoils unsuccored, nor a wrecked unfortunate upon whom
+they will not reshower the means of fresh misfortune. You will hardly
+find anywhere a hungry one who has not had the opportunity to tighten
+his belt in gift libraries, nor a poor pundit who has not blushed at
+the holiday basket of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly through
+his door by the eleemosynary press.
+
+So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed
+calenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber’s Sixth Brother, hoping
+to escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans.
+
+Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories
+of those who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of the
+Faithful. Until dawn you might sit on the enchanted rug and listen to
+such stories as are told of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent
+the Forty Thieves to soak up the oil plant of Ali Baba; of the good
+Caliph Kar-Neg-Ghe, who gave away palaces; of the Seven Voyages of
+Sailbad, the Sinner, who frequented wooden excursion steamers among the
+islands; of the Fisherman and the Bottle; of the Barmecides’ Boarding
+house; of Aladdin’s rise to wealth by means of his Wonderful Gas-meter.
+
+But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too
+valuable to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of
+narrative languishes. And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy
+poor and the resigned unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap
+upon them strange mercies and mysterious benefits, too often comes the
+report from Arabian headquarters that the captive refused “to talk.”
+
+This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of
+their philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the
+shortcomings of this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called
+
+THE STORY OF THE CALIPH WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE
+
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water at
+his $1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its
+imbibition, for immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak
+soundly with his fist and shouted to the empty dining room:
+
+“By the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If I
+can get that squared, it’ll do the trick.”
+
+Thus, by the commonest artifice of the trade, having gained your
+interest, the action of the story will now be suspended, leaving you
+grumpily to consider a sort of dull biography beginning fifteen years
+before.
+
+When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania
+coal mine. I don’t know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems
+to be standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have
+his picture taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But,
+instead of dying of overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents
+and brothers at the mercy of the union strikers’ reserve fund, he
+hitched up his galluses, put a dollar or two in a side proposition now
+and then, and at forty-five was worth $20,000,000.
+
+There now! it’s over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I’ve seen
+biographies that—but let us dissemble.
+
+I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at
+the seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble
+origin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth,
+capitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh,
+caliph; eighth, _x_. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher
+mathematics.
+
+At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a czar
+was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil,
+railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched
+Jacob’s hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully
+cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage
+of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private
+secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot
+fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the
+mantle of the late H. A. Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob
+slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand,
+and became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.
+
+When a man’s income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends
+him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul’s
+salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be
+forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his
+wealth. The trust magnate “estimates” it. The rich malefactor hands you
+a cigar and denies that he has bought the P. D. & Q. The caliph merely
+smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a
+record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a “Where-to-Dine-Well”
+tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being
+that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher
+than did her future _divorcé_. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar
+quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in
+his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human—Count
+Tolstoi, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.
+
+Don’t lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort
+of moral essay for intellectual readers.
+
+There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.
+
+When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels
+in the Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send
+a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the
+Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed
+warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is
+neither here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his
+favor of the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double
+line, but still mighty close to the matter under the caption of
+“Oddities of the Day’s News” in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read
+that one “Jasper Spargyous” had “donated $100,000 to the U. B. A. of
+G.” A camel may have a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not
+venture to accord him whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at
+Washington; but if he have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem
+to have been inserted in the eye of a needle by that effort of that
+rich man to enter the K. of H. The right is reserved to reject any and
+all bids; signed, S. Peter, secretary and gatekeeper.
+
+Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and
+presented it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain a
+scientific course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate
+lavatory instead, which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever
+discovered.
+
+The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C
+degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added
+the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.
+
+While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw
+two professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor
+acoustics, undesignedly reached his ear.
+
+“There goes the latest _chevalier d’industrie_,” said one of them, “to
+buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree to-morrow.”
+
+“_In foro conscientiæ_,” said the other. “Let’s ’eave ’arf a brick at
+’im.”
+
+Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for
+him. There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that
+he had bought. That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs
+Act.
+
+Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale.
+
+“If I could see folks made happier,” he said to himself—“If I could see
+’em myself and hear ’em express their gratitude for what I done for ’em
+it would make me feel better. This donatin’ funds to institutions and
+societies is about as satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot
+machine.”
+
+So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to
+the homes of the poorest.
+
+“The very thing!” said Jacob. “I will charter two river steamboats,
+pack them full of these unfortunate children and—say ten thousand dolls
+and drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a
+delightful outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to
+blow the taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than
+I can work it off my mind.”
+
+Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an
+immense person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought
+to have a “Drop Letters Here” sign over it hooked a finger around him
+and set him in a space between a barber’s pole and a stack of ash cans.
+Words came out of the post-office slit—smooth, husky words with gloves
+on ’em, but sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.
+
+“Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O’Grady’s
+district you’re buttin’ into—see? Mike’s got de stomach-ache privilege
+for every kid in dis neighborhood—see? And if dere’s any picnics or red
+balloons to be dealt out here, Mike’s money pays for ’em—see? Don’t you
+butt in, or something’ll be handed to you. Youse d–––– settlers and
+reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have
+got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students
+and professors rough-housing de soda-water stands and dem rubber-neck
+coaches fillin’ de streets, de folks down here are ’fraid to go out of
+de houses. Now, you leave ’em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows
+how to handle ’em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser
+now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit’ Mike O’Grady for de Santa
+Claus belt in dis district?”
+
+Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph
+Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side.
+To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized
+charity, presented the Y. M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000
+collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers in
+China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth for
+all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring peace
+to the caliph’s heart. He tried to get a personal note into his
+benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got
+well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with
+respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out
+an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the
+star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of
+his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to
+write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while
+his capital still kept piling up, and his _optikos needleorum
+camelibus_—or rich man’s disease—was unrelieved.
+
+In Caliph Spraggins’s $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who
+used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in
+Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two
+fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back
+from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors
+in the restaurant languages and those études and things.
+
+Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist’s delineation of her charms on
+this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized
+description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful,
+brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a
+perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for
+plain food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She
+had too much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a
+wide mouth that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail
+from the slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle
+hornpipes. Keep this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.
+
+Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the
+grocer’s young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged in
+conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the
+ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse
+should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid
+eggs out of the wagon.
+
+Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer’s young man
+yourself. But you wouldn’t have given him your heart, because you are
+saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid
+liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I
+know about it. So I am glad the grocer’s young man was for Celia, and
+not for you.
+
+The grocer’s young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy
+in his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the
+new frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the
+back of his head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his
+sunburned face looked like one that smiled a good deal when he was not
+preaching the doctrine of everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon
+horses. He slung imported A1 fancy groceries about as though they were
+only the stuff he delivered at boarding-houses; and when he picked up
+his whip, your mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the
+buttonless foils.
+
+Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the
+house. The grocer’s wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days
+Celia watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time
+to admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing
+around the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories.
+Then she consulted Annette.
+
+To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a
+paragraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic
+novels which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by
+one of the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia’s
+side-kicker and chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn’t know it, you may
+hazard a bean or two.
+
+“Oh, canary-bird seed!” exclaimed Annette. “Ain’t it a corkin’
+situation? You a heiress, and fallin’ in love with him on sight! He’s a
+sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain’t susceptible like
+the common run of grocer’s assistants. He never pays no attention to
+me.”
+
+“He will to me,” said Celia.
+
+“Riches—” began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine
+sting.
+
+“Oh, you’re not so beautiful,” said Celia, with her wide, disarming
+smile. “Neither am I; but he sha’n’t know that there’s any money mixed
+up with my looks, such as they are. That’s fair. Now, I want you to
+lend me one of your caps and an apron, Annette.”
+
+“Oh, marshmallows!” cried Annette. “I see. Ain’t it lovely? It’s just
+like ‘Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker’s Wrongs.’ I’ll
+bet he’ll turn out to be a count.”
+
+There was a long hallway (or “passageway,” as they call it in the land
+of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the
+house. The grocer’s young man went through this to deliver his goods.
+One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow
+complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid’s cap and apron.
+But as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and
+Trophy tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the
+most expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of
+the maids.
+
+But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling
+“Fisher’s Hornpipe” so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the
+world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for
+shame.
+
+The grocer’s young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on
+his collar button behind.
+
+“That’s out o’ sight, Kid,” said he.
+
+“My name is Celia, if you please,” said the whistler, dazzling him with
+a three-inch smile.
+
+“That’s all right. I’m Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you
+work in?”
+
+“I’m the—the second parlor maid.”
+
+“Do you know the ‘Falling Waters’?”
+
+“No,” said Celia, “we don’t know anybody. We got rich too quick—that
+is, Mr. Spraggins did.”
+
+“I’ll make you acquainted,” said Thomas McLeod. “It’s a strathspey—the
+first cousin to a hornpipe.”
+
+If Celia’s whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas
+McLeod’s surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could
+actually whistle _bass_.
+
+When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and
+ride with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of
+the Charon line.
+
+“I’ll be around to-morrow at 10:15,” said Thomas, “with some spinach
+and a case of carbonic.”
+
+“I’ll practice that what-you-may-call-it,” said Celia. “I can whistle a
+fine second.”
+
+The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general
+literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements
+of iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman’s Auxiliary of
+the Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a
+description of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon
+the province of the X-ray or of park policemen.
+
+A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the
+latticed “passage.”
+
+“Sixteen a week isn’t much,” said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his
+shoulder blades.
+
+Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march.
+Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for
+a dozen handkerchiefs.
+
+“Maybe I’ll get a raise next month,” said Thomas. “I’ll be around
+to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap.”
+
+“All right,” said Celia. “Annette’s married cousin pays only $20 a
+month for a flat in the Bronx.”
+
+Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt
+Henrietta’s invincible pride of caste and pa’s mightiness as a Colossus
+of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her
+grocer’s young man might go whistle for a living.
+
+Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with
+“The Devil’s Dream,” whistled keenly between his teeth.
+
+“Raised to eighteen a week yesterday,” he said. “Been pricing flats
+around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and
+unpinning that cap, old girl.”
+
+“Oh, Tommy!” said Celia, with her broadest smile. “Won’t that be
+enough? I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess
+we could call it a flat pudding if we wanted to.”
+
+“And tell no lie,” said Thomas.
+
+“And I can sweep and polish and dust—of course, a parlor maid learns
+that. And we could whistle duets of evenings.”
+
+“The old man said he’d raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan
+couldn’t think of any harder name to call a Republican than a
+‘postponer,’” said the grocer’s young man.
+
+“I can sew,” said Celia; “and I know that you must make the gas
+company’s man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and I
+know how to put up quince jam and window curtains.”
+
+“Bully! you’re all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off on
+eighteen.”
+
+As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved
+discovery by running swiftly to the gate.
+
+“And, oh, Tommy, I forgot,” she called, softly. “I believe I could make
+your neckties.”
+
+“Forget it,” said Thomas decisively.
+
+“And another thing,” she continued. “Sliced cucumbers at night will
+drive away cockroaches.”
+
+“And sleep, too, you bet,” said Mr. McLeod. “Yes, I believe if I have a
+delivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I’ll look in at a
+furniture store I know over there.”
+
+It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck
+the sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about ten
+thousand dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the
+reflection that some stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into
+wells, move around in circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light
+on Jacob’s words.
+
+The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor
+coal-digger (ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and
+bought a small tract of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise
+corn. Not a nubbin. Jacob, whose nose was a divining-rod, told him
+there was a vein of coal beneath. He bought the land from the miner for
+$125 and sold it a month afterward for $10,000. Luckily the miner had
+enough left of his sale money to drink himself into a black coat
+opening in the back, as soon as he heard the news.
+
+And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the
+sudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money
+to the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe
+might be his.
+
+And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand
+words and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle
+cracked.
+
+Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any
+existed, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
+
+Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going
+to be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold
+back your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so
+people can stop reading there if they want to.
+
+After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand
+dollars—I mean miles—they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his
+confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there
+were no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one
+morning in one of their offices.
+
+Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked
+straight at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap
+over the top of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
+
+There was a slight flaw in Jacob’s system of restitution. He did not
+consider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he
+represented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who
+had sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
+
+“Well, sir,” said Thomas, “this sounds to me like an illustrated
+post-card from South Boston with ‘We’re having a good time here’
+written on it. I don’t know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars
+money, or do I have to save so many coupons to get it?”
+
+Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
+
+That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully
+into his pocket.
+
+“Grandfather’s best thanks,” he said, “to the party who sends it.”
+
+Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure
+time, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas,
+the better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so
+frank and wholesome.
+
+“I would like to have you visit my house,” he said. “I might help you
+in investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have
+a daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are
+not many young men I would care to have call on her.”
+
+“I’m obliged,” said Thomas. “I’m not much at making calls. It’s
+generally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I’m engaged to a
+girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She’s a
+parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won’t be working
+there much longer, though. Say, don’t forget to give your friend my
+grandfather’s best regards. You’ll excuse me now; my wagon’s outside
+with a lot of green stuff that’s got to be delivered. See you again,
+sir.”
+
+At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the
+Spraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back, he
+took out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them
+carelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the
+cook.
+
+“I told you he was a count,” she said, after relating. “He never would
+carry on with me.”
+
+“But you say he showed money,” said the cook.
+
+“Hundreds of thousands,” said Annette. “Carried around loose in his
+pockets. And he never would look at me.”
+
+“It was paid to me to-day,” Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. “It
+came from my grandfather’s estate. Say, Cele, what’s the use of waiting
+now? I’m going to quit the job to-night. Why can’t we get married next
+week?”
+
+“Tommy,” said Celia. “I’m no parlor maid. I’ve been fooling you. I’m
+Miss Spraggins—Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I’ll be worth forty
+million dollars some day.”
+
+Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time
+since we have known him.
+
+“I suppose then,” said he, “I suppose then you’ll not be marrying me
+next week. But you _can_ whistle.”
+
+“No,” said Celia, “I’ll not be marrying you next week. My father would
+never let me marry a grocer’s clerk. But I’ll marry you to-night,
+Tommy, if you say so.”
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make
+of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you
+unsubsidized fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you
+its voltage and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his
+daughter; he had bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her
+say what a kind, thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
+
+There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,
+glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy
+and histrionics.
+
+“Oh, sir,” said she, wondering if she should kneel, “Miss Celia’s just
+this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be
+married. I couldn’t stop her, sir. They went in a cab.”
+
+“What young man?” roared old Jacob.
+
+“A millionaire, if you please, sir—a rich nobleman in disguise. He
+carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only
+to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me.”
+
+Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been
+delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
+
+“Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the
+corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run
+it down.”
+
+There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes
+half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly
+crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it.
+
+“What t’ell you doin’?” yelled the cabman.
+
+“Pa!” shrieked Celia.
+
+“Grandfather’s remorseful friend’s agent!” said Thomas. “Wonder what’s
+on his conscience now.”
+
+“A thousand thunders,” said Gaston, or Mike. “I have no other match.”
+
+“Young man,” said old Jacob, severely, “how about that parlor maid you
+were engaged to?”
+
+A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his
+private secretary.
+
+“The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000
+toward the conversion of the Koreans,” said the secretary.
+
+“Pass ’em up,” said Jacob.
+
+“The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
+$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due.”
+
+“Tell ’em it’s been cut out.”
+
+“The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
+buy alcohol to preserve specimens.”
+
+“Waste basket.”
+
+“The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants
+$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course.”
+
+“Tell ’em to see an undertaker.”
+
+“Cut ’em all out,” went on Jacob. “I’ve quit being a good thing. I need
+every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors
+of every company that I’m interested in and recommend a 10 per cent.
+cut in salaries. And say—I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a
+corner of the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman
+about waste. I’ve got no money to throw away. And say—we’ve got vinegar
+pretty well in hand, haven’t we?’
+
+“The Globe Spice & Seasons Company,” said secretary, “controls the
+market at present.”
+
+“Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches.”
+
+Suddenly Jacob Spraggins’s plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He
+walked over to the secretary’s desk and showed a small red mark on his
+thick forefinger.
+
+“Bit it,” he said, “darned if he didn’t, and he ain’t had the tooth
+three weeks—Jaky McLeod, my Celia’s kid. He’ll be worth a hundred
+millions by the time he’s twenty-one if I can pile it up for him.”
+
+As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
+
+“Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I’ll be
+back in an hour and sign the letters.”
+
+The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the
+end of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded
+all his former favorites and companions of his “Arabian Nights”
+rambles. Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only
+death warrant the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a
+tradesman’s bill.
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+
+
+HABIT—a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent repetition.
+
+
+The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that
+one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters
+of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we
+strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate
+Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving
+Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us of
+both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart—and they said
+something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew
+or—er—yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the
+inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,
+we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable
+vade mecum—the unabridged dictionary.
+
+Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle’s. Hinkle’s is one of the big
+downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the “financial
+district.” Each day from 12 o’clock to 2 Hinkle’s was full of hungry
+customers—messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
+stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending—and also people with
+money.
+
+The cashiership at Hinkle’s was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted
+and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched (as
+good a word as “dined”) many more. It might be said that Hinkle’s
+breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted
+to a horde.
+
+Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a
+strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at
+the bottom you thrust your waiter’s check and the money, while your
+heart went pit-a-pat.
+
+For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of
+a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could—Next!—lost
+your chance—please don’t shove. She could keep cool and collected while
+she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
+indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent
+better than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes
+to pepper an egg with one of Hinkle’s casters.
+
+There is an old and dignified allusion to the “fierce light that beats
+upon a throne.” The light that beats upon the young lady cashier’s cage
+is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the
+slang.
+
+Every male patron of Hinkle’s, from the A. D. T. boys up to the
+curbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks
+they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid’s art. Between the meshes
+of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows,
+invitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that
+was wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.
+
+There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young
+lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce;
+she is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and
+coin, leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and
+a Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the
+cheery word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures;
+and you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the
+brass-bound inaccessibility multiplies her charms—anyhow, she is a
+shirt-waisted angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive,
+bright-eyed, ready, alert—Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you
+from your circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
+
+The young men who broke bread at Hinkle’s never settled with the
+cashier without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of
+them went to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre
+tickets and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms,
+generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem
+flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss
+Merriam more regularly than he ate.
+
+During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam’s conversation, while she
+took money for checks, would run something like this:
+
+“Good morning, Mr. Haskins—sir?—it’s natural, thank you—don’t be quite
+so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny—ten, fifteen, twenty—chase along now or
+they’ll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon—count it again,
+please—Oh, don’t mention it . . . Vaudeville?—thanks; not on your
+moving picture—I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on Wednesday night
+with Mr. Simmons . . . ’Scuse me, I thought that was a quarter . . .
+Twenty-five and seventy-five’s a dollar—got that ham-and-cabbage habit
+yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you addressing?—say—you’ll get all
+that’s coming to you in a minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett—you’re
+always fooling—no—? Well, maybe I’ll marry you some day—three, four and
+sixty-five is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
+please . . . Ten cents?—’scuse me; the check calls for seventy—well,
+maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that way,
+Mr. Saunders?—some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de Merody does
+suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike along there,
+buddy; don’t take this for a Coney Island ticket booth . . . Huh?—why,
+Macy’s—don’t it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn’t too cool—these light-weight
+fabrics is all the go this season . . . Come again, please—that’s the
+third time you’ve tried to—what?—forget it—that lead quarter is an old
+friend of mine . . . Sixty-five?—must have had your salary raised, Mr.
+Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De
+Forest—swell?—oh, my!—who is she? . . . What’s the matter with it?—why,
+it ain’t money—what?—Columbian half?—well, this ain’t South America . .
+. Yes, I like the mixed best—Friday?—awfully sorry, but I take my
+jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday—Thursday, then . . . Thanks—that’s sixteen
+times I’ve been told that this morning—I guess I must be beautiful . .
+. Cut that out, please—who do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr.
+Westbrook—do you really think so?—the idea!—one—eighty and twenty’s a
+dollar—thank you ever so much, but I don’t ever go automobile riding
+with gentlemen—your aunt?—well, that’s different—perhaps . . . Please
+don’t get fresh—your check was fifteen cents, I believe—kindly step
+aside and let . . . Hello, Ben—coming around Thursday evening?—there’s
+a gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
+and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . .”
+
+About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo—whose other
+name is Fortune—suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
+while he was walking past Hinkle’s, on his way to a street car. A
+wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is—move up,
+please; there are others.
+
+A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the
+spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle’s restaurant.
+When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a
+beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing
+his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frappé
+out of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed
+with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered
+consciousness.
+
+To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker
+McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward Miss
+Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with
+interest—not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.
+The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple
+were childless—they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.
+
+To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts of
+the good old couple. They came to Hinkle’s again and again; they
+invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East
+Seventies. Miss Merriam’s winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
+impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
+Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
+matron, née Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
+of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
+smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of
+the fatuity of parents.
+
+A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam,
+she stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
+
+“They’re going to adopt me,” she told the bereft restaurateur. “They’re
+funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
+Say, Hinkle, there isn’t any use of talking—I’m on the à la carte to
+wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
+Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I’ve been
+cashiering so long I feel funny doing anything else. I’ll miss joshing
+the fellows awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and.
+But I can’t let this chance slide. And they’re awfully good, Hinkle; I
+know I’ll have a swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for
+the week. Cut out the half if it hurts you, Hinkle.”
+
+And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced
+the transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near
+to the skin. Nerve—but just here will you oblige by perusing again the
+quotation with which this story begins?
+
+The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their
+adopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
+Miss—er—McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle’s. To
+give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle’s
+did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.
+
+Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
+Seventy–––– Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without
+debts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember
+the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the
+W––––f-A––––a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie
+on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that—you did not?
+Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.
+
+At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer—er—McRamsey was
+exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
+her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity
+bazaar the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a
+finish. An earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be
+lower, but his outstanding accounts are also lower.
+
+Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
+sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
+proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
+the slums a Christmas din––––Say! did you ever wonder where they get
+the other 364?
+
+Miss McRamsey—beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
+radiant—fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
+a little arched opening, fenced her in.
+
+Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring—admiring
+greatly, and faced the open wicket.
+
+“You look chawming, you know—’pon my word you do—my deah,” he said,
+beguilingly.
+
+Miss McRamsey whirled around.
+
+“Cut that joshing out,” she said, coolly and briskly. “Who do you think
+you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!—”
+
+Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
+certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond
+and puzzled whisker.
+
+“Miss McRamsey has fainted,” some one explained.
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+
+
+Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the _Minerva
+Magazine_, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his
+favorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office
+when his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette.
+Which is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth
+Street, safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue,
+and meandered along the walks of budding Madison Square.
+
+The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a
+pastoral; the color motif was green—the presiding shade at the creation
+of man and vegetation.
+
+The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a
+poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had
+breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree
+buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the
+garnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above
+was of that pale aquamarine tint that ballroom poets rhyme with “true”
+and “Sue” and “coo.” The one natural and frank color visible was the
+ostensible green of the newly painted benches—a shade between the color
+of a pickled cucumber and that of a last year’s fast-black cravenette
+raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape
+appeared a masterpiece.
+
+And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle
+concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of
+the editor’s mind.
+
+Editor Westbrook’s spirit was contented and serene. The April number of
+the _Minerva_ had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the
+month—a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty
+copies more if he had ’em. The owners of the magazine had raised his
+(the editor’s) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a
+recently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning
+papers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers’
+banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a
+splendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he
+left his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic
+interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When he
+had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly
+hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic
+medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the
+wards of the convalescent city.
+
+While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches
+(already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood)
+he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be
+panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his
+captor was—Dawe—Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel
+scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
+
+While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight
+biography of Dawe is offered.
+
+He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook’s old acquaintances. At
+one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had some
+money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near
+Westbrook’s. The two families often went to theatres and dinners
+together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became “dearest” friends. Then
+one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself,
+ingurgitated Dawe’s capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park
+neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one’s
+trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble
+mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live by
+writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many to
+Westbrook. The _Minerva_ printed one or two of them; the rest were
+returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter
+with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons for
+considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear
+conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was
+mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food
+that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to
+her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they
+sat down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a
+gulp. Dawe commented.
+
+“It’s Maupassant hash,” said Mrs. Dawe. “It may not be art, but I do
+wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella
+Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I’m hungry.”
+
+As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor
+Westbrook’s sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the
+editor had seen Dawe in several months.
+
+“Why, Shack, is this you?” said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the
+form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other’s changed appearance.
+
+“Sit down for a minute,” said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. “This is my
+office. I can’t come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down—you won’t
+be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take
+you for a swell porch-climber. They won’t know you are only an editor.”
+
+“Smoke, Shack?” said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the
+virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield.
+
+Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a
+girl pecks at a chocolate cream.
+
+“I have just—” began the editor.
+
+“Oh, I know; don’t finish,” said Dawe. “Give me a match. You have just
+ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and
+invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that
+couldn’t read the ‘Keep off the Grass’ signs.”
+
+“How goes the writing?” asked the editor.
+“Look at me,” said Dawe, “for your answer. Now don’t put on that
+embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don’t get a job
+as a wine agent or a cab driver. I’m in the fight to a finish. I know I
+can write good fiction and I’ll force you fellows to admit it yet. I’ll
+make you change the spelling of ‘regrets’ to ‘c-h-e-q-u-e’ before I’m
+done with you.”
+
+Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly
+sorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression—the
+copyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable
+contributor.
+
+“Have you read the last story I sent you—‘The Alarum of the Soul’?”
+asked Dawe.
+
+“Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had
+some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it
+goes back to you. I regret—”
+
+“Never mind the regrets,” said Dawe, grimly. “There’s neither salve nor
+sting in ’em any more. What I want to know is _why_. Come now; out with
+the good points first.”
+
+“The story,” said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh, “is
+written around an almost original plot. Characterization—the best you
+have done. Construction—almost as good, except for a few weak joints
+which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good
+story, except—”
+
+“I can write English, can’t I?” interrupted Dawe.
+
+“I have always told you,” said the editor, “that you had a style.”
+
+“Then the trouble is—”
+
+“Same old thing,” said Editor Westbrook. “You work up to your climax
+like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don’t
+know what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what you
+do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison
+with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its
+impossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth.
+But you spoil every dénouement by those flat, drab, obliterating
+strokes of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would
+rise to the literary pinnacle of your dramatic senses, and paint them
+in the high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer
+bulky, self-addressed envelopes at your door.”
+
+“Oh, fiddles and footlights!” cried Dawe, derisively. “You’ve got that
+old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black
+mustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother
+kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: ‘May high heaven
+witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless
+villain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another’s
+vengeance!’”
+
+Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious complacency.
+
+“I think,” said he, “that in real life the woman would express herself
+in those words or in very similar ones.”
+
+“Not in a six hundred nights’ run anywhere but on the stage,” said Dawe
+hotly. “I’ll tell you what she’d say in real life. She’d say: ‘What!
+Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It’s one trouble after
+another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station.
+Why wasn’t somebody looking after her, I’d like to know? For God’s
+sake, get out of my way or I’ll never get ready. Not that hat—the brown
+one with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she’s usually
+shy of strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I’m upset!’
+
+“That’s the way she’d talk,” continued Dawe. “People in real life don’t
+fly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can’t
+do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same
+vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas
+a little more, that’s all.”
+
+“Shack,” said Editor Westbrook impressively, “did you ever pick up the
+mangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street
+car, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted
+mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and
+despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?”
+
+“I never did,” said Dawe. “Did you?”
+
+“Well, no,” said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. “But I can well
+imagine what she would say.”
+
+“So can I,” said Dawe.
+
+And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the
+oracle and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an
+unarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and
+heroines of the _Minerva Magazine_, contrary to the theories of the
+editor thereof.
+
+“My dear Shack,” said he, “if I know anything of life I know that every
+sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an
+apposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of
+feeling. How much of this inevitable accord between expression and
+feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence
+of art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of
+the lioness that has been deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far
+above her customary whine and purr as the kingly and transcendent
+utterances of Lear are above the level of his senile vaporings. But it
+is also true that all men and women have what may be called a
+sub-conscious dramatic sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep
+and powerful emotion—a sense unconsciously acquired from literature and
+the stage that prompts them to express those emotions in language
+befitting their importance and histrionic value.”
+
+“And in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius,
+where did the stage and literature get the stunt?” asked Dawe.
+
+“From life,” answered the editor, triumphantly.
+
+The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but
+dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately
+his dissent.
+
+On a bench nearby a frowzy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived
+that his moral support was due a downtrodden brother.
+
+“Punch him one, Jack,” he called hoarsely to Dawe. “W’at’s he come
+makin’ a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen’lemen that comes in
+the square to set and think?”
+
+Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure.
+
+“Tell me,” asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, “what especial faults in
+‘The Alarum of the Soul’ caused you to throw it down?”
+
+“When Gabriel Murray,” said Westbrook, “goes to his telephone and is
+told that his fiancée has been shot by a burglar, he says—I do not
+recall the exact words, but—”
+
+“I do,” said Dawe. “He says: ‘Damn Central; she always cuts me off.’
+(And then to his friend) ‘Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a
+big hole? It’s kind of hard luck, ain’t it? Could you get me a drink
+from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.’”
+
+“And again,” continued the editor, without pausing for argument, “when
+Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has
+fled with the manicure girl, her words are—let me see—”
+
+“She says,” interposed the author: “‘Well, what do you think of that!’”
+
+“Absurdly inappropriate words,” said Westbrook, “presenting an
+anti-climax—plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they
+mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms
+when confronted by sudden tragedy.”
+
+“Wrong,” said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. “I say no man
+or woman ever spouts ‘high-falutin’ talk when they go up against a real
+climax. They talk naturally and a little worse.”
+
+The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside
+information.
+
+“Say, Westbrook,” said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, “would you have
+accepted ‘The Alarum of the Soul’ if you had believed that the actions
+and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story
+that we discussed?”
+
+“It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way,” said the
+editor. “But I have explained to you that I do not.”
+
+“If I could prove to you that I am right?”
+
+“I’m sorry, Shack, but I’m afraid I haven’t time to argue any further
+just now.”
+
+“I don’t want to argue,” said Dawe. “I want to demonstrate to you from
+life itself that my view is the correct one.”
+
+“How could you do that?” asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
+
+“Listen,” said the writer, seriously. “I have thought of a way. It is
+important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as
+correct by the magazines. I’ve fought for it for three years, and I’m
+down to my last dollar, with two months’ rent due.”
+
+“I have applied the opposite of your theory,” said the editor, “in
+selecting the fiction for the _Minerva Magazine_. The circulation has
+gone up from ninety thousand to—”
+
+“Four hundred thousand,” said Dawe. “Whereas it should have been
+boosted to a million.”
+
+“You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet
+theory.”
+
+“I will. If you’ll give me about half an hour of your time I’ll prove
+to you that I am right. I’ll prove it by Louise.”
+
+“Your wife!” exclaimed Westbrook. “How?”
+
+“Well, not exactly by her, but _with_ her,” said Dawe. “Now, you know
+how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I’m the only
+genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor’s
+signature. She’s been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I’ve
+been cast for the neglected genius part.”
+
+“Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion,” agreed the
+editor. “I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook
+once were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must
+bring Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we’ll have one of those
+informal chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much.”
+
+“Later,” said Dawe. “When I get another shirt. And now I’ll tell you my
+scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast—if you can call
+tea and oatmeal breakfast—Louise told me she was going to visit her
+aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three
+o’clock. She is always on time to a minute. It is now—”
+
+Dawe glanced toward the editor’s watch pocket.
+
+“Twenty-seven minutes to three,” said Westbrook, scanning his
+time-piece.
+
+“We have just enough time,” said Dawe. “We will go to my flat at once.
+I will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where
+she will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the
+dining-room concealed by the portières. In that note I’ll say that I
+have fled from her forever with an affinity who understands the needs
+of my artistic soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe
+her actions and hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the
+correct one—yours or mine.”
+
+“Oh, never!” exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. “That would be
+inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe’s feelings
+played upon in such a manner.”
+
+“Brace up,” said the writer. “I guess I think as much of her as you do.
+It’s for her benefit as well as mine. I’ve got to get a market for my
+stories in some way. It won’t hurt Louise. She’s healthy and sound. Her
+heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It’ll last for only
+a minute, and then I’ll step out and explain to her. You really owe it
+to me to give me the chance, Westbrook.”
+
+Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in
+the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all
+of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his
+place. Pity ’tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to
+go around.
+
+The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and
+then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood.
+Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat
+of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror.
+Outside the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a
+bygone gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings
+of the vanished quality. _Sic transit gloria urbis_.
+
+A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again
+eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but
+narrow flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated façade. To the
+fifth story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into
+the door of one of the front flats.
+
+When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how
+meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
+
+“Get a chair, if you can find one,” said Dawe, “while I hunt up pen and
+ink. Hello, what’s this? Here’s a note from Louise. She must have left
+it there when she went out this morning.”
+
+He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.
+He began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having
+begun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words
+that Editor Westbrook heard:
+
+“DEAR SHACKLEFORD:
+
+    By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and
+    still a-going. I’ve got a place in the chorus of the Occidental
+    Opera Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o’clock. I
+    didn’t want to starve to death, and so I decided to make my own
+    living. I’m not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She
+    said she was tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg
+    and dictionary, and she’s not coming back, either. We’ve been
+    practising the songs and dances for two months on the quiet. I hope
+    you will be successful, and get along all right! Good-bye.
+
+“LOUISE.”
+
+
+Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and
+cried out in a deep, vibrating voice:
+
+_“My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,
+then let Thy Heaven’s fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting
+by-words of traitors and fiends!”_
+
+Editor Westbrook’s glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand
+fumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted between his pale lips:
+
+_“Say, Shack, ain’t that a hell of a note? Wouldn’t that knock you off
+your perch, Shack? Ain’t it hell, now, Shack—ain’t it?”_
+
+
+
+
+XX
+PAST ONE AT ROONEY’S
+
+
+Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet and
+Montagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If
+you but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have
+work cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a
+dozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but in
+the domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the
+niceties of deportment to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch of
+elbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house and
+kin.
+
+So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted
+into Dutch Mike’s for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of
+Montagus making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest
+parliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his
+thirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where the
+mirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy’s movements that his
+indifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that
+the finger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at
+Dutch Mike’s that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his
+Mercutio, companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the
+Mulberry Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P’s and
+Q’s so solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and
+the other on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom
+to seek safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival
+associations congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
+
+But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry
+Docks. We must to Rooney’s, where, on the most blighted dead branch of
+the tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
+
+Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first
+overstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were
+immediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like
+swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane deck.
+But McManus’s simile must be the torpedo. He glided in under the guns
+and slipped a scant three inches of knife blade between the ribs of the
+Mulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a devotee to strategy,
+had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch of the
+electrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire
+alone. Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying
+for the watch instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian
+shindy.
+
+The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by
+three distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the
+ethics of the gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no
+Capulet to be seen.
+
+“Raus mit der interrogatories,” said Buck Malone to the officer. “Sure
+I know who done it. I always manages to get a bird’s eye view of any
+guy that comes up an’ makes a show case for a hardware store out of me.
+No. I’m not telling you his name. I’ll settle with um meself. Wow—ouch!
+Easy, boys! Yes, I’ll attend to his case meself. I’m not making any
+complaint.”
+
+At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Side
+dock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick
+Cleary drifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. “He’ll
+maybe not croak,” said Brick; “and he won’t tell, of course. But Dutch
+Mike did. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up.
+It’s unhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan’s in Europe for a week’s
+end with Kings. He’ll be back on the _Kaiser Williams_ next Friday.
+You’ll have to duck out of sight till then. Tim’ll fix it up all right
+for us when he comes back.”
+
+This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney’s one night and
+there looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the first
+time in his precarious career.
+
+Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princes
+and hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe for
+Cork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the
+high rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing
+the slow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_.
+
+It was on Thursday evening that Cork’s seclusion became intolerable to
+him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool
+touch of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the
+hollow of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and
+repartee along and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the
+district where he was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere,
+for news was scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the
+failure of the police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before
+Corrigan came back, the big white finger could not be uplifted; it
+would be too late then. But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he
+felt sure there would be small danger in a little excursion that night
+among the crass pleasures that represented life to him.
+
+At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street
+looking up at the name “Rooney’s,” picked out by incandescent lights
+against a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the
+place as a tough “hang-out”; with its frequenters and its locality he
+was unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all
+such resorts, he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over
+the café.
+
+Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled
+with Rooney’s guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human pianola
+with drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furious
+unprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak a
+song—songs full of “Mr. Johnsons” and “babes” and “coons”—historical
+word guaranties of the genuineness of African melodies composed by red
+waistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the cotton fields and rice
+swamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.
+
+For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives,
+seats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He has
+Wellington’s nose, Dante’s chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois, the
+smile of Talleyrand, Corbett’s foot work, and the poise of an
+eleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assisted
+by a lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who
+goes among the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now, what
+is there about Rooney’s to inspire all this pother? It is more
+respectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens and
+bundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and a
+chat. Even by gaslight the diversions are melancholy i’ the mouth—drink
+and rag-time, and an occasional surprise when the waiter swabs the suds
+from under your sticky glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! The
+soul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed
+doublet to a kindred home under Rooney’s visible plaid waistcoat.
+Rooney’s is twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has removed the
+embargo. Rooney has spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of public
+opinion, and any Elizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as
+another. Attend to the revelation of the secret. In Rooney’s ladies may
+smoke!
+
+McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer that
+he ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his
+brick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and
+heaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his innermost
+soul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his taste. The sham
+gaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious,
+joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving the
+hour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presence
+of well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney’s removal of the
+restrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked
+lemon peel, flat beer, and _peau d’Espagne_—all these were manna to
+Cork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet’s high
+rear room.
+
+A girl, alone, entered Rooney’s, glanced around with leisurely
+swiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested upon
+him for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres all men
+whom she for the first time confronts. In that space of time she will
+decide upon one of two things—either to scream for the police, or that
+she may marry him later on.
+
+Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn red
+morocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed
+lace handkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a
+small beer from the immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of
+cigarettes and lighted one with slightly exaggerated ease of manner.
+Then she looked again in the eyes of Cork McManus and smiled.
+
+Instantly the doom of each was sealed.
+
+The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for a
+woman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among
+that humble portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or
+coats-of-arms or Shaw’s plays. Love at first sight has occurred a time
+or two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be found
+among unsophisticated creatures such as the dove, the blue-tailed
+dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk. Poets, subscribers to all
+fiction magazines, and schatchens, take notice.
+
+With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each of
+them the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which is
+the worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as love.
+
+“Have another beer?” suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was
+considered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and
+references.
+
+“No, thanks,” said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her
+conventional words carefully. “I—merely dropped in for—a slight
+refreshment.” The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require
+explanation. “My aunt is a Russian lady,” she concluded, “and we often
+have a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home.”
+
+“Cheese it!” said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. “Your fingers are
+as yellow as mine.”
+
+“Say,” said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,
+“what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?
+What?”
+
+She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and
+bright. Under her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, her
+crinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in a
+thick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still lingered in
+her chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.
+She looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.
+Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below
+her black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk
+underskirt.
+
+“Beg your pardon,” said Cork, looking at her admiringly. “I didn’t mean
+anything. Sure, it’s no harm to smoke, Maudy.”
+
+“Rooney’s,” said the girl, softened at once by his amends, “is the only
+place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain’t a nice habit, but
+aunty lets us at home. And my name ain’t Maudy, if you please; it’s
+Ruby Delamere.”
+
+“That’s a swell handle,” said Cork approvingly. “Mine’s
+McManus—Cor—er—Eddie McManus.”
+
+“Oh, you can’t help that,” laughed Ruby. “Don’t apologize.”
+
+Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney’s wall. The girl’s
+ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
+
+“I know it’s late,” she said, reaching for her bag; “but you know how
+you want a smoke when you want one. Ain’t Rooney’s all right? I never
+saw anything wrong here. This is twice I’ve been in. I work in a
+bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been working
+overtime three nights a week. They won’t let you smoke there, of
+course. I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain’t it all
+right in here? If it ain’t, I won’t come any more.”
+
+“It’s a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere,” said Cork.
+“I’m not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don’t want to
+have your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday School
+teacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home.”
+
+“But I don’t know you,” said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. “I don’t
+accept the company of gentlemen I ain’t acquainted with. My aunt never
+would allow that.”
+
+“Why,” said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, “I’m the latest thing in
+suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin’ a
+lady. You bet you’ll find me all right, Ruby. And I’ll give you a tip
+as to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the
+Wall Street push. Morgan’s cab horse casts a shoe every time the old
+man sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I’m in trainin’ down the
+Street. The old man’s goin’ to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in my
+stockin’ my next birthday. But it all sounds like a lemon to me. What I
+like is golf and yachtin’ and—er—well, say a corkin’ fast ten-round
+bout between welter-weights with walkin’ gloves.”
+
+“I guess you can walk to the door with me,” said the girl hesitatingly,
+but with a certain pleased flutter. “Still I never heard anything extra
+good about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights,
+either. Ain’t you got any other recommendations?”
+
+“I think you’re the swellest looker I’ve had my lamps on in little old
+New York,” said Cork impressively.
+
+“That’ll be about enough of that, now. Ain’t you the kidder!” She
+modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished
+look at her cavalier. “We’ll drink our beer before we go, ha?”
+
+A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in
+spirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended
+fogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.
+Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney’s liquids and
+Rooney’s gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine.
+
+One o’clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and
+locking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows
+carefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front
+door, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforth
+whoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar to
+Rooney’s hawk’s eye—the countenance of a true sport.
+
+Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their
+elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,
+scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.
+Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney’s had become
+renovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,
+but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The
+flattest glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest
+claret punch struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and
+genial company became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after
+the stroke of one in such places as Rooney’s, where neither bed nor
+board is to be had, drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city
+of the four million. It is the law.
+
+“Say,” said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent
+chest and elbows, “was that dead straight about you workin’ in the
+bookbindery and livin’ at home—and just happenin’ in here—and—and all
+that spiel you gave me?”
+
+“Sure it was,” answered the girl with spirit. “Why, what do you think?
+Do you suppose I’d lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask ’em. I
+handed it to you on the level.”
+
+“On the dead level?” said Cork. “That’s the way I want it; because—”
+
+“Because what?”
+
+“I throw up my hands,” said Cork. “You’ve got me goin’. You’re the girl
+I’ve been lookin’ for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?”
+
+“Would you like me to—Eddie?”
+
+“Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about—about yourself, you
+know. When a fellow had a girl—a steady girl—she’s got to be all right,
+you know. She’s got to be straight goods.”
+
+“You’ll find I’ll be straight goods, Eddie.”
+
+“Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can’t blame me
+for wantin’ to find out. You don’t see many girls smokin’ cigarettes in
+places like Rooney’s after midnight that are like you.”
+
+The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. “I see that now,” she
+said meekly. “I didn’t know how bad it looked. But I won’t do it any
+more. And I’ll go straight home every night and stay there. And I’ll
+give up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie—I’ll cut ’em out from this
+minute on.”
+
+Cork’s air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.
+“A lady can smoke,” he decided, slowly, “at times and places. Why?
+Because it’s bein’ a lady that helps her pull it off.”
+
+“I’m going to quit. There’s nothing to it,” said the girl. She flicked
+the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
+
+“At times and places,” repeated Cork. “When I call round for you of
+evenin’s we’ll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a
+puff or two. But no more Rooney’s at one o’clock—see?”
+
+“Eddie, do you really like me?” The girl searched his hard but frank
+features eagerly with anxious eyes.
+
+“On the dead level.”
+
+“When are you coming to see me—where I live?”
+
+“Thursday—day after to-morrow evenin’. That suit you?”
+
+“Fine. I’ll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with
+me to-night and I’ll show you where I live. Don’t forget, now. And
+don’t you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you
+will, though.”
+
+“On the dead level,” said Cork, “you make ’em all look like rag-dolls
+to me. Honest, you do. I know when I’m suited. On the dead level, I
+do.”
+
+Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.
+The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a
+policeman’s foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney
+jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric
+lights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except
+for the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of
+crashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring
+panic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring,
+could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table
+to table.
+
+“All keep still!” was his caution. “Don’t talk or make any noise!
+Everything will be all right. Now, don’t feel the slightest alarm.
+We’ll take care of you all.”
+
+Ruby felt across the table until Cork’s firm hand closed upon hers.
+“Are you afraid, Eddie?” she whispered. “Are you afraid you’ll get a
+free ride?”
+
+“Nothin’ doin’ in the teeth-chatterin’ line,” said Cork. “I guess
+Rooney’s been slow with his envelope. Don’t you worry, girly; I’ll look
+out for you all right.”
+
+Yet Mr. McManus’s ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the police
+looking everywhere for Buck Malone’s assailant, and with Corrigan still
+on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would
+mean an ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high
+rear room of the true Capulet reading the pink extras.
+
+Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the
+police in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their
+voices came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of
+himself at the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the
+extreme rear of the room and lighted a dim gas jet.
+
+“This way, everybody!” he called sharply. “In a hurry; but no noise,
+please!”
+
+The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney’s lieutenant swung
+open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder
+already placed for the escape.
+
+“Down and out, everybody!” he commanded. “Ladies first! Less talking,
+please! Don’t crowd! There’s no danger.”
+
+Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.
+Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
+
+“Before we go out,” she whispered in his ear—“before anything happens,
+tell me again, Eddie, do you l—do you really like me?”
+
+“On the dead level,” said Cork, holding her close with one arm, “when
+it comes to you, I’m all in.”
+
+When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last of
+the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they bore
+the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an
+adjoining low building over the roof of which their only route to
+safety.
+
+“We may as well sit down,” said Cork grimly. “Maybe Rooney will stand
+the cops off, anyhow.”
+
+They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
+
+A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about.
+One of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the
+electric light. The other man was a cop of the old régime—a big cop, a
+thick cop, a fuming, abrupt cop—not a pretty cop. He went up to the
+pair at the table and sneered familiarly at the girl.
+
+“What are youse doin’ in here?” he asked.
+
+“Dropped in for a smoke,” said Cork mildly.
+
+“Had any drinks?”
+
+“Not later than one o’clock.”
+
+“Get out—quick!” ordered the cop. Then, “Sit down!” he countermanded.
+
+He took off Cork’s hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. “Your
+name’s McManus.”
+
+“Bad guess,” said Cork. “It’s Peterson.”
+
+“Cork McManus, or something like that,” said the cop. “You put a knife
+into a man in Dutch Mike’s saloon a week ago.”
+
+“Aw, forget it!” said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
+officer’s tones. “You’ve got my mug mixed with somebody else’s.”
+
+“Have I? Well, you’ll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be
+looked over. The description fits you all right.” The cop twisted his
+fingers under Cork’s collar. “Come on!” he ordered roughly.
+
+Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered. Her
+quick eye danced from one man’s face to the other as they spoke or
+moved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking—Corrigan on the briny; and
+Ruby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station
+would recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck!
+
+But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms
+extended against the cop. His hold on Cork’s collar was loosened and he
+stumbled back two or three paces.
+
+“Don’t go so fast, Maguire!” she cried in shrill fury. “Keep your hands
+off my man! You know me, and you know I’m givin’ you good advice. Don’t
+you touch him again! He’s not the guy you are lookin’ for—I’ll stand
+for that.”
+
+“See here, Fanny,” said the Cop, red and angry, “I’ll take you, too, if
+you don’t look out! How do you know this ain’t the man I want? What are
+you doing in here with him?”
+
+“How do I know?” said the girl, flaming red and white by turns.
+“Because I’ve known him a year. He’s mine. Oughtn’t I to know? And what
+am I doin’ here with him? That’s easy.”
+
+She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted
+draperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the
+table toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened
+itself with little leisurely jerks.
+
+“Take that, Jimmy, and let’s go,” said the girl. “I’m declarin’ the
+usual dividends, Maguire,” she said to the officer. “You had your usual
+five-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten.”
+
+“A lie!” said the cop, turning purple. “You go on my beat again and
+I’ll arrest you every time I see you.”
+
+“No, you won’t,” said the girl. “And I’ll tell you why. Witnesses saw
+me give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I’ve been getting
+fixed for you.”
+
+Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: “Come
+on, Fanny; let’s have some chop suey before we go home.”
+
+“Clear out, quick, both of you, or I’ll—”
+
+The cop’s bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
+
+At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the money
+without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her
+hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered
+Rooney’s that night—she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion
+and sullen wonder.
+
+“I guess I might as well say good-bye here,” she said dully. “You won’t
+want to see me again, of course. Will you—shake hands—Mr. McManus.”
+
+“I mightn’t have got wise if you hadn’t give the snap away,” said Cork.
+“Why did you do it?”
+
+“You’d have been pinched if I hadn’t. That’s why. Ain’t that reason
+enough?” Then she began to cry. “Honest, Eddie, I was goin’ to be the
+best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was
+ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from
+everybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I’d
+make you believe I was good, and I was goin’ to be good. When you asked
+to come to my house and see me, why, I’d have died rather than do
+anything wrong after that. But what’s the use of talking about it? I’ll
+say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus.”
+
+Cork was pulling at his ear. “I knifed Malone,” said he. “I was the one
+the cop wanted.”
+
+“Oh, that’s all right,” said the girl listlessly. “It didn’t make any
+difference about that.”
+
+“That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don’t do nothin’ but hang
+out with a tough gang on the East Side.”
+
+“That was all right, too,” repeated the girl. “It didn’t make any
+difference.”
+
+Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. “I could get a
+job at O’Brien’s,” he said aloud, but to himself.
+
+“Good-by,” said the girl.
+
+“Come on,” said Cork, taking her arm. “I know a place.”
+
+Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house
+facing a little park.
+
+“What house is this?” she asked, drawing back. “Why are you going in
+there?”
+
+A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at
+one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps.
+“Read that,” said he.
+
+She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and
+a scream. “No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won’t let you do
+that—not now! Let me go! You shan’t do that! You can’t—you mus’n’t! Not
+after you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie,
+come!”
+
+Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm.
+Cork’s right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
+
+Another cop—how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the
+wing!—came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. “Here! What are you
+doing with that girl?” he called gruffly.
+
+“She’ll be all right in a minute,” said Cork. “It’s a straight deal.”
+
+“Reverend Jeremiah Jones,” read the cop from the door-plate with true
+detective cunning.
+
+“Correct,” said Cork. “On the dead level, we’re goin’ to get married.”
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+THE VENTURERS
+
+
+Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the _Non Sequitur_
+Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation
+car “_Raison d’être_” for one moment. It is for no longer than to
+consider a brief essay on the subject—let us call it: “What’s Around
+the Corner.”
+
+_Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est_—men who wear rubbers and pay
+poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more
+continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and
+the poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be
+paralleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.
+
+Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the
+dictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a
+prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk
+in the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and
+alluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance
+is the beautiful countenance—perfect because vague and dream-born—that
+we see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and
+toast.
+
+The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and wayside
+groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the
+difference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit
+was the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it
+happened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is
+disturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and
+city-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children
+and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the
+flickering gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of
+two modern followers of Chance.
+
+“Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?” asked
+Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate
+the interior of the Powhatan Club.
+
+“Doubtless,” said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.
+
+Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long
+before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the
+air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted
+and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go
+away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,
+must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one
+else. (I had written that “somebody”; but an A. D. T. boy who once took
+a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the
+compound word. This is a vice versa case.)
+
+Forster’s favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower
+of Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth,
+tradition and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had
+denied him full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled
+thoroughfares and many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve
+the tedium of life. But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew
+what was to be found at the end of every street. He knew from
+experience and logic almost precisely to what end each digression from
+routine must lead. He found a depressing monotony in all the variations
+that the music of his sphere had grafted upon the tune of life. He had
+not learned that, although the world was made round, the circle has
+been squared, and that it’s true interest is to be in “What’s Around
+the Corner.”
+
+Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax
+either his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He
+would have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no
+hope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the
+Greater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan
+chair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,
+uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.
+
+At the end of an hour’s stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,
+smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old
+hotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that
+he must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of
+his favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the
+service and so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger
+that must be appeased by the “dead perfection” of the place’s cuisine.
+Even the music there seemed to be always playing _da capo_.
+
+Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,
+restaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all
+countries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorous
+American. Something might happen there out of the routine—he might come
+upon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a question
+without an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life’s
+salt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business
+suit that would not be questioned even where the waiters served the
+spaghetti in their shirt sleeves.
+
+So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because
+the more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the
+thirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored
+carefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five
+figures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but—
+
+Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really
+regarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of
+thirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one
+waiting for a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So
+his proximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of
+the nature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker
+after “What’s Around the Corner,” instead of manifesting resentment he
+only turned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other’s grin of
+amusement.
+
+“All in?” asked the intruder, drawing nearer.
+
+“Seems so,” said Forster. “Now, I thought there was a dollar in—”
+
+“Oh, I know,” said the other man, with a laugh. “But there wasn’t. I’ve
+just been through the same process myself, as I was coming around the
+corner. I found in an upper vest pocket—I don’t know how they got
+there—exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly two
+pennies will buy!”
+
+“You haven’t dined, then?” asked Forster.
+
+“I have not. But I would like to. Now, I’ll make you a proposition. You
+look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and
+respectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny
+of a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine
+together. We will choose from the menu like millionaires—or, if you
+prefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly
+for once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to
+see which of us will stand the brunt of the house’s displeasure and
+vengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same station
+of life—before our money took wings.”
+
+“You’re on,” said Forster, joyfully.
+
+Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious
+country of Chance—anyhow, it promised something better than the stale
+infestivity of a table d’hôte.
+
+The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.
+Ives chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster.
+
+“Match for which of us gives the order,” he said.
+
+Forster lost.
+
+Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with
+the absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born.
+Forster, listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.
+
+“I am a man,” said Ives, during the oysters, “Who has made a lifetime
+search after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the
+ordinary adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like
+a gambler who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake.
+What I want is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no
+conclusion. It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its
+blindest manifestations. The world has come to run so much by rote and
+gravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance in
+which you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expect
+at its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who always
+complained bitterly when any one came in to ask information. ‘He wanted
+to _know_, you know!’ was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks. Well,
+I don’t want to know, I don’t want to reason, I don’t want to guess—I
+want to bet my hand without seeing it.”
+
+“I understand,” said Forster delightedly. “I’ve often wanted the way I
+feel put into words. You’ve done it. I want to take chances on what’s
+coming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course.”
+
+“Agreed,” said Ives. “I’m glad you catch my idea. It will increase the
+animosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, we
+will pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true venturer—one
+who does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.
+But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficult
+it is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee. In
+the Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from
+doors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle
+of a wall and ‘get away with it.’ Nowadays, if you speak
+disrespectfully to a policeman, all that is left to the most romantic
+fancy is to conjecture in what particular police station he will land
+you.”
+
+“I know—I know,” said Forster, nodding approval.
+
+“I returned to New York to-day,” continued Ives, “from a three years’
+ramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad than they
+are at home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The
+only thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I’ve tried shooting
+big game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many
+yards; and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I
+enjoy it about as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a
+sum in long division on the blackboard.”
+
+“I know—I know,” said Forster.
+
+“There might be something in aeroplanes,” went on Ives, reflectively.
+“I’ve tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried
+affair of wind and ballast.”
+
+“Women,” suggested Forster, with a smile.
+
+“Three months ago,” said Ives. “I was pottering around in one of the
+bazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but
+with a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some
+amber and pearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an
+attendant—a big Nubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant
+drew nearer to me by degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand.
+I looked at it when I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in
+pencil: ‘The arched gate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.’
+Does that appear to you to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?”
+
+“I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the
+property of an old Turk—a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Of
+course I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The same
+Nubian attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside
+and sat on a bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had
+quite an extended chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who
+was writing up the Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said she
+noticed the New York cut of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered if I
+couldn’t work something into the metropolitan papers about it.”
+
+“I see,” said Forster. “I see.”
+
+“I’ve canoed through Canada,” said Ives, “down many rapids and over
+many falls. But I didn’t seem to get what I wanted out of it because I
+knew there were only two possible outcomes—I would either go to the
+bottom or arrive at the sea level. I’ve played all games at cards; but
+the mathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the
+percentages. I’ve made acquaintances on trains, I’ve answered
+advertisements, I’ve rung strange door-bells, I’ve taken every chance
+that presented itself; but there has always been the conventional
+ending—the logical conclusion to the premise.”
+
+“I know,” repeated Forster. “I’ve felt it all. But I’ve had few chances
+to take my chance at chances. Is there any life so devoid of
+impossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad of
+opportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousand
+fails to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways and
+street cars disappointed one as seldom.”
+
+“The sun has risen,” said Ives, “on the Arabian nights. There are no
+more caliphs. The fisherman’s vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,
+warranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours.
+Life moves by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no more
+opportunities such as Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster
+had. The only certain thing is that there is nothing uncertain.”
+
+“Well,” said Forster, “my experience has been the limited one of a city
+man. I haven’t seen the world as you have; but it seems that we view it
+with the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even this
+little venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There may be
+at least one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner is
+presented. Perhaps, after all, the pilgrims who traveled without scrip
+or purse found a keener taste to life than did the knights of the Round
+Table who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur’s certified checks
+in the lining of their helmets. And now, if you’ve finished your
+coffee, suppose we match one of your insufficient coins for the
+impending blow of Fate. What have I up?”
+
+“Heads,” called Ives.
+
+“Heads it is,” said Forster, lifting his hand. “I lose. We forgot to
+agree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when the
+waiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I will
+hold the fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hat
+and be off. I thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives,
+and wish we might have others.”
+
+“If my memory is not at fault,” said Ives, laughing, “the nearest
+police station is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too,
+let me assure you.”
+
+Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotive
+effort that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism,
+glided to the table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser’s
+cup. Forster took it up and added the figures with deliberate care.
+Ives leaned back comfortably in his chair.
+
+“Excuse me,” said Forster; “but I thought you were going to ring Grimes
+about that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten about
+it?”
+
+“Oh,” said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, “I can do that
+later on. Get me a glass of water, waiter.”
+
+“Want to be in at the death, do you?” asked Forster.
+
+“I hope you don’t object,” said Ives, pleadingly. “Never in my life
+have I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling
+it out of a dinner.”
+
+“All right,” said Forster, calmly. “You are entitled to see a Christian
+die in the arena as your _pousse-café_.”
+
+Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged
+air of an inexorable collector.
+
+Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his
+pocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and
+took it away.
+
+“The fact is,” said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, “I doubt
+whether I’m what they call a ‘game sport,’ which means the same as a
+‘soldier of Fortune.’ I’ll have to make a confession. I’ve been dining
+at this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I always
+sign my checks.” And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice:
+“It was first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you
+knew I had no money, and that you might be scooped in, too.”
+
+“I guess I’ll confess, too,” said Ives, with a grin. “I own the hotel.
+I don’t run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor
+for my use when I happen to stray into town.”
+
+He called a waiter and said: “Is Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? All
+right. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms
+made ready and aired.”
+
+“Another venture cut short by the inevitable,” said Forster. “Is there
+a conundrum without an answer in the next number? But let’s hold to our
+subject just for a minute or two, if you will. It isn’t often that I
+meet a man who understands the flaws I pick in existence. I am engaged
+to be married a month from to-day.”
+
+“I reserve comment,” said Ives.
+
+“Right; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond of the
+lady; but I can’t decide whether to show up at the church or make a
+sneak for Alaska. It’s the same idea, you know, that we were
+discussing—it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.
+Everybody knows the routine—you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea
+after breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress for
+dinner—theatre twice a week—bills—moping around most evenings trying to
+make conversation—a little quarrel occasionally—maybe sometimes a big
+one, and a separation—or else a settling down into a middle-aged
+contentment, which is worst of all.”
+
+“I know,” said Ives, nodding wisely.
+
+“It’s the dead certainty of the thing,” went on Forster, “that keeps me
+in doubt. There’ll nevermore be anything around the corner.”
+
+“Nothing after the ‘Little Church,’” said Ives. “I know.”
+
+“Understand,” said Forster, “that I am in no doubt as to my feelings
+toward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there
+is something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out
+against any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I
+know that I want it. I’m talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I’m sure
+of what I mean.”
+
+“I understand you,” said Ives, with a slow smile. “Well, I think I will
+be going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one evening
+soon, Mr. Forster, I’d be glad.”
+
+“Thursday?” suggested Forster.
+
+“At seven, if it’s convenient,” answered Ives.
+
+“Seven goes,” assented Forster.
+
+At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in
+one of the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the
+reception room of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of
+Fortune, Chance and Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls
+were the Whistler etchings, the steel engravings by
+Oh-what’s-his-name?, the still-life paintings of the grapes and garden
+truck with the watermelon seeds spilled on the table as natural as
+life, and the Greuze head. It was a household. There were even brass
+andirons. On a table was an album, half-morocco, with oxidized-silver
+protections on the corners of the lids. A clock on the mantel ticked
+loudly, with a warning click at five minutes to nine. Ives looked at it
+curiously, remembering a time-piece in his grandmother’s home that gave
+such a warning.
+
+And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was
+twenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this
+much—youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet
+eyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with
+the sweet cordiality of an old friendship.
+
+“You can’t think what a pleasure it is,” she said, “to have you drop in
+once every three years or so.”
+
+For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the
+conversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library.
+When that part of it was over, Mary said:
+
+“And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?”
+
+“What I wanted?” said Ives.
+
+“Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn’t play
+marbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water
+where you didn’t know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. And
+when you grew up you were just the same. We’ve often talked about your
+peculiar ways.”
+
+“I suppose I am an incorrigible,” said Ives. “I am opposed to the
+doctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation,
+taxation, and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me
+something like a serial story would be if they printed above each
+instalment a synopsis of _succeeding_ chapters.”
+
+Mary laughed merrily.
+
+“Bob Ames told us once,” she said, “of a funny thing you did. It was
+when you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a town
+where you hadn’t intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up a
+sign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it.”
+
+“I remember,” said Ives. “That ‘next station’ has been the thing I’ve
+always tried to get away from.”
+
+“I know it,” said Mary. “And you’ve been very foolish. I hope you
+didn’t find what you wanted not to find, or get off at the station
+where there wasn’t any, or whatever it was you expected wouldn’t happen
+to you during the three years you’ve been away.”
+
+“There was something I wanted before I went away,” said Ives.
+
+Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweet
+smile.
+
+“There was,” she said. “You wanted me. And you could have had me, as
+you very well know.”
+
+Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There
+had been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years
+before. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind
+then. The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the
+everlasting hills. No change would ever come there except the
+inevitable ones wrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album
+would occupy that corner of that table, those pictures would hang on
+the walls, those chairs be found in their same places every morn and
+noon and night while the household hung together. The brass andirons
+were monuments to order and stability. Here and there were relics of a
+hundred years ago which were still living mementos and would be for
+many years to come. One going from and coming back to that house would
+never need to forecast or doubt. He would find what he left, and leave
+what he found. The veiled lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to
+the knocker on the outer door.
+
+And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet
+and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass
+his life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he
+would never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her,
+and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the
+house itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was the
+knowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thus
+his thoughts ran.
+
+“I am going to be married soon,” said Mary.
+
+On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive’s hotel.
+
+“Old man,” said he, “we’ll have to put that dinner off for a year or
+so; I’m going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk
+we had the other night, and it decided me. I’m going to knock around
+the world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both
+you and me—the terrible dread of knowing what’s going to happen. I’ve
+done one thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it’s best
+for both of us. I’ve written to the lady to whom I was engaged and
+explained everything—told her plainly why I was leaving—that the
+monotony of matrimony would never do for me. Don’t you think I was
+right?”
+
+“It is not for me to say,” answered Ives. “Go ahead and shoot elephants
+if you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We’ve
+got to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,
+Forster, I’ve found the way. I’ve found out the biggest hazard in the
+world—a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end
+in the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge
+until the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know—not
+until his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage without a
+rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch,
+every day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found
+the VENTURE. Don’t bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster.
+I married her yesterday at noon.”
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+THE DUEL
+
+
+The gods, lying beside their nectar on ’Lympus and peeping over the
+edge of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would
+seem that to their vision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills
+without special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits
+of ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when
+coupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only
+solace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of
+villages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to
+many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among
+the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story
+addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet
+on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment
+while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I
+love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.
+
+New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus
+beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine’s. They
+came here in various ways and for many reasons—Hendrik Hudson, the art
+schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers’ convention,
+the Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion
+rates, brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition,
+freight trains—all these have had a hand in making up the population.
+
+But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan
+has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his
+adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no
+rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.
+
+Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the
+ferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has
+conquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket
+or only the price of a week’s lodging.
+
+The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn
+the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You
+cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against—lover or enemy—bosom
+friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only
+by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the
+subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse,
+Beethoven, chloral and John L. in his best days.
+
+In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long as
+you please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and be a
+citizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and without
+rebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but
+Knickerbocker’s, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings,
+comparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair’s residence in
+Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in
+New York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern
+Troy, concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism.
+And this dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant
+figures of William and Jack.
+
+They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They
+came to dig their fortunes out of the big city.
+
+Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander
+on the nose and the other an upper-cut with his left, just to let them
+know that the fight was on.
+
+William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and
+ambitious; so they countered and clinched. I think they were from
+Nebraska or possibly Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for
+success and scraps and scads, and they tackled the city like two
+Lochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at the City Hall.
+
+Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man
+blew in like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped
+into the chair that was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and
+had ordered as far as cheese before the artist had time to do more than
+nod. After the nod a humorous smile came into his eyes.
+
+“Billy,” he said, “you’re done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has
+taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand.
+You are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen to-day that you
+couldn’t be picked out from them if it weren’t for your laundry marks.”
+
+“Camembert,” finished William. “What’s that? Oh, you’ve still got your
+hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old
+Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It’s giving me mine.
+And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world—only
+slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell
+myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon,
+and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from the
+East. But I’d never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the
+rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard
+this fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife
+made me go. Give me May Irwin or E. S. Willard any time.”
+
+“Poor Billy,” said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. “You
+remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this
+great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it
+get the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had
+always been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man.
+You have changed from a maverick into a butterick.”
+
+“Don’t see exactly what you are driving at,” said William. “I don’t
+wear an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress
+occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a
+pattern—well, ain’t the pattern all right? When you’re in Rome you’ve
+got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged
+metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad
+schedule I’ve got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are
+asterisk stops—which means you wave a red flag and get on every other
+Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There’s
+something or somebody doing all the time. I’m clearing $8,000 a year
+selling automatic pumps, and I’m living like kings-up. Why, yesterday,
+I was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine
+agent’s sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna
+May play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I
+woke everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a
+board sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack?
+There’s only one thing in it that I don’t care for, and that’s a
+ferryboat.”
+
+The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. “This
+town,” said he, “is a leech. It drains the blood of the country.
+Whoever comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the
+figure of the leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which
+the innocence, the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute.
+Hand to hand every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You’ve
+lost, Billy. It shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or
+pestilence or—the color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very
+vastness and power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great
+men, the lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I
+ever saw. It has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its
+chariot wheels. It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars.
+Give me the domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or
+one ruled by an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest
+ingredients. Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its
+pre-eminence, it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue,
+it is the narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West
+country. I would go back there to-morrow if I could.”
+
+“Don’t you like this _filet mignon_?” said William. “Shucks, now,
+what’s the use to knock the town! It’s the greatest ever. I couldn’t
+sell one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O’Keefe’s saloon,
+in Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara
+Bernhardt in ‘Andrew Mack’ yet?”
+
+“The town’s got you, Billy,” said Jack.
+
+“All right,” said William. “I’m going to buy a cottage on Lake
+Ronkonkoma next summer.”
+
+At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it. He caught his
+breath at what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times.
+
+Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The
+irregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep
+gulches and winding streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long,
+desert cañons. Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel,
+enchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city. But into this background
+were cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares
+through which glowed many colored lights. And out of the violet and
+purple depths ascended like the city’s soul sounds and odors and
+thrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaiety
+unrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man can know.
+There below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from
+the four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich,
+despoil, elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it
+came up to him and went into his blood.
+
+There was a knock on his door. A telegram had come for him. It came
+from the West, and these were its words:
+
+“Come back and the answer will be yes.
+
+
+DOLLY.”
+
+
+He kept the boy waiting ten minutes, and then wrote the reply:
+“Impossible to leave here at present.” Then he sat at the window again
+and let the city put its cup of mandragora to his lips again.
+
+After all it isn’t a story; but I wanted to know which one of the
+heroes won the battle against the city. So I went to a very learned
+friend and laid the case before him. What he said was: “Please don’t
+bother me; I have Christmas presents to buy.”
+
+So there it rests; and you will have to decide for yourself.
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+“WHAT YOU WANT”
+
+
+Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as
+Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour
+that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets,
+bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled
+with the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old
+friend, the late Mr. H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred
+years nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but
+they were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you
+could have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the
+Tailor, the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and
+Forty Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and
+all the old Arabian gang easily.
+
+But let us revenue to our lamb chops.
+
+Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks
+and bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph
+you must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.
+Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a
+Turkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and
+personal affairs, the police court’ll get you.
+
+Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money
+and everything. That’s what makes a caliph—you must get to despise
+everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want
+something that you can’t pay for.
+
+“I’ll take a little trot around town all by myself,” thought old Tom,
+“and try if I can stir up anything new. Let’s see—it seems I’ve read
+about a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to
+go about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he
+hadn’t been introduced to. That don’t listen like a bad idea. I
+certainly have got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I
+do know. That old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran
+upon ’em and give ’em gold—sequins, I think it was—and make ’em marry
+or got ’em good Government jobs. Now, I’d like something of that sort.
+My money is as good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every
+month where I got it. Yes, I guess I’ll do a little Cardiff business
+to-night, and see how it goes.”
+
+Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and
+walked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,
+who holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all the
+enchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks away
+looked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.
+
+James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments
+on Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door
+open, and where they clean your hat while you wait—two days. James
+stood all day at an electric machine that turned hats around faster
+than the best brands of champagne ever could have done. Overlooking
+your mild impertinence in feeling a curiosity about the personal
+appearance of a stranger, I will give you a modified description of
+him. Weight, 118; complexion, hair and brain, light; height, five feet
+six; age, about twenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of greenish-blue
+serge; pockets containing two keys and sixty-three cents in change.
+
+But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a General
+Alarm that James was either lost or a dead one.
+
+_Allons!_
+
+James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremely
+susceptible to impositions being put upon or below them. All day long
+they burned and smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience.
+But he was earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support
+his feet whether his feet would support him or not.
+
+James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as you
+and I have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts and
+motor-cars and to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe at
+evenfall and watch a badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into their
+common prairie home one by one.
+
+James Turner’s idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go
+directly to his boarding-house when his day’s work was done. After his
+supper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples
+and infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall
+room. Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of
+his burning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark
+Russell’s sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied to
+his smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never
+palled upon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his
+sole intellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James
+Turner taking his ease.
+
+When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of his
+way home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the
+sidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume
+of Clark Russell at half price.
+
+While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down
+miscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His
+discerning eye, made keen by twenty years’ experience in the
+manufacture of laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly
+the poor and discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous
+mood. He descended the two shallow stone steps that led from the
+sidewalk, and addressed without hesitation the object of his designed
+munificence. His first words were no worse than salutatory and
+tentative.
+
+James Turner looked up coldly, with “Sartor Resartus” in one hand and
+“A Mad Marriage” in the other.
+
+“Beat it,” said he. “I don’t want to buy any coat hangers or town lots
+in Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with your Teddy
+bear.”
+
+“Young man,” said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat
+cleaner, “I observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is
+one of the finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth
+mentioning, but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West,
+where we imagine nothing but facts. Maybe I couldn’t understand the
+poetry and allusions in them books you are picking over, but I like to
+see somebody else seem to know what they mean. I’m worth about
+$40,000,000, and I’m getting richer every day. I made the height of it
+manufacturing Aunt Patty’s Silver Soap. I invented the art of making
+it. I experimented for three years before I got just the right quantity
+of chloride of sodium solution and caustic potash mixture to curdle
+properly. And after I had taken some $9,000,000 out of the soap
+business I made the rest in corn and wheat futures. Now, you seem to
+have the literary and scholarly turn of character; and I’ll tell you
+what I’ll do. I’ll pay for your education at the finest college in the
+world. I’ll pay the expense of your rummaging over Europe and the art
+galleries, and finally set you up in a good business. You needn’t make
+it soap if you have any objections. I see by your clothes and frazzled
+necktie that you are mighty poor; and you can’t afford to turn down the
+offer. Well, when do you want to begin?”
+
+The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is
+an eye expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment
+suspended as high as Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of
+challenge, curiosity, defiance, cynicism, and, strange as you may think
+it, of a childlike yearning for friendliness and fellowship that must
+be hidden when one walks among the “stranger bands.” For in New Bagdad
+one, in order to survive, must suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks,
+rides, walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair, house, booth, seat, path
+or room.
+
+“Say, Mike,” said James Turner, “what’s your line, anyway—shoe laces?
+I’m not buying anything. You better put an egg in your shoe and beat it
+before incidents occur to you. You can’t work off any fountain pens,
+gold spectacles you found on the street, or trust company certificate
+house clearings on me. Say, do I look like I’d climbed down one of them
+missing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What’s vitiating you, anyhow?”
+
+“Son,” said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, “as I said, I’m
+worth $40,000,000. I don’t want to have it all put in my coffin when I
+die. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over these
+here volumes of literature, and I thought I’d keep you. I’ve give the
+missionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing
+but a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of young
+man I’d like to take up and see what money could make of him.”
+
+Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old Book
+Shop. And James Turner’s smarting and aching feet did not tend to
+improve his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit
+equal to any caliph’s.
+
+“Say, you old faker,” he said, angrily, “be on your way. I don’t know
+what your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill.
+Well, I don’t carry that much around with me. But I do carry a pretty
+fair left-handed punch that you’ll get if you don’t move on.”
+
+“You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup,” said the caliph.
+
+Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the
+collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two
+bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A cop came up,
+took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house.
+“Fighting and disorderly conduct,” said the cop to the sergeant.
+
+“Three hundred dollars bail,” said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly
+and inquiringly.
+
+“Sixty-three cents,” said James Turner with a harsh laugh.
+
+The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change
+amounting to four dollars.
+
+“I am worth,” he said, “forty million dollars, but—”
+
+“Lock ’em up,” ordered the sergeant.
+
+In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. “Maybe
+he’s got the money, and maybe he ain’t. But if he has or he ain’t, what
+does he want to go ’round butting into other folks’s business for? When
+a man knows what he wants, and can get it, it’s the same as $40,000,000
+to him.”
+
+Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.
+
+He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself
+out luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars of
+the cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his cot
+gave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a
+paper-covered volume by Clark Russell called “A Sailor’s Sweetheart.”
+He gave a great sigh of contentment.
+
+Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:
+
+“Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping
+seems to have been the goods after all. He ’phoned to his friends, and
+he’s out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman
+car pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him.”
+
+“Tell him I ain’t in,” said James Turner.
+
+
+
+
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Strictly Business, by O. Henry</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
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+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Strictly Business</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: O. Henry</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April, 2000 [eBook #2141]<br />
+[Most recently updated: October 4, 2021]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteers and Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRICTLY BUSINESS ***</div>
+
+<h1>Strictly Business</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">by O. Henry</h2>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2>Contents</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap01">I. STRICTLY BUSINESS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap02">II. THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap03">III. BABES IN THE JUNGLE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. THE DAY RESURGENT</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap05">V. THE FIFTH WHEEL</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. THE POET AND THE PEASANT</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. THE ROBE OF PEACE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. THE CALL OF THE TAME</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap10">X. THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. THE THING'S THE PLAY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap12">XII. A RAMBLE IN APHASIA</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap13">XIII. A MUNICIPAL REPORT</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap14">XIV. PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap15">XV. A BIRD OF BAGDAD</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap16">XVI. COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap17">XVII. A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap18">XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap19">XIX. PROOF OF THE PUDDING</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap20">XX. PAST ONE AT ROONEY&rsquo;S</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap21">XXI. THE VENTURERS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap22">XXII. THE DUEL</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap23">XXIII. &ldquo;WHAT YOU WANT&rdquo;</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap01"></a>I<br />
+STRICTLY BUSINESS</h2>
+
+<p>
+I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You&rsquo;ve been
+touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and the jokes
+in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the long-haired
+tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your ideas about the
+mysterious stageland would boil down to something like this:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better than
+your own (madam) if they weren&rsquo;t padded. Chorus girls are inseparable
+from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back to New York on tan
+oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses reserve the comic-landlady
+part for their mothers on Broadway and their step-aunts on the road. Kyrle
+Bellew&rsquo;s real name is Boyle O&rsquo;Kelley. The ravings of John
+McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first sale of the Ellen Terry
+memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H. Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting
+older than he was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne and eat
+lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures have got the
+whole bunch pounded to a pulp.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the
+profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the players
+with an eye full of patronizing superiority&mdash;and we go home and practise
+all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking glasses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It seems
+to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians and
+diamond-hungry <i>loreleis</i> they are businesslike folk, students and
+ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and
+conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a manner as
+any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of the gas, rent,
+coal, ice, and wardmen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true one is
+a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little story of two
+strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only the dark patch above
+the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of Keetor&rsquo;s old vaudeville
+theatre made there by the petulant push of gloved hands too impatient to finger
+the clumsy thumb-latch&mdash;and where I last saw Cherry whisking through like
+a swallow into her nest, on time to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The vaudeville team of Hart &amp; Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had been
+roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years with a mixed-up
+act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes with songs, a couple of
+imitations of celebrated imitators, and a buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a
+glance of approval from the bass-viol player in more than one house&mdash;than
+which no performer ever received more satisfactory evidence of good work.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful performance with
+which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order to give himself this
+pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest Broadway corner between
+Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a matinée offering by his less
+gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime of a minstrel joke one comes to scoff
+and remains to go through with that most difficult exercise of Thespian
+muscles&mdash;the audible contact of the palm of one hand against the palm of
+the other.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known vaudevillian
+face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got his d. h. coupon
+for an orchestra seat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed into
+oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the audience
+shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, &ldquo;All the
+Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself,&rdquo; sat with his face as long and his
+hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his grandmother to wind
+into a ball.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But when H came on, &ldquo;The Mustard&rdquo; suddenly sat up straight. H was
+the happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs and
+Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry; but she
+delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to the old
+man&rsquo;s account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and ginghamy
+country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed you ingenuously
+that there were other things to be learned at the old log school-house besides
+cipherin&rsquo; and nouns, especially &ldquo;When the Teach-er Kept Me
+in.&rdquo; Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings, she
+reappeared in considerably less than a &ldquo;trice&rdquo; as a fluffy
+&ldquo;Parisienne&rdquo;&mdash;so near does Art bring the old red mill to the
+Moulin Rouge. And then&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else. He
+thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short order stage
+that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of &ldquo;Helen
+Grimes&rdquo; in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the tray of
+his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor, grocer,
+newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play tucked away
+somewhere. They tuck &rsquo;em in trays of trunks, trunks of trees, desks,
+haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults, handboxes, and coal
+cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call. They belong among the fifty-seven
+different kinds.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Bob Hart&rsquo;s sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called
+it &ldquo;Mice Will Play.&rdquo; He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever
+since he wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of
+&ldquo;Helen Grimes.&rdquo; And here was &ldquo;Helen&rdquo; herself, with all
+the innocent abandon, the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art
+that his critical taste demanded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and got
+Cherry&rsquo;s address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty old
+house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain <i>voile</i> skirt, with her
+hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have been
+playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon&rsquo;s daughter, in the great
+(unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know your act, Mr. Hart,&rdquo; she said after she had looked over his
+card carefully. &ldquo;What did you wish to see me about?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I saw you work last night,&rdquo; said Hart. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve written a
+sketch that I&rsquo;ve been saving up. It&rsquo;s for two; and I think you can
+do the other part. I thought I&rsquo;d see you about it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come in the parlor,&rdquo; said Miss Cherry. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been
+wishing for something of the sort. I think I&rsquo;d like to act instead of
+doing turns.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bob Hart drew his cherished &ldquo;Mice Will Play&rdquo; from his pocket, and
+read it to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Read it again, please,&rdquo; said Miss Cherry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by introducing
+a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the dialogue just before
+the climax while they were struggling with the pistol, and by completely
+changing the lines and business of Helen Grimes at the point where her jealousy
+overcomes her. Hart yielded to all her strictures without argument. She had at
+once put her finger on the sketch&rsquo;s weaker points. That was her
+woman&rsquo;s intuition that he had lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was
+willing to stake the judgment, experience, and savings of his four years of
+vaudeville that &ldquo;Mice Will Play&rdquo; would blossom into a perennial
+flower in the garden of the circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After
+many puckerings of her smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth
+with the end of a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Hart,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I believe your sketch is going to win
+out. That Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to
+a handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the
+Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers&rsquo; Bazaar. And I&rsquo;ve seen
+you work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is business.
+How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Two hundred,&rdquo; answered Hart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I get one hundred for mine,&rdquo; said Cherry. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
+about the natural discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few
+simoleons every week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage
+is all right. I love it; but there&rsquo;s something else I love
+better&mdash;that&rsquo;s a little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock
+chickens and six ducks wandering around the yard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me
+to play the opposite part in your sketch, I&rsquo;ll do it. And I believe we
+can make it go. And there&rsquo;s something else I want to say: There&rsquo;s
+no nonsense in my make-up; I&rsquo;m <i>on the level</i>, and I&rsquo;m on the
+stage for what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices.
+I&rsquo;m going to save my money to keep me when I&rsquo;m past doing my
+stunts. No Old Ladies&rsquo; Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
+nonsense cut out of it, I&rsquo;m in on it. I know something about vaudeville
+teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want you to
+know that I&rsquo;m on the stage for what I can cart away from it every pay-day
+in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where the cashier has
+licked the flap. It&rsquo;s kind of a hobby of mine to want to cravenette
+myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to know just how I
+am. I don&rsquo;t know what an all-night restaurant looks like; I drink only
+weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance in my life, and I&rsquo;ve
+got money in five savings banks.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Miss Cherry,&rdquo; said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones,
+&ldquo;you&rsquo;re in on your own terms. I&rsquo;ve got &lsquo;strictly
+business&rsquo; pasted in my hat and stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream
+of nights I always see a five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island,
+with a Jap cooking clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the
+title deeds to the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the
+side porch, reading Stanley&rsquo;s &lsquo;Explorations into Africa.&rsquo; And
+nobody else around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss
+Cherry?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not any,&rdquo; said Cherry. &ldquo;What I&rsquo;m going to do with my
+money is to bank it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary
+I&rsquo;ve been earning, I&rsquo;ve figured out that in ten years I&rsquo;d
+have an income of about $50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might
+invest some of the principal in a little business&mdash;say, trimming hats or a
+beauty parlor, and make more.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Hart, &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got the proper idea all
+right, all right, anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything
+at all who couldn&rsquo;t fix themselves for the wet days to come if
+they&rsquo;d save their money instead of blowing it. I&rsquo;m glad
+you&rsquo;ve got the correct business idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same
+way; and I believe this sketch will more than double what both of us earn now
+when we get it shaped up.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The subsequent history of &ldquo;Mice Will Play&rdquo; is the history of all
+successful writings for the stage. Hart &amp; Cherry cut it, pieced it,
+remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and business,
+changed the lines, restored &rsquo;em, added more, cut &rsquo;em out, renamed
+it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger for the pistol,
+restored the pistol&mdash;put the sketch through all the known processes of
+condensation and improvement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely used
+parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would occur every
+time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded revolver that Helen
+Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of the sketch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a real
+32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen Grimes, who is
+a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and daring, is tempestuously
+in love with Frank Desmond, the private secretary and confidential prospective
+son-in-law of her father, &ldquo;Arapahoe&rdquo; Grimes, quarter-million-dollar
+cattle king, owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad
+Lands or Amagansett, L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees
+and Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York,
+leaving you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case
+may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should want
+puttees about his ranch with a secretary in &rsquo;em.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of play,
+whether we admit it or not&mdash;something along in between &ldquo;Bluebeard,
+Jr.,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Cymbeline&rdquo; played in the Russian.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There were only two parts and a half in &ldquo;Mice Will Play.&rdquo; Hart and
+Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always played by
+a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a panic to announce
+that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn down the gas fire in the
+grate by the manager&rsquo;s orders.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was another girl in the sketch&mdash;a Fifth Avenue society
+swelless&mdash;who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine
+when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost his money.
+This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic state&mdash;Jack had
+her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan&mdash;of the Bad Lands droring
+room. Helen was jealous, of course.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now for the thriller. Old &ldquo;Arapahoe&rdquo; Grimes dies of angina
+pectoris one night&mdash;so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over
+the footlights&mdash;while only his secretary was present. And that same day he
+was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just received for
+the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts for the price we pay
+for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time. Jack Valentine was the only
+person with the ranchman when he made his (alleged) croak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed&mdash;&rdquo; you
+sabe, don&rsquo;t you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth
+Avenue Girl&mdash;who doesn&rsquo;t come on the stage&mdash;and can we blame
+her, with the vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be
+buttoned in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But, wait. Here&rsquo;s the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,
+is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine is not
+only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop $647,000 and a
+lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like the variations on the
+chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to make any perfect lady mad. So,
+then!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk heads
+(didn&rsquo;t the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the
+dénouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a
+play unless it be when the prologue ends.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it? The
+box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra hadn&rsquo;t left
+their seats; and no man could get past &ldquo;Old Jimmy,&rdquo; the stage
+door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as a guarantee
+of eligibility.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine:
+&ldquo;Robber and thief&mdash;and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this
+should be your fate!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But I will be merciful,&rdquo; goes on Helen. &ldquo;You shall
+live&mdash;that will be your punishment. I will show you how easily I could
+have sent you to the death that you deserve. There is <i>her</i> picture on the
+mantel. I will send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have
+pierced your craven heart.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And she does it. And there&rsquo;s no fake blank cartridges or assistants
+pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet&mdash;the actual bullet&mdash;goes
+through the face of the photograph&mdash;and then strikes the hidden spring of
+the sliding panel in the wall&mdash;and lo! the panel slides, and there is the
+missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold. It&rsquo;s
+great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a target on the
+roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the sketch she had to hit
+a brass disk only three inches in diameter, covered by wall paper in the panel;
+and she had to stand in exactly the same spot every night, and the photo had to
+be in exactly the same spot, and she had to shoot steady and true every time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of course old &ldquo;Arapahoe&rdquo; had tucked the funds away there in the
+secret place; and, of course, Jack hadn&rsquo;t taken anything except his
+salary (which really might have come under the head of &ldquo;obtaining money
+under&rdquo;; but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York
+girl was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and,
+necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson&mdash;and there you are.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After Hart and Cherry had gotten &ldquo;Mice Will Play&rdquo; flawless, they
+had a try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house
+wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a theatre
+from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats, being dressed
+for it, swam in tears.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed fountain pens
+upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was what it panned out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good night at her
+boarding-house door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Hart,&rdquo; said she thoughtfully, &ldquo;come inside just a few
+minutes. We&rsquo;ve got our chance now to make good and make money. What we
+want to do is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Right,&rdquo; said Bob. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s business with me. You&rsquo;ve
+got your scheme for banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow
+with the Jap cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the
+net receipts will engage my attention.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come inside just a few minutes,&rdquo; repeated Cherry, deeply
+thoughtful. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got a proposition to make to you that will reduce
+our expenses a lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out
+mine&mdash;and all on business principles.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+&ldquo;Mice Will Play&rdquo; had a tremendously successful run in New York for
+ten weeks&mdash;rather neat for a vaudeville sketch&mdash;and then it started
+on the circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid
+drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor&rsquo;s New York houses, said of Hart
+&amp; Cherry:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.
+It&rsquo;s a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard
+workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute, straight home
+after their act, and each of &rsquo;em as gentlemanlike as a lady. I
+don&rsquo;t expect to handle any attractions that give me less trouble or more
+respect for the profession.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of the story:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the end of its second season &ldquo;Mice Will Play&rdquo; came back to New
+York for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never
+any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his bungalow
+nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank books that she had
+begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment plan to hold them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can&rsquo;t believe it, that
+many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
+ambitions&mdash;just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
+grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious to flop
+out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be allowed to say,
+without chipping into the contribution basket, that they often move in a
+mysterious way their wonders to perform.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But, listen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the first performance of &ldquo;Mice Will Play&rdquo; in New York at the
+Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When she
+fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the bullet,
+instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk, went into the
+lower left side of Bob Hart&rsquo;s neck. Not expecting to get it there, Hart
+collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic manner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy in which
+the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great enjoyment. The
+Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the curtain down, and two
+platoons of scene shifters respectively and more or less respectfully removed
+Hart &amp; Cherry from the stage. The next turn went on, and all went as merry
+as an alimony bell.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was waiting for
+a patient with a decoction of Am. B&rsquo;ty roses. The doctor examined Hart
+carefully and laughed heartily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No headlines for you, Old Sport,&rdquo; was his diagnosis. &ldquo;If it
+had been two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
+far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is, you just
+get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any one of the
+girls&rsquo; Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the parlor-floor
+practitioner on your block, and you&rsquo;ll be all right. Excuse me;
+I&rsquo;ve got a serious case outside to look after.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay came
+Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn man from
+Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple sugar home to
+two small daughters from every town he played. Vincente had moved on the same
+circuits with Hart &amp; Cherry, and was their peripatetic friend.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bob,&rdquo; said Vincente in his serious way, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad
+it&rsquo;s no worse. The little lady is wild about you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who?&rdquo; asked Hart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cherry,&rdquo; said the juggler. &ldquo;We didn&rsquo;t know how bad you
+were hurt; and we kept her away. It&rsquo;s taking the manager and three girls
+to hold her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It was an accident, of course,&rdquo; said Hart. &ldquo;Cherry&rsquo;s
+all right. She wasn&rsquo;t feeling in good trim or she couldn&rsquo;t have
+done it. There&rsquo;s no hard feelings. She&rsquo;s strictly business. The
+doctor says I&rsquo;ll be on the job again in three days. Don&rsquo;t let her
+worry.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Man,&rdquo; said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined
+face, &ldquo;are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry&rsquo;s
+crying her heart out for you&mdash;calling &lsquo;Bob, Bob,&rsquo; every
+second, with them holding her hands and keeping her from coming to you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with her?&rdquo; asked Hart, with wide-open
+eyes. &ldquo;The sketch&rsquo;ll go on again in three days. I&rsquo;m not hurt
+bad, the doctor says. She won&rsquo;t lose out half a week&rsquo;s salary. I
+know it was an accident. What&rsquo;s the matter with her?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool,&rdquo; said Vincente.
+&ldquo;The girl loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What&rsquo;s the
+matter with <i>you</i>? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Loves me?&rdquo; asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on
+which he lay. &ldquo;Cherry loves me? Why, it&rsquo;s impossible.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I wish you could see her and hear her,&rdquo; said Griggs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But, man,&rdquo; said Bob Hart, sitting up, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s
+impossible. It&rsquo;s impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a
+thing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No human being,&rdquo; said the Tramp Juggler, &ldquo;could mistake it.
+She&rsquo;s wild for love of you. How have you been so blind?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But, my God,&rdquo; said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s
+<i>too late</i>. It&rsquo;s too late, I tell you, Sam; <i>it&rsquo;s too
+late</i>. It can&rsquo;t be. You must be wrong. It&rsquo;s <i>impossible</i>.
+There&rsquo;s some mistake.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She&rsquo;s crying for you,&rdquo; said the Tramp Juggler. &ldquo;For
+love of you she&rsquo;s fighting three, and calling your name so loud they
+don&rsquo;t dare to raise the curtain. Wake up, man.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;For love of me?&rdquo; said Bob Hart with staring eyes.
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t I tell you it&rsquo;s too late? It&rsquo;s too late, man.
+Why, <i>Cherry and I have been married two years!</i>&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap02"></a>II<br />
+THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED</h2>
+
+<p>
+A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores you, and
+then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience. Therefore let us have
+the moral first and be done with it. All is not gold that glitters, but it is a
+wise child that keeps the stopper in his bottle of testing acid.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George the
+Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that quarter, and this
+is their shibboleth: &ldquo;&lsquo;Nit,&rsquo; says I to Frohman, &lsquo;you
+can&rsquo;t touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,&rsquo; and out I
+walks.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets where a
+Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical warmth in the nipping
+North. The centre of life in this precinct is &ldquo;El Refugio,&rdquo; a
+café and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from the South.
+Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of Central America and
+the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the cloaked and sombreroed
+señores, who are scattered like burning lava by the political eruptions
+of their several countries. Hither they come to lay counterplots, to bide their
+time, to solicit funds, to enlist filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and
+ammunitions, to play the game at long taw. In El Refugio, they find the
+atmosphere in which they thrive.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the palate
+of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the story thus long.
+On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the Gallic chef, hie thee to El
+Refugio! There only will you find a fish&mdash;bluefish, shad or pompano from
+the Gulf&mdash;baked after the Spanish method. Tomatoes give it color,
+individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon it zest, originality and
+fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and mystery, and&mdash;but its crowning
+glory deserves a new sentence. Around it, above it, beneath it, in its
+vicinity&mdash;but never in it&mdash;hovers an ethereal aura, an effluvium so
+rarefied and delicate that only the Society for Psychical Research could note
+its origin. Do not say that garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not
+otherwise than as if the spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss
+that lingers in the parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life,
+&ldquo;by hopeless fancy feigned on lips that are for others.&rdquo; And then,
+when Conchito, the waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and a carafe of
+wine that has never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio&mdash;ah, Dios!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen. Perrico
+Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The General was between
+a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist and stood 5 feet 4 with
+his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache of a shooting-gallery proprietor, he
+wore the full dress of a Texas congressman and had the important aspect of an
+uninstructed delegate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire his way
+to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that neighborhood he
+saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that read, &ldquo;Hotel
+Español.&rdquo; In the window was a card in Spanish, &ldquo;Aqui se
+habla Español.&rdquo; The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the cozy office was Mrs. O&rsquo;Brien, the proprietress. She had
+blond&mdash;oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability, and
+ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with his
+broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables sounding
+like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of a bunch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Spanish or Dago?&rdquo; asked Mrs. O&rsquo;Brien, pleasantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am a Colombian, madam,&rdquo; said the General, proudly. &ldquo;I
+speak the Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
+here. How is that?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, you&rsquo;ve been speaking it, ain&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; said the
+madam. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure I can&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the Hotel Español General Falcon engaged rooms and established
+himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders of this
+roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the wonderful golden hair
+of Mme. O&rsquo;Brien. &ldquo;It is here,&rdquo; said the General to himself,
+no doubt in his own language, &ldquo;that one shall find the most beautiful
+señoras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among our
+beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to think of
+beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became involved.
+The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset him against a
+pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an inch with a hub, and
+poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He scrambled to the sidewalk and
+skipped again in terror when the whistle of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot
+scream in his ear. &ldquo;V&aacute;lgame Dios! What devil&rsquo;s city is
+this?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded snipe
+he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was
+&ldquo;Bully&rdquo; McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong
+arm and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of the
+asphalt was &ldquo;Spider&rdquo; Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the quicker.
+His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;G&rsquo;wan!&rdquo; he commanded harshly. &ldquo;I saw it first.&rdquo;
+McGuire slunk away, awed by superior intelligence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pardon me,&rdquo; said Mr. Kelley, to the General, &ldquo;but you got
+balled up in the shuffle, didn&rsquo;t you? Let me assist you.&rdquo; He picked
+up the General&rsquo;s hat and brushed the dust from it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered and
+dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a caballero with
+a most disinterested heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have a desire,&rdquo; said the General, &ldquo;to return to the hotel
+of O&rsquo;Brien, in which I am stop. Caramba! señor, there is a
+loudness and rapidness of going and coming in the city of this Nueva
+York.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Kelley&rsquo;s politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to
+brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel
+Español they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the
+street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to whom few
+streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a &ldquo;Dago
+joint.&rdquo; All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of
+&ldquo;Dagoes&rdquo; and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
+thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in the
+conspirator&rsquo;s corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were between
+them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his mission to the
+Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase arms&mdash;2,000 stands
+of Winchester rifles&mdash;for the Colombian revolutionists. He had drafts in
+his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York correspondent for
+$25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were shouting their political
+secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was as loud as the General. He
+pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine; he roared to his friend that his
+errand was a secret one, and not to be hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley
+himself was stirred to sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General&rsquo;s
+hand across the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Monseer,&rdquo; he said, earnestly, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know where this
+country of yours is, but I&rsquo;m for it. I guess it must be a branch of the
+United States, though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us
+Columbia, too, sometimes. It&rsquo;s a lucky thing for you that you butted into
+me to-night. I&rsquo;m the only man in New York that can get this gun deal
+through for you. The Secretary of War of the United States is me best friend.
+He&rsquo;s in the city now, and I&rsquo;ll see him for you to-morrow. In the
+meantime, monseer, you keep them drafts tight in your inside pocket. I&rsquo;ll
+call for you to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that ain&rsquo;t the
+District of Columbia you&rsquo;re talking about, is it?&rdquo; concluded Mr.
+Kelley, with a sudden qualm. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t capture that with no 2,000
+guns&mdash;it&rsquo;s been tried with more.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, no, no!&rdquo; exclaimed the General. &ldquo;It is the Republic of
+Colombia&mdash;it is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the
+South. Yes. Yes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Mr. Kelley, reassured. &ldquo;Now suppose we trek
+along home and go by-by. I&rsquo;ll write to the Secretary to-night and make a
+date with him. It&rsquo;s a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky
+himself can&rsquo;t do it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They parted at the door of the Hotel Español. The General rolled his
+eyes at the moon and sighed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is a great country, your Nueva York,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Truly the
+cars in the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly
+makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Señor Kelley&mdash;the
+señoras with hair of much goldness, and admirable fatness&mdash;they are
+magnificas! Muy magnificas!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary&rsquo;s
+café, far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is that Jimmy Dunn?&rdquo; asked Kelley.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; came the answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re a liar,&rdquo; sang back Kelley, joyfully.
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re the Secretary of War. Wait there till I come up. I&rsquo;ve
+got the finest thing down here in the way of a fish you ever baited for.
+It&rsquo;s a Colorado-maduro, with a gold band around it and free coupons
+enough to buy a red hall lamp and a statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook.
+I&rsquo;ll be up on the next car.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence line.
+He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout drops. In fact, he
+would have set nothing before an intended victim but the purest of drinks, if
+it had been possible to procure such a thing in New York. It was the ambition
+of &ldquo;Spider&rdquo; Kelley to elevate himself into Jimmy&rsquo;s class.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary&rsquo;s. Kelley
+explained.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;s as easy as a gumshoe. He&rsquo;s from the Island of Colombia,
+where there&rsquo;s a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and
+they&rsquo;ve sent him up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing
+with. He showed me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank
+here. &rsquo;S truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn&rsquo;t
+have it in thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now,
+we&rsquo;ve got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for
+us.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; &ldquo;Bring him to No.
+&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash; Broadway, at four o&rsquo;clock to-morrow
+afternoon.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Español for the General. He found
+the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs. O&rsquo;Brien.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Secretary of War is waitin&rsquo; for us,&rdquo; said Kelley.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The General tore himself away with an effort.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ay, señor,&rdquo; he said, with a sigh, &ldquo;duty makes a call.
+But, señor, the señoras of your Estados Unidos&mdash;how
+beauties! For exemplification, take you la Madame O&rsquo;Brien&mdash;que
+magnifica! She is one goddess&mdash;one Juno&mdash;what you call one ox-eyed
+Juno.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the fire of
+their own imagination.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sure!&rdquo; he said with a grin; &ldquo;but you mean a peroxide Juno,
+don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. O&rsquo;Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye
+rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except in
+street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway address, they
+were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then admitted into a
+well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man, with a smooth face,
+wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to the Secretary of War of the
+United States, and his mission made known by his old friend, Mr. Kelley.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah&mdash;Colombia!&rdquo; said the Secretary, significantly, when he was
+made to understand; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid there will be a little difficulty
+in that case. The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers
+the established government, while I&mdash;&rdquo; the secretary gave the
+General a mysterious but encouraging smile. &ldquo;You, of course, know,
+General Falcon, that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed
+requiring all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this country to
+pass through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be
+glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley. But it must be in absolute
+secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard favorably the
+efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will have my orderly bring a
+list of the available arms now in the warehouse.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T. on his
+cap stepped promptly into the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory,&rdquo; said the
+Secretary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied it
+closely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I find,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that in Warehouse 9, of Government
+stores, there is shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were
+ordered by the Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order.
+Our rule is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.
+My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of arms, if he
+desires it, at the manufacturer&rsquo;s price. And you will forgive me, I am
+sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the Japanese Minister and
+Charles Murphy every moment!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his
+esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War was
+extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases and filling
+them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse rented for that
+purpose. As still another, when the General returned to the Hotel
+Español, Mrs. O&rsquo;Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from his
+lapel, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, señor, I don&rsquo;t want to &lsquo;butt in,&rsquo; but what
+does that monkey-faced, cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with
+you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sangre de mi vida!&rdquo; exclaimed the General. &ldquo;Impossible it is
+that you speak of my good friend, Señor Kelley.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come into the summer garden,&rdquo; said Mrs. O&rsquo;Brien. &ldquo;I
+want to have a talk with you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And you say,&rdquo; said the General, &ldquo;that for the sum of $18,000
+can be purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with
+this garden so lovely&mdash;so resembling unto the patios of my cara
+Colombia?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And dirt cheap at that,&rdquo; sighed the lady.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah, Dios!&rdquo; breathed General Falcon. &ldquo;What to me is war and
+politics? This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to
+continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of mans? Ah!
+no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel Español and
+you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on guns.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. O&rsquo;Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the
+Colombian patriot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, señor,&rdquo; she sighed, happily, &ldquo;ain&rsquo;t you
+terrible!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to the
+General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented warehouse, and
+the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his friend Kelley to fetch the
+victim.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Español. He found the
+General behind the desk adding up accounts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have decide,&rdquo; said the General, &ldquo;to buy not guns. I have
+to-day buy the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the
+General Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O&rsquo;Brien.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Kelley almost strangled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish,&rdquo; he spluttered,
+&ldquo;you&rsquo;re a swindler&mdash;that&rsquo;s what you are! You&rsquo;ve
+bought a boarding house with money belonging to your infernal country, wherever
+it is.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; said the General, footing up a column, &ldquo;that is what
+you call politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best
+that one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to keep
+hotels and be with that Juno&mdash;that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of the gold
+it is that she have!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Kelley choked again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah, Senor Kelley!&rdquo; said the General, feelingly and finally,
+&ldquo;is it that you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame
+O&rsquo;Brien she make?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap03"></a>III<br />
+BABES IN THE JUNGLE</h2>
+
+<p>
+Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says to me
+once in Little Rock: &ldquo;If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get too old
+to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the West a sucker is
+born every minute; but in New York they appear in chunks of roe&mdash;you
+can&rsquo;t count &rsquo;em!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two years afterward I found that I couldn&rsquo;t remember the names of the
+Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I knew the
+time had arrived for me to take Silver&rsquo;s advice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And I run
+against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of haberdashery,
+leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his nails with a silk
+handkerchief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Paresis or superannuated?&rdquo; I asks him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hello, Billy,&rdquo; says Silver; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad to see you. Yes,
+it seemed to me that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness.
+I&rsquo;ve been saving New York for dessert. I know it&rsquo;s a low-down trick
+to take things from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and
+fro and think ever and anon. I&rsquo;d hate for my mother to know I was
+skinning these weak-minded ones. She raised me better.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
+does skin grafting?&rdquo; I asks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, no,&rdquo; says Silver; &ldquo;you needn&rsquo;t back Epidermis to
+win to-day. I&rsquo;ve only been here a month. But I&rsquo;m ready to begin;
+and the members of Willie Manhattan&rsquo;s Sunday School class, each of whom
+has volunteered to contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation,
+may as well send their photos to the <i>Evening Daily</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been studying the town,&rdquo; says Silver, &ldquo;and
+reading the papers every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall
+knows an O&rsquo;Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and
+kick when you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in
+my room and I&rsquo;ll tell you. We&rsquo;ll work the town together, Billy, for
+the sake of old times.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects lying
+about.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan
+hayseeds,&rdquo; says Silver, &ldquo;than there is of cooking rice in
+Charleston, S. C. They&rsquo;ll bite at anything. The brains of most of
+&rsquo;em commute. The wiser they are in intelligence the less perception of
+cognizance they have. Why, didn&rsquo;t a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan
+an oil portrait of Rockefeller, Jr., for Andrea del Sarto&rsquo;s celebrated
+painting of the young Saint John!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That&rsquo;s
+gold mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
+hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy it. I
+sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house, and then I
+took it off the market. I don&rsquo;t want people to give me their money. I
+want some little consideration connected with the transaction to keep my pride
+from being hurt. I want &rsquo;em to guess the missing letter in Chic&mdash;go,
+or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of money.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now there&rsquo;s another little scheme that worked so easy I had to
+quit it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor on
+the back of my hand and went to a bank and told &rsquo;em I was Admiral
+Dewey&rsquo;s nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but
+I didn&rsquo;t know my uncle&rsquo;s first name. It shows, though, what an easy
+town it is. As for burglars, they won&rsquo;t go in a house now unless
+there&rsquo;s a hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on
+&rsquo;em. They&rsquo;re slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city
+and I guess, taking the town from end to end, it&rsquo;s a plain case of
+assault and Battery.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Monty,&rdquo; says I, when Silver had slacked, up, &ldquo;you may have
+Manhattan correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it.
+I&rsquo;ve only been in town two hours, but it don&rsquo;t dawn upon me that
+it&rsquo;s ours with a cherry in it. There ain&rsquo;t enough rus in urbe about
+it to suit me. I&rsquo;d be a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens
+had a straw or more in their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye
+watch charms. They don&rsquo;t look easy to me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got it, Billy,&rdquo; says Silver. &ldquo;All emigrants
+have it. New York&rsquo;s bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a
+foreigner. You&rsquo;ll be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the
+people here because they don&rsquo;t send me all their money in laundry
+baskets, with germicide sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to
+get it. Who wears the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the
+Wiretapper&rsquo;s wife, and Bella, the Buncosteerer&rsquo;s bride. New Yorkers
+can be worked easier than a blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me
+is I know I&rsquo;ll break the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes
+all full of twenties.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hope you are right, Monty,&rdquo; says I; &ldquo;but I wish all the
+same I had been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of
+farmers is never so short out there but what you can get a few of &rsquo;em to
+sign a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200 at the
+county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of self-preservation
+and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured enough to tackle this
+game.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry,&rdquo; says Silver. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got this
+Jayville-near-Tarrytown correctly estimated as sure as North River is the
+Hudson and East River ain&rsquo;t a river. Why, there are people living in four
+blocks of Broadway who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in
+their lives! A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous enough
+here inside of three months to incur either Jerome&rsquo;s clemency or
+Lawson&rsquo;s displeasure.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hyperbole aside,&rdquo; says I, &ldquo;do you know of any immediate
+system of buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to
+the Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould&rsquo;s
+doorsteps?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dozens of &rsquo;em,&rdquo; says Silver. &ldquo;How much capital have
+you got, Billy?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A thousand,&rdquo; I told him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got $1,200,&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll pool and do a
+big piece of business. There&rsquo;s so many ways we can make a million that I
+don&rsquo;t know how to begin.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and
+stirred with a kind of silent joy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We&rsquo;re to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon,&rdquo; says he.
+&ldquo;A man I know in the hotel wants to introduce us. He&rsquo;s a friend of
+his. He says he likes to meet people from the West.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That sounds nice and plausible,&rdquo; says I. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to
+know Mr. Morgan.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It won&rsquo;t hurt us a bit,&rdquo; says Silver, &ldquo;to get
+acquainted with a few finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has
+with strangers.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o&rsquo;clock Klein brought his
+Wall Street friend to see us in Silver&rsquo;s room. &ldquo;Mr. Morgan&rdquo;
+looked some like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his
+left foot, and he walked with a cane.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud,&rdquo; says Klein. &ldquo;It sounds
+superfluous,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;to mention the name of the greatest
+financial&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cut it out, Klein,&rdquo; says Mr. Morgan. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad to know
+you gents; I take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you&rsquo;re from
+Little Rock. I think I&rsquo;ve a railroad or two out there somewhere. If
+either of you guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker
+I&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now, Pierpont,&rdquo; cuts in Klein, &ldquo;you forget!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Excuse me, gents!&rdquo; says Morgan; &ldquo;since I&rsquo;ve had the
+gout so bad I sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you
+never knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He lived
+in Seattle, New Mexico.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane and
+begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street,
+Pierpont?&rdquo; asks Klein, smiling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Stocks! No!&rdquo; roars Mr. Morgan. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s that picture I
+sent an agent to Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day
+that it ain&rsquo;t to be found in all Italy. I&rsquo;d pay $50,000 to-morrow
+for that picture&mdash;yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing
+it. I cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy
+to&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, Mr. Morgan,&rdquo; says Klein; &ldquo;I thought you owned all of
+the De Vinchy paintings.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?&rdquo; asks Silver. &ldquo;It must
+be as big as the side of the Flatiron Building.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver,&rdquo;
+says Morgan. &ldquo;The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called
+&lsquo;Love&rsquo;s Idle Hour.&rsquo; It represents a number of cloak models
+doing the two-step on the bank of a purple river. The cablegram said it might
+have been brought to this country. My collection will never be complete without
+that picture. Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked about
+how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said what a shame it
+would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I said I thought it would be
+rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a stroll after dinner; and me and him
+and Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue to see the sights. Klein sees a
+pair of cuff links that instigate his admiration in a pawnshop window, and we
+all go in while he buys &rsquo;em.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me and waves
+his hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Did you see it?&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;Did you see it, Billy?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What?&rdquo; I asks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It&rsquo;s hanging in that
+pawnshop, behind the desk. I didn&rsquo;t say anything because Klein was there.
+It&rsquo;s the article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can
+make them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any skirts, and
+they&rsquo;re doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with the blues. What
+did Mr. Morgan say he&rsquo;d give for it? Oh, don&rsquo;t make me tell you.
+They can&rsquo;t know what it is in that pawnshop.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing there as
+anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a drink. We sauntered
+inside, and began to look at watch-chains.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a violent specimen of a chromo you&rsquo;ve got up
+there,&rdquo; remarked Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. &ldquo;But I kind of
+enthuse over the girl with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer
+of $2.25 for it cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in
+hurrying it off the nail?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That picture,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;was pledged a year ago by an
+Italian gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called &lsquo;Love&rsquo;s
+Idle Hour,&rsquo; and it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time
+expired, and it became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is
+worn a great deal now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and walked
+out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started for
+Morgan&rsquo;s office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two hours
+Silver comes back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Did you see Mr. Morgan?&rdquo; I asks. &ldquo;How much did he pay you
+for it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan,&rdquo; he says, &ldquo;because Mr.
+Morgan&rsquo;s been in Europe for a month. But what&rsquo;s worrying me, Billy,
+is this: The department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed,
+for $3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone&mdash;that&rsquo;s what I
+can&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap04"></a>IV<br />
+THE DAY RESURGENT</h2>
+
+<p>
+I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes to
+drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions of figures
+pertinent to the festival are but four in number.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have free play.
+A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper number of toes will fill
+the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the well-known model, will pose for it in
+the &ldquo;Lethergogallagher,&rdquo; or whatever it was that Trilby called it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Second&mdash;the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.
+This is magazine-covery, but reliable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Third&mdash;Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fourth&mdash;Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy
+and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the higher
+criticism has hard-boiled them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of all our
+festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception. It belongs to
+all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back still further to the
+first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a new green leaf from the tree
+<i>ficus carica</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth the
+theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a holiday nor an
+occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in the footsteps of Danny
+McCree.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the
+calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30 Danny
+followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his face at the sink.
+His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard, smooth, knowing
+countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap, and thought of his
+father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder between second and third
+twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in Harlem, where the La Paloma
+apartment house now stands. In the front room of the flat Danny&rsquo;s father
+sat by an open window smoking his pipe, with his dishevelled gray hair tossed
+about by the breeze. He still clung to his pipe, although his sight had been
+taken from him two years before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went
+off without permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason
+that they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to
+you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the headlines?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis Easter Day,&rdquo; said Mrs. McCree.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Scramble mine,&rdquo; said Danny.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of the Canal
+Street importing house dray chauffeur&mdash;frock coat, striped trousers,
+patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest, and wing collar,
+rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein&rsquo;s (between Fourteenth
+Street and Tony&rsquo;s fruit stand) Saturday night sale.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll be goin&rsquo; out this day, of course, Danny,&rdquo; said
+old man McCree, a little wistfully. &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis a kind of holiday, they
+say. Well, it&rsquo;s fine spring weather. I can feel it in the air.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why should I not be going out?&rdquo; demanded Danny in his grumpiest
+chest tones. &ldquo;Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest
+my team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
+you&rsquo;ve just eat, I&rsquo;d like to know? Answer me that!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All right, lad,&rdquo; said the old man. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not
+complainin&rsquo;. While me two eyes was good there was nothin&rsquo; better to
+my mind than a Sunday out. There&rsquo;s a smell of turf and burnin&rsquo;
+brush comin&rsquo; in the windy. I have me tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to
+ye, lad. Times I wish your mother had larned to read, so I might hear the rest
+about the hippopotamus&mdash;but let that be.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?&rdquo; asked
+Danny of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. &ldquo;Have you been
+taking him to the Zoo? And for what?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have not,&rdquo; said Mrs. McCree. &ldquo;He sets by the windy all
+day. &rsquo;Tis little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all.
+I&rsquo;m thinkin&rsquo; they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks
+of grease without stoppin&rsquo; for the most of an hour. I looks to see if
+there&rsquo;s lard burnin&rsquo; in the fryin&rsquo; pan. There is not. He says
+I do not understand. &rsquo;Tis weary days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for
+a blind man, Danny. There was no better nor stronger than him when he had his
+two eyes. &rsquo;Tis a fine day, son. Injoy yeself ag&rsquo;inst the morning.
+There will be cold supper at six.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?&rdquo; asked Danny of Mike,
+the janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have not,&rdquo; said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher.
+&ldquo;But &rsquo;tis the only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists
+of outrages that I&rsquo;ve not been complained to about these two days. See
+the landlord. Or else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease?
+No, then?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It was the old man who spoke of it,&rdquo; said Danny. &ldquo;Likely
+there&rsquo;s nothing in it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into the
+heart of the district where Easter&mdash;modern Easter, in new, bright
+raiment&mdash;leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the
+blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving
+parterres of living flowers&mdash;so it seemed when your eye looked upon the
+Easter girl.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the background of
+the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The windows of the
+brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent creations of Flora, the
+sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked
+Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, Corrigan,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;is Easter? I know it comes the
+first time you&rsquo;re full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of
+March&mdash;but why? Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the
+Governor appoint it out of politics?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis an annual celebration,&rdquo; said Corrigan, with the
+judicial air of the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, &ldquo;peculiar to New
+York. It extends up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One
+Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion &rsquo;tis not political.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thanks,&rdquo; said Danny. &ldquo;And say&mdash;did you ever hear a man
+complain of hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nothing larger than sea turtles,&rdquo; said Corrigan, reflecting,
+&ldquo;and there was wood alcohol in that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously a
+Sunday and a festival day was his.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often that they
+hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made garments. That is why
+well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the griefs of the common people
+their most striking models. But when the Philistine would disport himself, the
+grimness of Melpomene, herself, attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set
+his jaw hard at Easter, and took his pleasure sadly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The family entrance of Dugan&rsquo;s café was feasible; so Danny yielded
+to the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark, linoleumed,
+humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the mysterious meaning
+of the springtime jubilee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, Tim,&rdquo; he said to the waiter, &ldquo;why do they have
+Easter?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Skiddoo!&rdquo; said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. &ldquo;Is that a
+new one? All right. Tony Pastor&rsquo;s for you last night, I guess. I give it
+up. What&rsquo;s the answer&mdash;two apples or a yard and a half?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From Dugan&rsquo;s Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in
+him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong diagnosis and
+decided that it was Katy Conlon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They pumped
+hands on the corner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up,&rdquo; said Katy.
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s wrong? Come away with me to church and be cheerful.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s doing at church?&rdquo; asked Danny.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven
+expectin&rsquo; you might come around to go.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What does this Easter stand for, Katy,&rdquo; asked Danny gloomily.
+&ldquo;Nobody seems to know.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nobody as blind as you,&rdquo; said Katy with spirit. &ldquo;You
+haven&rsquo;t even looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it&rsquo;s when all
+the girls put on new spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with
+me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will,&rdquo; said Danny. &ldquo;If this Easter is pulled off there,
+they ought to be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain&rsquo;t
+a beauty. The green roses are great.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke rapidly,
+for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner; but he knew his
+business. There was one word that controlled his theme&mdash;resurrection. Not
+a new creation; but a new life arising out of the old. The congregation had
+heard it often before. But there was a wonderful hat, a combination of sweet
+peas and lavender, in the sixth pew from the pulpit. It attracted much
+attention.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique in her
+sky-blue eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Are you coming along to the house?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;But
+don&rsquo;t mind me. I&rsquo;ll get there all right. You seem to be
+studyin&rsquo; a lot about something. All right. Will I see you at any time
+specially, Mr. McCree?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be around Wednesday night as usual,&rdquo; said Danny,
+turning and crossing the street.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny stopped two
+blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets, at the curb on the
+corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep in his soul something stirred
+so small, so fine, so keen and leavening that his hard fibres did not recognize
+it. It was something more tender than the April day, more subtle than the call
+of the senses, purer and deeper-rooted than the love of woman&mdash;for had he
+not turned away from green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year?
+And Danny did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to
+his dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow
+the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hippopotamus!&rdquo; he shouted to an elevated road pillar. &ldquo;Well,
+how is that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was
+driving at now.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hippopotamus! Wouldn&rsquo;t that send you to the Bronx! It&rsquo;s been
+a year since he heard it; and he didn&rsquo;t miss it so very far. We quit at
+469 B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn&rsquo;t have guessed
+what he was trying to get out of him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor
+supported.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on the
+sill.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Will that be you, lad?&rdquo; he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the outset of
+committing a good deed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?&rdquo;
+he snapped, viciously. &ldquo;Have I no right to come in?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ye&rsquo;re a faithful lad,&rdquo; said old man McCree, with a sigh.
+&ldquo;Is it evening yet?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt letters,
+&ldquo;The History of Greece.&rdquo; Dust was on it half an inch thick. He laid
+it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper. And then he
+gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Did I hear ye open the book?&rdquo; said old man McCree. &ldquo;Many and
+weary be the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great
+likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. &rsquo;Tis a fine day outside,
+lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair by the
+windy and me pipe.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
+hippopotamus,&rdquo; said Danny. &ldquo;The war began there. It kept something
+doing for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon,
+in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the battle of
+Cher-Cheronoea. I&rsquo;ll read it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree sat for
+an hour, listening.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree was
+slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man
+McCree&rsquo;s eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you hear our lad readin&rsquo; to me?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There is
+none finer in the land. My two eyes have come back to me again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After supper he said to Danny: &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis a happy day, this Easter. And
+now ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?&rdquo;
+said Danny, angrily. &ldquo;Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there
+is yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the
+kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire. Am I
+nothing in this house?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap05"></a>V<br />
+THE FIFTH WHEEL</h2>
+
+<p>
+The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They were
+alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth Avenue and
+Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked at the empty
+benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted them, and muttered to
+one another in a confusion of tongues. The Flatiron Building, with its impious,
+cloud-piercing architecture looming mistily above them on the opposite delta,
+might well have stood for the tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had
+been called by the winged walking delegate of the Lord.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the Preacher
+exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north wind doled out to
+him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a man. You deeded him to
+Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you credit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over the list
+of things one may do for one&rsquo;s fellow man, and had assumed for himself
+the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box on the nights of
+Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for other philanthropists to
+handle; and had they done their part as well, this wicked city might have
+become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all might snooze and snore the happy
+hours away, letting problem plays and the rent man and business go to the
+deuce.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small, dark mass
+of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth&rsquo;s monument. Now
+and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with conscientious exactness
+one would step forward and bestow upon the Preacher small bills or silver. Then
+a lieutenant of Scandinavian coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a
+lodging house with a squad of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted
+the crowd in terms beautifully devoid of eloquence&mdash;splendid with the
+deadly, accusative monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners
+fades you must hear one phrase of the Preacher&rsquo;s&mdash;the one that
+formed his theme that night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white
+ribbons in the world.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>&ldquo;No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky.&rdquo;</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to the
+Potter&rsquo;s Field.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless emulated the
+terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his coat collar. It was a
+well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed signs of having flattened
+themselves beneath the compelling goose. But, conscientiously, I must warn the
+milliner&rsquo;s apprentice who reads this, expecting a Reginald Montressor in
+straits, to peruse no further. The young man was no other than Thomas McQuade,
+ex-coachman, discharged for drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to
+the grimy ranks of the one-night bed seekers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family carriage,
+drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage is shaped like a
+bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van Smuythe holding a black
+sunshade the size of a New Year&rsquo;s Eve feather tickler. Before his
+downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays and was himself driven by
+Annie, the Van Smuythe lady&rsquo;s maid. But it is one of the saddest things
+about romance that a tight shoe or an empty commissary or an aching tooth will
+make a temporary heretic of any Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas&rsquo;s physical
+troubles were not few. Therefore, his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his
+lost lady&rsquo;s maid than it was by the fancied presence of certain
+non-existent things that his racked nerves almost convinced him were flying,
+dancing, crawling, and wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above and around
+the dismal campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of straight whisky
+and a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a
+psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by phantoms as
+he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and intercourse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own age,
+shabby but neat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?&rdquo; asked Thomas,
+with the freemasonic familiarity of the damned&mdash;&ldquo;Booze? That&rsquo;s
+mine. You don&rsquo;t look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was
+pushing the lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that
+ever made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how do
+you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy ex-coachman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;mine isn&rsquo;t exactly a case of drink.
+Unless we allow that Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the
+opinion of my unforgiving relatives. I&rsquo;ve been out of work for a year
+because I don&rsquo;t know how to work; and I&rsquo;ve been sick in Bellevue
+and other hospitals for months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I
+was turned out of the hospital yesterday. And I haven&rsquo;t a cent.
+That&rsquo;s my tale of woe.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tough luck,&rdquo; said Thomas. &ldquo;A man alone can pull through all
+right. But I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red, so
+smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that it drew
+the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and pinioned on its
+left side was an extra tire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became
+loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake of the
+flying car.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the
+Preacher&rsquo;s goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire, swung
+it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On both sides of
+the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving canes at the red car,
+pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with the lost tire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand an
+automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save his pride.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
+chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent sealskin
+coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner and a look
+in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be suggestive to the
+extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to higher denominations.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received the tire,
+placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman, and muttered to
+himself inscrutable words.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Strange&mdash;strange!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Once or twice even I,
+myself, have fancied that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be
+possible?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful Thomas.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
+if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
+Washington Square North?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oughtn&rsquo;t I to?&rdquo; replied Thomas. &ldquo;I lived there. Wish I
+did yet.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Step in please,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You have been expected.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a motor
+car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after the lap-robe
+had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its course, the peculiarity
+of the invitation lingered in his mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Maybe the guy hasn&rsquo;t got any change,&rdquo; was his diagnosis.
+&ldquo;Lots of these swell rounders don&rsquo;t lug about any ready money.
+Guess he&rsquo;ll dump me out when he gets to some joint where he can get cash
+on his mug. Anyhow, it&rsquo;s a cinch that I&rsquo;ve got that open-air bed
+convention beat to a finish.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself, to
+marvel at the surprises of life. &ldquo;Wonderful! amazing! strange!&rdquo; he
+repeated to himself constantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward a half
+block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front houses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Be kind enough to enter my house with me,&rdquo; said the sealskinned
+gentleman when they had alighted. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s going to dig up,
+sure,&rdquo; reflected Thomas, following him inside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a door to the
+left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness. Suddenly a
+luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly in the centre of an immense
+room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly appointed than any he had ever seen
+on the stage or read of in fairy tales.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with fantastic gold
+figures. At the rear end of the room were draped portières of dull gold
+spangled with silver crescents and stars. The furniture was of the costliest
+and rarest styles. The ex-coachman&rsquo;s feet sank into rugs as fleecy and
+deep as snowdrifts. There were three or four oddly shaped stands or tables
+covered with black velvet drapery.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one eye.
+With the other he looked for his imposing conductor&mdash;to find that he had
+disappeared.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;B&rsquo;gee!&rdquo; muttered Thomas, &ldquo;this listens like a spook
+shop. Shouldn&rsquo;t wonder if it ain&rsquo;t one of these Moravian
+Nights&rsquo; adventures that you read about. Wonder what became of the furry
+guy.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated globe
+slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant electric glow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of Hebe from a
+cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the terrifying and
+impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a crash. With the sound
+there was a click, and the room was flooded with light from a dozen frosted
+globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold portières parted and
+closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the room. He was tall and wore
+evening dress of perfect cut and accurate taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy,
+golden brown, rather long and wavy hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic,
+orientally occult eyes gave him a most impressive and striking appearance. If
+you can conceive a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah&rsquo;s throne-room advancing
+to greet a visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his
+manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his <i>d t&rsquo;s</i> to be mindful of
+his <i>p&rsquo;s</i> and <i>q&rsquo;s</i>. When he viewed this silken,
+polished, and somewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, doc,&rdquo; said he resentfully, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s a hot bird you
+keep on tap. I hope I didn&rsquo;t break anything. But I&rsquo;ve nearly got
+the williwalloos, and when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I
+took a snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the
+sideboard.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is merely a mechanical toy,&rdquo; said the gentleman with a wave
+of his hand. &ldquo;May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought
+you to my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with the
+psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to the point at
+once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know the Van Smuythe
+family, of Washington Square North.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Any silver missing?&rdquo; asked Thomas tartly. &ldquo;Any joolry
+displaced? Of course I know &rsquo;em. Any of the old ladies&rsquo; sunshades
+disappeared? Well, I know &rsquo;em. And then what?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wonderful!&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;Wonderful! Shall I come to believe
+in the Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you,&rdquo; he continued,
+&ldquo;that there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise
+you that very good fortune awaits you. We will see.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do they want me back?&rdquo; asked Thomas, with something of his old
+professional pride in his voice. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll promise to cut out the booze
+and do the right thing if they&rsquo;ll try me again. But how did you get wise,
+doc? B&rsquo;gee, it&rsquo;s the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with
+its flashlight owls and so forth.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two minutes.
+He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the chauffeur, who still
+waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious apartment, he sat by his guest
+and began to entertain him so well by his witty and genial converse that the
+poor Bed Liner almost forgot the cold streets from which he had been so
+recently and so singularly rescued. A servant brought some tender cold fowl and
+tea biscuits and a glass of miraculous wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of
+Arabia envelop him. Thus half an hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the
+returned motor car at the door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with
+another soft petition for a brief absence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front door and
+suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall through another door
+to the left and into a smaller room, which was screened and segregated from the
+larger front room by heavy, double portières. Here the furnishings were
+even more elegant and exquisitely tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid
+rosewood table were scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular
+instrument or toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She was
+fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump, took a chair a
+little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an attendant might have
+done.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco,&rdquo; said the elder woman,
+wearily. &ldquo;I hope you have something more definite than usual to say.
+I&rsquo;ve about lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have
+responded to your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon
+it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; said the professor, with his princeliest smile, &ldquo;the
+true Art cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes
+requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the crystal, the
+stars, the magic formul&aelig; of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of Po. But we have at
+last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean Chiroscope has been
+successful in our search.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The professor&rsquo;s voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in
+his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more interest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on
+it,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The words were these,&rdquo; said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his
+full magnificent height: &ldquo;<i>&lsquo;By the fifth wheel of the chariot he
+shall come.&rsquo;</i>&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t seen many chariots,&rdquo; said the lady, &ldquo;but I
+never saw one with five wheels.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Progress,&rdquo; said the professor&mdash;&ldquo;progress in science and
+mechanics has accomplished it&mdash;though, to be exact, we may speak of it
+only as an extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion.
+Madam, I repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only
+answer the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before your
+eyes the proof thereof.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;O professor!&rdquo; she cried anxiously&mdash;&ldquo;When?&mdash;where?
+Has he been found? Do not keep me in suspense.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes,&rdquo; said Professor
+Cherubusco, &ldquo;and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the
+true Art.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl when the
+enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
+welcome and restoration to favor?&rdquo; he asked, with his courteous, royal
+smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do I look bughouse?&rdquo; answered Thomas. &ldquo;Enough of the
+footback life for me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in
+her ways as a nut on a new axle.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear young man,&rdquo; said the other, &ldquo;she has been searching
+for you everywhere.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Great!&rdquo; said Thomas. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m on the job. That team of
+dropsical dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman
+like myself; but I&rsquo;ll take the job back, sure, doc. They&rsquo;re good
+people to be with.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now a change came o&rsquo;er the suave countenance of the Caliph of Bagdad.
+He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;May I ask what your name is?&rdquo; he said shortly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been looking for me,&rdquo; said Thomas, &ldquo;and
+don&rsquo;t know my name? You&rsquo;re a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one
+of the Central Office gumshoers. I&rsquo;m Thomas McQuade, of course; and
+I&rsquo;ve been chauffeur of the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They
+fired me a month ago for&mdash;well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I
+went broke on booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was
+standing in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.
+Now, what&rsquo;s the prize for the best answer to all this?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and dragged,
+without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was opened, and he was
+kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy, disillusionizing, humiliating
+impact of the stupendous Arabian&rsquo;s shoe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he hastened as
+fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Crazy guy,&rdquo; was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist.
+&ldquo;Just wanted to have some fun kiddin&rsquo;, I guess. He might have dug
+up a dollar, anyhow. Now I&rsquo;ve got to hurry up and get back to that gang
+of bum bed hunters before they all get preached to sleep.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of the
+homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the proper place
+of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file in front of him was
+the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals and something of a wife and
+child.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sorry to see you back again,&rdquo; said the young man, turning to speak
+to him. &ldquo;I hoped you had struck something better than this.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Me?&rdquo; said Thomas. &ldquo;Oh, I just took a run around the block to
+keep warm! I see the public ain&rsquo;t lending to the Lord very fast
+to-night.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In this kind of weather,&rdquo; said the young man, &ldquo;charity
+avails itself of the proverb, and both begins and ends at home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of petition
+to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes still registered
+above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with wind-tossed
+drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight toward him from the
+opposite sidewalk. &ldquo;Annie!&rdquo; he yelled, and ran toward her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You fool, you fool!&rdquo; she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging
+upon his neck, &ldquo;why did you do it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Stuff,&rdquo; explained Thomas briefly. &ldquo;You know. But
+subsequently nit. Not a drop.&rdquo; He led her to the curb. &ldquo;How did you
+happen to see me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I came to find you,&rdquo; said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve.
+&ldquo;Oh, you big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you
+here.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Professor Ch&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash; Don&rsquo;t know the guy. What
+saloon does he work in?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found
+you with the Chaldean telescope, he said.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a liar,&rdquo; said Thomas. &ldquo;I never had it. He never
+saw me have anybody&rsquo;s telescope.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Annie,&rdquo; said Thoms solicitously, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re giving me the
+wheels now. If I had a chariot I&rsquo;d have gone to bed in it long ago. And
+without any singing and preaching for a nightcap, either.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she&rsquo;ll take you back. I
+begged her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;
+and your old room over the stable is ready.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Great!&rdquo; said Thomas earnestly. &ldquo;You are It, Annie. But when
+did these stunts happen?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;To-night at Professor Cherubusco&rsquo;s. He sent his automobile for the
+Missis, and she took me along. I&rsquo;ve been there with her before.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the professor&rsquo;s line?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows
+everything. But he hasn&rsquo;t done the Missis any good yet, though
+she&rsquo;s paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told
+him we could find you here.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a family secret,&rdquo; said Annie. &ldquo;And now
+you&rsquo;ve asked enough questions. Come on home, you big fool.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Got any dough with you, Annie?&rdquo; he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Annie looked at him sharply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, I know what that look means,&rdquo; said Thomas. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re
+wrong. Not another drop. But there&rsquo;s a guy that was standing next to me
+in the bed line over there that&rsquo;s in bad shape. He&rsquo;s the right
+kind, and he&rsquo;s got wives or kids or something, and he&rsquo;s on the sick
+list. No booze. If you could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a
+decent bed I&rsquo;d like it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Annie&rsquo;s fingers began to wiggle in her purse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sure, I&rsquo;ve got money,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Lots of it. Twelve
+dollars.&rdquo; And then she added, with woman&rsquo;s ineradicable suspicion
+of vicarious benevolence: &ldquo;Bring him here and let me see him
+first.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As the two
+drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Walter&mdash; Oh&mdash;Mr. Walter!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is that you, Annie?&rdquo; said the young man meekly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, Mr. Walter!&mdash;and the Missis hunting high and low for
+you!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Does mother want to see me?&rdquo; he asked, with a flush coming out on
+his pale cheek.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She&rsquo;s been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see
+you. She wants you to come home. She&rsquo;s tried police and morgues and
+lawyers and advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she
+took up clearvoyants. You&rsquo;ll go right home, won&rsquo;t you, Mr.
+Walter?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gladly, if she wants me,&rdquo; said the young man. &ldquo;Three years
+is a long time. I suppose I&rsquo;ll have to walk up, though, unless the street
+cars are giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of bays
+we used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They have,&rdquo; said Thomas, feelingly. &ldquo;And they&rsquo;ll have
+&rsquo;em ten years from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus
+is one hundred and forty-nine years. I&rsquo;m the coachman. Just got my
+reappointment five minutes ago. Let&rsquo;s all ride up in a surface
+car&mdash;that is&mdash;er&mdash;if Annie will pay the fares.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to pay the
+conductor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of
+money around,&rdquo; said Thomas sarcastically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In that purse,&rdquo; said Annie decidedly, &ldquo;is exactly $11.85. I
+shall take every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the
+greatest man in the world.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Thomas, &ldquo;I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to
+pipe off things the way he does. I&rsquo;m glad his spooks told him where you
+could find me. If you&rsquo;ll give me his address, some day I&rsquo;ll go up
+there, myself, and shake his hand.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt an
+abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, Annie,&rdquo; said he confidentially, maybe it&rsquo;s one of the
+last dreams of booze, but I&rsquo;ve a kind of a recollection of riding in an
+automobile with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc
+lights. He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front
+steps. If it was the <i>d t&rsquo;s</i>, why am I so sore?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Shut up, you fool,&rdquo; said Annie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If I could find that funny guy&rsquo;s house,&rdquo; said Thomas, in
+conclusion, &ldquo;I&rsquo;d go up there some day and punch his nose for
+him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap06"></a>VI<br />
+THE POET AND THE PEASANT</h2>
+
+<p>
+The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion with
+nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the song of
+birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak dinner in
+his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Too artificial.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and swallowed
+indignation with slippery forkfuls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a well-arrived
+writer of fiction&mdash;a man who had trod on asphalt all his life, and who had
+never looked upon bucolic scenes except with sensations of disgust from the
+windows of express trains.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Conant wrote a poem and called it &ldquo;The Doe and the Brook.&rdquo; It was a
+fine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had strayed
+with Amaryllis only as far as the florist&rsquo;s windows, and whose sole
+ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter. Conant signed this
+poem, and we sent it to the same editor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But this has very little to do with the story.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next morning,
+a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped slowly up Forty-second
+Street.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and hair the
+exact color of the little orphan&rsquo;s (afterward discovered to be the
+earl&rsquo;s daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney&rsquo;s plays. His trousers were
+corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his back. One
+bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly, though in vain, at
+his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating the suspicion that it had
+been ravaged from a former equine possessor. In his hand was a
+valise&mdash;description of it is an impossible task; a Boston man would not
+have carried his lunch and law books to his office in it. And above one ear, in
+his hair, was a wisp of hay&mdash;the rustic&rsquo;s letter of credit, his
+badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of the Garden of Eden lingering to
+shame the gold-brick men.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw stranger
+stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall buildings. At this they
+ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been done so often. A few
+glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney &ldquo;attraction&rdquo; or
+brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his memory. But for the most
+part he was ignored. Even the newsboys looked bored when he scampered like a
+circus clown out of the way of cabs and street cars.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At Eighth Avenue stood &ldquo;Bunco Harry,&rdquo; with his dyed mustache and
+shiny, good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
+sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who had
+stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Too thick, pal,&rdquo; he said, critically&mdash;&ldquo;too thick by a
+couple of inches. I don&rsquo;t know what your lay is; but you&rsquo;ve got the
+properties too thick. That hay, now&mdash;why, they don&rsquo;t even allow that
+on Proctor&rsquo;s circuit any more.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you, mister,&rdquo; said the green one.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not lookin&rsquo; for any circus. I&rsquo;ve just run down
+from Ulster County to look at the town, bein&rsquo; that the hayin&rsquo;s over
+with. Gosh! but it&rsquo;s a whopper. I thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins;
+but this here town is five times as big.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, well,&rdquo; said &ldquo;Bunco Harry,&rdquo; raising his eyebrows,
+&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t mean to butt in. You don&rsquo;t have to tell. I thought
+you ought to tone down a little, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success
+at your graft, whatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t mind having a glass of lager beer,&rdquo; acknowledged
+the other.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They went to a café frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty eyes,
+and sat at their drinks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad I come across you, mister,&rdquo; said Haylocks.
+&ldquo;How&rsquo;d you like to play a game or two of seven-up? I&rsquo;ve got
+the keerds.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He fished them out of Noah&rsquo;s valise&mdash;a rare, inimitable deck, greasy
+with bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bunco Harry&rdquo; laughed loud and briefly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not for me, sport,&rdquo; he said, firmly. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t go
+against that make-up of yours for a cent. But I still say you&rsquo;ve overdone
+it. The Reubs haven&rsquo;t dressed like that since &rsquo;79. I doubt if you
+could work Brooklyn for a key-winding watch with that layout.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, you needn&rsquo;t think I ain&rsquo;t got the money,&rdquo; boasted
+Haylocks. He drew forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup,
+and laid it on the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Got that for my share of grandmother&rsquo;s farm,&rdquo; he announced.
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s $950 in that roll. Thought I&rsquo;d come to the city and
+look around for a likely business to go into.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bunco Harry&rdquo; took up the roll of money and looked at it with
+almost respect in his smiling eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen worse,&rdquo; he said, critically. &ldquo;But
+you&rsquo;ll never do it in them clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a
+black suit and a straw hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about
+Pittsburg and freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to
+work off phony stuff like that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s his line?&rdquo; asked two or three shifty-eyed men of
+&ldquo;Bunco Harry&rdquo; after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and
+departed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The queer, I guess,&rdquo; said Harry. &ldquo;Or else he&rsquo;s one of
+Jerome&rsquo;s men. Or some guy with a new graft. He&rsquo;s too much hayseed.
+Maybe that his&mdash;I wonder now&mdash;oh, no, it couldn&rsquo;t have been
+real money.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived into a
+dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight of him their
+eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated rusticity became
+apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Haylocks swung his valise across the bar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Keep that a while for me, mister,&rdquo; he said, chewing at the end of
+a virulent claybank cigar. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be back after I knock around a
+spell. And keep your eye on it, for there&rsquo;s $950 inside of it, though
+maybe you wouldn&rsquo;t think so to look at me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Somewhere outside a phonograph struck up a band piece, and Haylocks was off for
+it, his coat-tail buttons flopping in the middle of his back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Divvy, Mike,&rdquo; said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at
+one another.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Honest, now,&rdquo; said the bartender, kicking the valise to one side.
+&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t think I&rsquo;d fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he
+ain&rsquo;t no jay. One of McAdoo&rsquo;s come-on squad, I guess. He&rsquo;s a
+shine if he made himself up. There ain&rsquo;t no parts of the country now
+where they dress like that since they run rural free delivery to Providence,
+Rhode Island. If he&rsquo;s got nine-fifty in that valise it&rsquo;s a
+ninety-eight cent Waterbury that&rsquo;s stopped at ten minutes to ten.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse he returned
+for his valise. And then down Broadway he gallivanted, culling the sights with
+his eager blue eyes. But still and evermore Broadway rejected him with curt
+glances and sardonic smiles. He was the oldest of the &ldquo;gags&rdquo; that
+the city must endure. He was so flagrantly impossible, so ultra rustic, so
+exaggerated beyond the most freakish products of the barnyard, the hayfield and
+the vaudeville stage, that he excited only weariness and suspicion. And the
+wisp of hay in his hair was so genuine, so fresh and redolent of the meadows,
+so clamorously rural that even a shell-game man would have put up his peas and
+folded his table at the sight of it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Haylocks seated himself upon a flight of stone steps and once more exhumed his
+roll of yellow-backs from the valise. The outer one, a twenty, he shucked off
+and beckoned to a newsboy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Son,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;run somewhere and get this changed for me.
+I&rsquo;m mighty nigh out of chicken feed. I guess you&rsquo;ll get a nickel if
+you&rsquo;ll hurry up.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A hurt look appeared through the dirt on the newsy&rsquo;s face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Aw, watchert&rsquo;ink! G&rsquo;wan and get yer funny bill changed
+yerself. Dey ain&rsquo;t no farm clothes yer got on. G&rsquo;wan wit yer stage
+money.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He saw Haylocks,
+and his expression suddenly grew cold and virtuous.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mister,&rdquo; said the rural one. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard of places in
+this here town where a fellow could have a good game of old sledge or peg a
+card at keno. I got $950 in this valise, and I come down from old Ulster to see
+the sights. Know where a fellow could get action on about $9 or $10? I&rsquo;m
+goin&rsquo; to have some sport, and then maybe I&rsquo;ll buy out a business of
+some kind.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The steerer looked pained, and investigated a white speck on his left
+forefinger nail.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cheese it, old man,&rdquo; he murmured, reproachfully. &ldquo;The
+Central Office must be bughouse to send you out looking like such a gillie. You
+couldn&rsquo;t get within two blocks of a sidewalk crap game in them Tony
+Pastor props. The recent Mr. Scotty from Death Valley has got you beat a
+crosstown block in the way of Elizabethan scenery and mechanical accessories.
+Let it be skiddoo for yours. Nay, I know of no gilded halls where one may bet a
+patrol wagon on the ace.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rebuffed once again by the great city that is so swift to detect
+artificialities, Haylocks sat upon the curb and presented his thoughts to hold
+a conference.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s my clothes,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;durned if it ain&rsquo;t.
+They think I&rsquo;m a hayseed and won&rsquo;t have nothin&rsquo; to do with
+me. Nobody never made fun of this hat in Ulster County. I guess if you want
+folks to notice you in New York you must dress up like they do.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through their noses
+and rubbed their hands and ran the tape line ecstatically over the bulge in his
+inside pocket where reposed a red nubbin of corn with an even number of rows.
+And messengers bearing parcels and boxes streamed to his hotel on Broadway
+within the lights of Long Acre.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At 9 o&rsquo;clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom Ulster
+County would have foresworn. Bright tan were his shoes; his hat the latest
+block. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue silk
+handkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant English walking
+coat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond hair was trimmed
+close; the wisp of hay was gone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For an instant he stood, resplendent, with the leisurely air of a boulevardier
+concocting in his mind the route for his evening pleasures. And then he turned
+down the gay, bright street with the easy and graceful tread of a millionaire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in the city
+had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with gray eyes picked
+two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from the row of loungers in
+front of the hotel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The juiciest jay I&rsquo;ve seen in six months,&rdquo; said the man with
+gray eyes. &ldquo;Come along.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh Street
+Police Station with the story of his wrongs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nine hundred and fifty dollars,&rdquo; he gasped, &ldquo;all my share of
+grandmother&rsquo;s farm.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust Valley
+farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the strong-arm
+gentlemen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was received
+over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is decorated with
+the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;When I read the first line of &lsquo;The Doe and the
+Brook,&rsquo;&rdquo; said the editor, &ldquo;I knew it to be the work of one
+whose life has been heart to heart with Nature. The finished art of the line
+did not blind me to that fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as
+if a wild, free child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion
+and walk down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thanks,&rdquo; said Conant. &ldquo;I suppose the check will be round on
+Thursday, as usual.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your choice of
+&ldquo;Stay on the Farm&rdquo; or &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t Write Poetry.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap07"></a>VII<br />
+THE ROBE OF PEACE</h2>
+
+<p>
+Mysteries follow one another so closely in a great city that the reading public
+and the friends of Johnny Bellchambers have ceased to marvel at his sudden and
+unexplained disappearance nearly a year ago. This particular mystery has now
+been cleared up, but the solution is so strange and incredible to the mind of
+the average man that only a select few who were in close touch with
+Bellchambers will give it full credence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically inner
+circle of the <i>élite</i>. Without any of the ostentation of the
+fashionable ones who endeavor to attract notice by eccentric display of wealth
+and show he still was <i>au fait</i> in everything that gave deserved lustre to
+his high position in the ranks of society.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Especially did he shine in the matter of dress. In this he was the despair of
+imitators. Always correct, exquisitely groomed, and possessed of an unlimited
+wardrobe, he was conceded to be the best-dressed man in New York, and,
+therefore, in America. There was not a tailor in Gotham who would not have
+deemed it a precious boon to have been granted the privilege of making
+Bellchambers&rsquo; clothes without a cent of pay. As he wore them, they would
+have been a priceless advertisement. Trousers were his especial passion. Here
+nothing but perfection would he notice. He would have worn a patch as quickly
+as he would have overlooked a wrinkle. He kept a man in his apartments always
+busy pressing his ample supply. His friends said that three hours was the limit
+of time that he would wear these garments without exchanging.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bellchambers disappeared very suddenly. For three days his absence brought no
+alarm to his friends, and then they began to operate the usual methods of
+inquiry. All of them failed. He had left absolutely no trace behind. Then the
+search for a motive was instituted, but none was found. He had no enemies, he
+had no debts, there was no woman. There were several thousand dollars in his
+bank to his credit. He had never showed any tendency toward mental
+eccentricity; in fact, he was of a particularly calm and well-balanced
+temperament. Every means of tracing the vanished man was made use of, but
+without avail. It was one of those cases&mdash;more numerous in late
+years&mdash;where men seem to have gone out like the flame of a candle, leaving
+not even a trail of smoke as a witness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In May, Tom Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam, two of Bellchambers&rsquo; old friends,
+went for a little run on the other side. While pottering around in Italy and
+Switzerland, they happened, one day, to hear of a monastery in the Swiss Alps
+that promised something outside of the ordinary tourist-beguiling attractions.
+The monastery was almost inaccessible to the average sightseer, being on an
+extremely rugged and precipitous spur of the mountains. The attractions it
+possessed but did not advertise were, first, an exclusive and divine cordial
+made by the monks that was said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse. Next
+a huge brass bell so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceased sounding
+since it was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it was asserted that
+no Englishman had ever set foot within its walls. Eyres and Gilliam decided
+that these three reports called for investigation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It took them two days with the aid of two guides to reach the monastery of St.
+Gondrau. It stood upon a frozen, wind-swept crag with the snow piled about it
+in treacherous, drifting masses. They were hospitably received by the brothers
+whose duty it was to entertain the infrequent guest. They drank of the precious
+cordial, finding it rarely potent and reviving. They listened to the great,
+ever-echoing bell, and learned that they were pioneer travelers, in those gray
+stone walls, over the Englishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly every
+corner of the earth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At three o&rsquo;clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young Gothamites
+stood with good Brother Cristofer in the great, cold hallway of the monastery
+to watch the monks march past on their way to the refectory. They came slowly,
+pacing by twos, with their heads bowed, treading noiselessly with sandaled feet
+upon the rough stone flags. As the procession slowly filed past, Eyres suddenly
+gripped Gilliam by the arm. &ldquo;Look,&rdquo; he whispered, eagerly,
+&ldquo;at the one just opposite you now&mdash;the one on this side, with his
+hand at his waist&mdash;if that isn&rsquo;t Johnny Bellchambers then I never
+saw him!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gilliam saw and recognized the lost glass of fashion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What the deuce,&rdquo; said he, wonderingly, &ldquo;is old Bell doing
+here? Tommy, it surely can&rsquo;t be he! Never heard of Bell having a turn for
+the religious. Fact is, I&rsquo;ve heard him say things when a four-in-hand
+didn&rsquo;t seem to tie up just right that would bring him up for
+court-martial before any church.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s Bell, without a doubt,&rdquo; said Eyres, firmly, &ldquo;or
+I&rsquo;m pretty badly in need of an oculist. But think of Johnny Bellchambers,
+the Royal High Chancellor of swell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here
+in cold storage doing penance in a snuff-colored bathrobe! I can&rsquo;t get it
+straight in my mind. Let&rsquo;s ask the jolly old boy that&rsquo;s doing the
+honors.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the monks had
+passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one they referred.
+Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned their worldly names
+when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to speak with one of the
+brothers? If they would come to the refectory and indicate the one they wished
+to see, the reverend abbot in authority would, doubtless, permit it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother
+Cristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They saw his
+face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never looking up, eating
+broth from a coarse, brown bowl.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two travelers by
+the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to come. When he did
+come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and Gilliam looked at him in
+perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny Bellchambers, but he had a different
+look. Upon his smooth-shaven face was an expression of ineffable peace, of
+rapturous attainment, of perfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly
+erect, his eyes shone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and
+well-groomed as in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now
+he seemed clothed in but a single garment&mdash;a long robe of rough brown
+cloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose folds
+nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old ease and
+grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that meeting it was not
+manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no seats; they stood to
+converse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Glad to see you, old man,&rdquo; said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly.
+&ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after
+all. Society&rsquo;s an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl
+and retire to&mdash;er&mdash;contemplation and&mdash;er&mdash;prayer and hymns,
+and those things.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, cut that, Tommy,&rdquo; said Bellchambers, cheerfully.
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid that I&rsquo;ll pass around the plate. I go
+through these thing-um-bobs with the rest of these old boys because they are
+the rules. I&rsquo;m Brother Ambrose here, you know. I&rsquo;m given just ten
+minutes to talk to you fellows. That&rsquo;s rather a new design in waistcoats
+you have on, isn&rsquo;t it, Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway
+now?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the same old Johnny,&rdquo; said Gilliam, joyfully.
+&ldquo;What the devil&mdash;I mean why&mdash; Oh, confound it! what did you do
+it for, old man?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Peel the bathrobe,&rdquo; pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, &ldquo;and go
+back with us. The old crowd&rsquo;ll go wild to see you. This isn&rsquo;t in
+your line, Bell. I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet
+when you shook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a
+dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice
+factory. You&rsquo;ll get catarrh here, Johnny&mdash;and&mdash; My God! you
+haven&rsquo;t any socks on!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You fellows don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; he said, soothingly.
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s nice of you to want me to go back, but the old life will
+never know me again. I have reached here the goal of all my ambitions. I am
+entirely happy and contented. Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days.
+You see this robe that I wear?&rdquo; Bellchambers caressingly touched the
+straight-hanging garment: &ldquo;At last I have found something that will not
+bag at the knees. I have attained&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated through the
+monastery. It must have been a summons to immediate devotions, for Brother
+Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the chamber without another word. A
+slight wave of his hand as he passed through the stone doorway seemed to say a
+farewell to his old friends. They left the monastery without seeing him again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought back with
+them from their latest European tour.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap08"></a>VIII<br />
+THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT</h2>
+
+<p>
+The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is a
+conscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is the Western
+Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from speculating in town lots
+on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden toys in Connecticut, made by
+hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to a pulp.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for a rest.
+He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the wilderness business
+is about as much rest and pleasure to him as sliding down the bumps at Coney
+would be to President Taft. &ldquo;Give me,&rdquo; says Pogue, &ldquo;a big
+city for my vacation. Especially New York. I&rsquo;m not much fond of New
+Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the globe where I don&rsquo;t
+find any.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places. One is
+a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads books about his
+hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at the other&mdash;his hall
+bedroom in Eighteenth Street&mdash;where he sat in his stocking feet trying to
+pluck &ldquo;The Banks of the Wabash&rdquo; out of a small zither. Four years
+he has practised this tune without arriving near enough to cast the longest
+trout line to the water&rsquo;s edge. On the dresser lay a blued-steel
+Colt&rsquo;s forty-five and a tight roll of tens and twenties large enough
+around to belong to the spring rattlesnake-story class. A chambermaid with a
+room-cleaning air fluttered nearby in the hall, unable to enter or to flee,
+scandalized by the stocking feet, aghast at the Colt&rsquo;s, yet powerless,
+with her metropolitan instincts, to remove herself beyond the magic influence
+of the yellow-hued roll.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker or more
+candid in his conversation. Beside his expression the cry of Henry James for
+lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have seemed like a Chaldean
+cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession with pride, for he considered
+it an art. And I was curious enough to ask him whether he had known any women
+who followed it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ladies?&rdquo; said Pogue, with Western chivalry. &ldquo;Well, not to
+any great extent. They don&rsquo;t amount to much in special lines of graft,
+because they&rsquo;re all so busy in general lines. What? Why, they have to.
+Who&rsquo;s got the money in the world? The men. Did you ever know a man to
+give a woman a dollar without any consideration? A man will shell out his dust
+to another man free and easy and gratis. But if he drops a penny in one of the
+machines run by the Madam Eve&rsquo;s Daughters&rsquo; Amalgamated Association
+and the pineapple chewing gum don&rsquo;t fall out when he pulls the lever you
+can hear him kick to the superintendent four blocks away. Man is the hardest
+proposition a woman has to go up against. He&rsquo;s the low-grade one, and she
+has to work overtime to make him pay. Two times out of five she&rsquo;s salted.
+She can&rsquo;t put in crushers and costly machinery. He&rsquo;d notice
+&rsquo;em and be onto the game. They have to pan out what they get, and it
+hurts their tender hands. Some of &rsquo;em are natural sluice troughs and can
+carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones have to depend on signed
+letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo walk, cowhide whips, ability to
+cook, sentimental juries, conversational powers, silk underskirts, ancestry,
+rouge, anonymous letters, violet sachet powders, witnesses, revolvers,
+pneumatic forms, carbolic acid, moonlight, cold cream and the evening
+newspapers.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are outrageous, Ferg,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Surely there is none of
+this &lsquo;graft&rsquo; as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious
+matrimonial union!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Pogue, &ldquo;nothing that would justify you every
+time in calling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a
+vaudeville manager on a dead run. But it&rsquo;s this way: Suppose you&rsquo;re
+a Fifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and
+cappers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You come home at night and bring a $9,000,000 diamond brooch to the lady
+who&rsquo;s staked you for a claim. You hand it over. She says, &lsquo;Oh,
+George!&rsquo; and looks to see if it&rsquo;s backed. She comes up and kisses
+you. You&rsquo;ve waited for it. You get it. All right. It&rsquo;s graft.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But I&rsquo;m telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and
+she suggested corn in all of its phases. Her hair was as yellow as the silk;
+her form was as tall and graceful as a stalk in the low grounds during a wet
+summer; her eyes were as big and startling as bunions, and green was her
+favorite color.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On my last trip into the cool recesses of your sequestered city I met a
+human named Vaucross. He was worth&mdash;that is, he had a million. He told me
+he was in business on the street. &lsquo;A sidewalk merchant?&rsquo; says I,
+sarcastic. &lsquo;Exactly,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;Senior partner of a paving
+concern.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I kind of took to him. For this reason, I met him on Broadway one night
+when I was out of heart, luck, tobacco and place. He was all silk hat, diamonds
+and front. He was all front. If you had gone behind him you would have only
+looked yourself in the face. I looked like a cross between Count Tolstoy and a
+June lobster. I was out of luck. I had&mdash;but let me lay my eyes on that
+dealer again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Vaucross stopped and talked to me a few minutes and then he took me to a
+high-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then some Beethoven,
+and Bordelaise sauce, and cussing in French, and frangipangi, and some hauteur
+and cigarettes. When I am flush I know them places.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I declare, I must have looked as bad as a magazine artist sitting there
+without any money and my hair all rumpled like I was booked to read a chapter
+from &lsquo;Elsie&rsquo;s School Days&rsquo; at a Brooklyn Bohemian smoker. But
+Vaucross treated me like a bear hunter&rsquo;s guide. He wasn&rsquo;t afraid of
+hurting the waiter&rsquo;s feelings.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Mr. Pogue,&rsquo; he explains to me, &lsquo;I am using
+you.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Go on,&rsquo; says I; &lsquo;I hope you don&rsquo;t wake
+up.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And then he tells me, you know, the kind of man he was. He was a New
+Yorker. His whole ambition was to be noticed. He wanted to be conspicuous. He
+wanted people to point him out and bow to him, and tell others who he was. He
+said it had been the desire of his life always. He didn&rsquo;t have but a
+million, so he couldn&rsquo;t attract attention by spending money. He said he
+tried to get into public notice one time by planting a little public square on
+the east side with garlic for free use of the poor; but Carnegie heard of it,
+and covered it over at once with a library in the Gaelic language. Three times
+he had jumped in the way of automobiles; but the only result was five broken
+ribs and a notice in the papers that an unknown man, five feet ten, with four
+amalgam-filled teeth, supposed to be the last of the famous Red Leary gang had
+been run over.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Ever try the reporters,&rsquo; I asked him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Last month,&rsquo; says Mr. Vaucross, &lsquo;my expenditure for
+lunches to reporters was $124.80.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Get anything out of that?&rsquo; I asks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;That reminds me,&rsquo; says he; &lsquo;add $8.50 for pepsin.
+Yes, I got indigestion.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;How am I supposed to push along your scramble for
+prominence?&rsquo; I inquires. &lsquo;Contrast?&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Something of that sort to-night,&rsquo; says Vaucross. &lsquo;It
+grieves me; but I am forced to resort to eccentricity.&rsquo; And here he drops
+his napkin in his soup and rises up and bows to a gent who is devastating a
+potato under a palm across the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;The Police Commissioner,&rsquo; says my climber, gratified.
+&lsquo;Friend&rsquo;, says I, in a hurry, &lsquo;have ambitions but don&rsquo;t
+kick a rung out of your ladder. When you use me as a stepping stone to salute
+the police you spoil my appetite on the grounds that I may be degraded and
+incriminated. Be thoughtful.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;At the Quaker City squab en casserole the idea about Artemisia Blye
+comes to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,&rsquo; says
+I&mdash;&lsquo;a column or two every day in all of &rsquo;em and your picture
+in most of &rsquo;em for a week. How much would it be worth to you?&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Ten thousand dollars,&rsquo; says Vaucross, warm in a minute.
+&lsquo;But no murder,&rsquo; says he; &lsquo;and I won&rsquo;t wear pink pants
+at a cotillon.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t ask you to,&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;This is
+honorable, stylish and uneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and
+some other beans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I
+telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple of
+photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth Presbyterian
+Church in the morning, and got some transportation and $80. She stopped in
+Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior and a valentine to the
+vice-president of a trust company for a mileage book and a package of
+five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all
+décolletée and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to
+dinner in one of these New York feminine apartment houses where a man
+can&rsquo;t get in unless he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder
+cigarettes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;She&rsquo;s a stunner,&rsquo; says Vaucross when he saw her.
+&lsquo;They&rsquo;ll give her a two-column cut sure.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business straight
+through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and display and
+emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to nothing as far as his
+ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a white tie and patent leather
+pumps pouring greenbacks through the large end of a cornucopia to purchase
+nutriment and heartsease for tall, willowy blondes in New York is as common a
+sight as blue turtles in delirium tremens. But he was to write her love
+letters&mdash;the worst kind of love letters, such as your wife publishes after
+you are dead&mdash;every day. At the end of the month he was to drop her, and
+she would bring suit for $100,000 for breach of promise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Miss Artemisia was to get $10,000. If she won the suit that was all; and
+if she lost she was to get it anyhow. There was a signed contract to that
+effect.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sometimes they had me out with &rsquo;em, but not often. I
+couldn&rsquo;t keep up to their style. She used to pull out his notes and
+criticize them like bills of lading.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Say, you!&rsquo; she&rsquo;d say. &lsquo;What do you call
+this&mdash;letter to a Hardware Merchant from His Nephew on Learning that His
+Aunt Has Nettlerash? You Eastern duffers know as much about writing love
+letters as a Kansas grasshopper does about tugboats. &ldquo;My dear Miss
+Blye!&rdquo;&mdash;wouldn&rsquo;t that put pink icing and a little red sugar
+bird on your bridal cake? How long do you expect to hold an audience in a
+court-room with that kind of stuff? You want to get down to business, and call
+me &ldquo;Tweedlums Babe&rdquo; and &ldquo;Honeysuckle,&rdquo; and sign
+yourself &ldquo;Mama&rsquo;s Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy&rdquo; if you want any
+limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs. Get sappy.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His notes
+read like something or other in the original. I could see a jury sitting up,
+and women tearing one another&rsquo;s hats to hear &rsquo;em read. And I could
+see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop Cranmer or
+the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever enjoyed. He seemed mighty pleased
+at the prospects.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn
+restaurant and watched &rsquo;em. A process-server walked in and handed
+Vaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at &rsquo;em; and he looked
+as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent cigar, for I
+knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;About two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood Vaucross
+and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging&mdash;yes, sir, clinging&mdash;to his
+arm. And they tells me they&rsquo;d been out and got married. And they
+articulated some trivial cadences about love and such. And they laid down a
+bundle on the table and said &lsquo;Good night&rsquo; and left.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And that&rsquo;s why I say,&rdquo; concluded Ferguson Pogue, &ldquo;that
+a woman is too busy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft
+such as is given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great
+success in special lines.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What was in the bundle that they left?&rdquo; I asked, with my usual
+curiosity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why,&rdquo; said Ferguson, &ldquo;there was a scalper&rsquo;s railroad
+ticket as far as Kansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross&rsquo;s old
+pants.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap09"></a>IX<br />
+THE CALL OF THE TAME</h2>
+
+<p>
+When the inauguration was accomplished&mdash;the proceedings were made smooth
+by the presence of the Rough Riders&mdash;it is well known that a herd of those
+competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The newspaper
+reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats and leather belts
+that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed with the visitors. No
+damage was done beyond the employment of the wonderful plural
+&ldquo;tenderfeet&rdquo; in each of the scribe&rsquo;s stories. The Westerners
+mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third story, yawned at
+Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel corridors, and altogether
+looked as bored and dejected as a member of Ye Ancient and Honorable Artillery
+separated during a sham battle from his valet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy&rsquo;s Gentlemen of the
+Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue&rsquo;s rush hour swept him away from the
+company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts filled
+his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky deafened him. The
+lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes confused his vision.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier&rsquo;s first impulse
+was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the disturbance
+was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with a grin into a
+doorway.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West was not
+visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their eyes! The suit of
+black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the bright blue four-in-hand,
+factory tied; the low, turned-down collar, pattern of the days of Seymour and
+Blair, white glazed as the letters on the window of the
+open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the out-curve at the knees from
+the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of the half-closed right thumb and fingers
+from the stiff hold upon the circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan
+that the hottest sun of Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes
+that unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they were
+being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity of
+expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have not intruded upon
+him nearer than a day&rsquo;s ride&mdash;these brands of the West were set upon
+Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat, gentle reader&mdash;just
+like those the Madison Square Post Office mail carriers wear when they go up to
+Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan cattle,
+seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him a buffet upon his
+collar-bone that sent him reeling against a wall.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who has
+suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But he looked
+at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration of love and
+affection after the manner of the West, which greets its friends with contumely
+and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its enemies in decorum and order,
+such as the judicious placing of the welcoming bullet demands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;God in the mountains!&rdquo; cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the
+foreleg of his cull. &ldquo;Can this be Longhorn Merritt?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The other man was&mdash;oh, look on Broadway any day for the
+pattern&mdash;business man&mdash;latest rolled-brim derby&mdash;good barber,
+business, digestion and tailor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Greenbrier Nye!&rdquo; he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten
+him. &ldquo;My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to&mdash;oh,
+to be sure&mdash;the inaugural ceremonies&mdash;I remember you joined the Rough
+Riders. You must come and have luncheon with me, of course.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the size, shape
+and color of a McClellan saddle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Longy,&rdquo; he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic,
+&ldquo;what have they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen. They done
+made you into an inmate of the city directory. You never made no such Johnny
+Branch execration of yourself as that out on the Gila. &lsquo;Come and have
+lunching with me!&rsquo; You never defined grub by any such terms of reproach
+in them days.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been living in New York seven years,&rdquo; said Merritt.
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s been eight since we punched cows together in Old Man
+Garcia&rsquo;s outfit. Well, let&rsquo;s go to a café, anyhow. It sounds
+good to hear it called &lsquo;grub?&rsquo; again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by a
+natural law, to the bar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Speak up,&rdquo; invited Greenbrier.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A dry Martini,&rdquo; said Merritt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, Lord!&rdquo; cried Greenbrier; &ldquo;and yet me and you once saw
+the same pink Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in
+Cañon Diablo! A dry&mdash;but let that pass. Whiskey straight&mdash;and
+they&rsquo;re on you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Merritt smiled, and paid.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They lunched in a small extension of the dining room that connected with the
+café. Merritt dexterously diverted his friend&rsquo;s choice, that
+hovered over ham and eggs, to a purée of celery, a salmon cutlet, a
+partridge pie and a desirable salad.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On the day,&rdquo; said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, &ldquo;when
+I can&rsquo;t hold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I
+ain&rsquo;t seen in eight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1
+o&rsquo;clock on the third day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me
+forty times over a 640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Right, old man,&rdquo; laughed Merritt. &ldquo;Waiter, bring an absinthe
+frappé and&mdash;what&rsquo;s yours, Greenbrier?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Whiskey straight,&rdquo; mourned Nye. &ldquo;Out of the neck of a bottle
+you used to take it, Longy&mdash;straight out of the neck of a bottle on a
+galloping pony&mdash;Arizona redeye, not this ab&mdash;oh, what&rsquo;s the
+use? They&rsquo;re on you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All right. I suppose you think I&rsquo;m spoiled by the city. I&rsquo;m
+as good a Westerner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can&rsquo;t make up
+my mind to go back out there. New York is comfortable&mdash;comfortable. I make
+a good living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in
+snowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months for me.
+I reckon I&rsquo;ll hang out here in the future. We&rsquo;ll take in the
+theatre to-night, Greenbrier, and after that we&rsquo;ll dine at&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you what you are, Merritt,&rdquo; said Greenbrier,
+laying one elbow in his salad and the other in his butter. &ldquo;You are a
+concentrated, effete, unconditional, short-sleeved, gotch-eared Miss Sally
+Walker. God made you perpendicular and suitable to ride straddle and use cuss
+words in the original. Wherefore you have suffered his handiwork to elapse by
+removing yourself to New York and putting on little shoes tied with strings,
+and making faces when you talk. I&rsquo;ve seen you rope and tie a steer in
+42&frac12;. If you was to see one now you&rsquo;d write to the Police
+Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks that you inoculate your
+system with&mdash;these little essences of cowslip with acorns in &rsquo;em,
+and paregoric flip&mdash;they ain&rsquo;t anyways in assent with the cordiality
+of manhood. I hate to see you this way.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, Mr. Greenbrier,&rdquo; said Merritt, with apology in his tone,
+&ldquo;in a way you are right. Sometimes I do feel like I was being raised on
+the bottle. But, I tell you, New York is comfortable&mdash;comfortable.
+There&rsquo;s something about it&mdash;the sights and the crowds, and the way
+it changes every day, and the very air of it that seems to tie a one-mile-long
+stake rope around a man&rsquo;s neck, with the other end fastened somewhere
+about Thirty-fourth Street. I don&rsquo;t know what it is.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;God knows,&rdquo; said Greenbrier sadly, &ldquo;and I know. The East has
+gobbled you up. You was venison, and now you&rsquo;re veal. You put me in mind
+of a japonica in a window. You&rsquo;ve been signed, sealed and diskivered.
+Requiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A green chartreuse here,&rdquo; said Merritt to the waiter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Whiskey straight,&rdquo; sighed Greenbrier, &ldquo;and they&rsquo;re on
+you, you renegade of the round-ups.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Guilty, with an application for mercy,&rdquo; said Merritt. &ldquo;You
+don&rsquo;t know how it is, Greenbrier. It&rsquo;s so comfortable here
+that&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Please loan me your smelling salts,&rdquo; pleaded Greenbrier. &ldquo;If
+I hadn&rsquo;t seen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an
+empty gun in Phoenix&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Greenbrier&rsquo;s voice died away in pure grief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cigars!&rdquo; he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine,&rdquo; said Merritt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They&rsquo;re on you,&rdquo; chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal
+his contempt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o&rsquo;er
+fair women and br&mdash;let it go, anyhow&mdash;brave men. The orchestra played
+charmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a waiter
+when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you contributed to
+it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old friend, and
+he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I take the horehound tea,&rdquo; said Greenbrier, &ldquo;for old
+times&rsquo; sake. But I&rsquo;d prefer whiskey straight. They&rsquo;re on
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Right!&rdquo; said Merritt. &ldquo;Now, run your eye down that bill of
+fare and see if it seems to hitch on any of these items.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Lay me on my lava bed!&rdquo; said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes.
+&ldquo;All these specimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What&rsquo;s this?
+Horse with the heaves? I pass. But look along! Here&rsquo;s truck for twenty
+round-ups all spelled out in different directions. Wait till I see.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;This Medoc isn&rsquo;t bad,&rdquo; he suggested.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re the doc,&rdquo; said Greenbrier. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d rather
+have whiskey straight. It&rsquo;s on you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took dishes
+away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd enjoying itself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How was the range when you left the Gila?&rdquo; asked Merritt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Fine,&rdquo; said Greenbrier. &ldquo;You see that lady in the red
+speckled silk at that table. Well, she could warm over her beans at my
+campfire. Yes, the range was good. She looks as nice as a white mustang I see
+once on Black River.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the coffee came, Greenbrier put one foot on the seat of the chair next to
+him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You said it was a comfortable town, Longy,&rdquo; he said, meditatively.
+&ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s a comfortable town. It&rsquo;s different from the plains
+in a blue norther. What did you call that mess in the crock with the handle,
+Longy? Oh, yes, squabs in a cash roll. They&rsquo;re worth the roll. That white
+mustang had just such a way of turning his head and shaking his mane&mdash;look
+at her, Longy. If I thought I could sell out my ranch at a fair price, I
+believe I&rsquo;d&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gyar&mdash;song!&rdquo; he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed
+every knife and fork in the restaurant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The waiter dived toward the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Two more of them cocktail drinks,&rdquo; ordered Greenbrier.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Merritt looked at him and smiled significantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They&rsquo;re on me,&rdquo; said Greenbrier, blowing a puff of smoke to
+the ceiling.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap10"></a>X<br />
+THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY</h2>
+
+<p>
+The poet Longfellow&mdash;or was it Confucius, the inventor of
+wisdom?&mdash;remarked:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+&ldquo;Life is real, life is earnest;<br />
+And things are not what they seem.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As mathematics are&mdash;or is: thanks, old subscriber!&mdash;the only just
+rule by which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means, adjust
+our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the great goddess
+Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures&mdash;unassailable sums in addition&mdash;shall
+be set over against whatever opposing element there may be.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would say:
+&ldquo;Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus&mdash;that is, that life
+is real&mdash;then things (all of which life includes) are real. Anything that
+is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the proposition that
+&lsquo;things are not what they seem,&rsquo; why&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we would
+conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued, satisfying,
+mysterious X.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an old New
+Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that bread is made from
+flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flour crop was short, and
+that the Stock Exchange was having no perceptible effect on the growing wheat,
+Mr. Kinsolving cornered the flour market.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never had to
+turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought a five-cent loaf of
+bread you laid down an additional two cents, which went to Mr. Kinsolving as a
+testimonial to his perspicacity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000
+prof&mdash;er&mdash;rake-off.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Kinsolving&rsquo;s son Dan was at college when the mathematical experiment
+in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found the old
+gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading &ldquo;Little Dorrit&rdquo; on the
+porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He had retired
+from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from bread buyers to reach, if
+laid side by side, fifteen times around the earth and lap as far as the public
+debt of Paraguay.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village to see
+his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired Kenwitz. Kenwitz
+was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical, studious, altruistic,
+socialistic, and the natural foe of oligarchies. Kenwitz had foregone college,
+and was learning watch-making in his father&rsquo;s jewelry store. Dan was
+smiling, jovial, easy-tempered and tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The
+two foregathered joyously, being opposites. And then Dan went back to college,
+and Kenwitz to his mainsprings&mdash;and to his private library in the rear of
+the jewelry shop.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the accumulations of
+B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took a filial look at Septimus
+Kinsolving&rsquo;s elaborate tombstone in Greenwood and a tedious excursion
+through typewritten documents with the family lawyer; and then, feeling himself
+a lonely and hopeless millionaire, hurried down to the old jewelry store across
+Sixth Avenue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parent from a
+dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches for outdoors. He went
+with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington Square. Dan had not changed
+much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity that was inclined to relax into a
+grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more intense, more learned, philosophical and
+socialistic.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know about it now,&rdquo; said Dan, finally. &ldquo;I pumped it out of
+the eminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad&rsquo;s
+collections of bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told
+that he squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of bread
+at little bakeries around the corner. You&rsquo;ve studied economics, Dan, and
+you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses, and the rights of
+laboring people. I never thought about those things before. Football and trying
+to be white to my fellow-man were about the extent of my college curriculum.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I&rsquo;ve
+been thinking. I&rsquo;d like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to
+give up too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income
+for a good many yards; but I&rsquo;d like to make it square with &rsquo;em. Is
+there any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kenwitz&rsquo;s big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face took
+on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan&rsquo;s arm with the grip of a friend
+and a judge.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You can&rsquo;t do it!&rdquo; he said, emphatically. &ldquo;One of the
+chief punishments of you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent
+you find that you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I
+admire your good intentions, Dan, but you can&rsquo;t do anything. Those people
+were robbed of their precious pennies. It&rsquo;s too late to remedy the evil.
+You can&rsquo;t pay them back&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said Dan, lighting his pipe, &ldquo;we couldn&rsquo;t
+hunt up every one of the duffers and hand &rsquo;em back the right change.
+There&rsquo;s an awful lot of &rsquo;em buying bread all the time. Funny taste
+they have&mdash;I never cared for bread especially, except for a toasted
+cracker with the Roquefort. But we might find a few of &rsquo;em and chuck some
+of dad&rsquo;s cash back where it came from. I&rsquo;d feel better if I could.
+It seems tough for people to be held up for a soggy thing like bread. One
+wouldn&rsquo;t mind standing a rise in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get
+to work and think, Ken. I want to pay back all of that money I can.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There are plenty of charities,&rdquo; said Kenwitz, mechanically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Easy enough,&rdquo; said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. &ldquo;I suppose I
+could give the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I
+don&rsquo;t want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold
+Peter. It&rsquo;s the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of
+consumers during that corner in flour?&rdquo; he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do not.&rdquo; said Dan, stoutly. &ldquo;My lawyer tells me that I
+have two millions.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you had a hundred millions,&rdquo; said Kenwitz, vehemently,
+&ldquo;you couldn&rsquo;t repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been
+done. You cannot conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied
+wealth. Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a
+thousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how hopeless
+is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance can it be
+done.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Back up, philosopher!&rdquo; said Dan. &ldquo;The penny has no sorrow
+that the dollar cannot heal.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not in one instance,&rdquo; repeated Kenwitz. &ldquo;I will give you
+one, and let us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick
+Street. He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he
+had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,
+Boyne&rsquo;s business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital&mdash;all he had
+in the world.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I accept the instance,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Take me to Boyne. I will
+repay his thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Write your check,&rdquo; said Kenwitz, without moving, &ldquo;and then
+begin to write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next
+one for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the
+building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to that much.
+Boyne died in an asylum.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Stick to the instance,&rdquo; said Dan. &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t noticed
+any insurance companies on my charity list.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Draw your next check for $100,000,&rdquo; went on Kenwitz.
+&ldquo;Boyne&rsquo;s son fell into bad ways after the bakery closed, and was
+accused of murder. He was acquitted last week after a three years&rsquo; legal
+battle, and the state draws upon taxpayers for that much expense.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Back to the bakery!&rdquo; exclaimed Dan, impatiently. &ldquo;The
+Government doesn&rsquo;t need to stand in the bread line.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The last item of the instance is&mdash;come and I will show you,&rdquo;
+said Kenwitz, rising.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by nature and
+a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath that money was but
+evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch needed cleaning and a new
+ratchet-wheel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,
+poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid brick
+tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked on a door,
+and a clear voice called to them to enter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She nodded to
+Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of sunlight through
+the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color of an ancient
+Tuscan&rsquo;s shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz and a look of
+somewhat flustered inquiry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in heart-throbbing
+silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last item of the Instance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How many this week, Miss Mary?&rdquo; asked the watchmaker. A mountain
+of coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nearly thirty dozen,&rdquo; said the young woman cheerfully.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve made almost $4. I&rsquo;m improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly
+know what to do with so much money.&rdquo; Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in
+the direction of Dan. A little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Miss Boyne,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the
+son of the man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do
+something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The smile left the young woman&rsquo;s face. She rose and pointed her
+forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in the
+eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism and
+rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the moneyed side
+of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to be listening, and
+then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him warmly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m obliged to you, Ken, old man,&rdquo; he said,
+vaguely&mdash;&ldquo;a thousand times obliged.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mein Gott! you are crazy!&rdquo; cried the watchmaker, dropping his
+spectacles for the first time in years.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway with a
+pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the proprietor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;These loaves are ten cents,&rdquo; said the clerk.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I always get them at eight cents uptown,&rdquo; said the lady.
+&ldquo;You need not fill the order. I will drive by there on my way
+home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Kenwitz!&rdquo; cried the lady, heartily. &ldquo;How do you
+do?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension on her
+wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, Miss Boyne!&rdquo; he began.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mrs. Kinsolving,&rdquo; she corrected. &ldquo;Dan and I were married a
+month ago.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap11"></a>XI<br />
+THE THING&rsquo;S THE PLAY</h2>
+
+<p>
+Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free passes, I
+got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the popular vaudeville
+houses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much past
+forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a taste for
+music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I regarded the man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There was a story about that chap a month or two ago,&rdquo; said the
+reporter. &ldquo;They gave me the assignment. It was to run a column and was to
+be on the extremely light and joking order. The old man seems to like the funny
+touch I give to local happenings. Oh, yes, I&rsquo;m working on a farce comedy
+now. Well, I went down to the house and got all the details; but I certainly
+fell down on that job. I went back and turned in a comic write-up of an east
+side funeral instead. Why? Oh, I couldn&rsquo;t seem to get hold of it with my
+funny hooks, somehow. Maybe you could make a one-act tragedy out of it for a
+curtain-raiser. I&rsquo;ll give you the details.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the performance my friend, the reporter, recited to me the facts over the
+W&uuml;rzburger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I see no reason,&rdquo; said I, when he had concluded, &ldquo;why that
+shouldn&rsquo;t make a rattling good funny story. Those three people
+couldn&rsquo;t have acted in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had
+been real actors in a real theatre. I&rsquo;m really afraid that all the stage
+is a world, anyhow, and all the players men and women. &lsquo;The thing&rsquo;s
+the play,&rsquo; is the way I quote Mr. Shakespeare.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Try it,&rdquo; said the reporter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will,&rdquo; said I; and I did, to show him how he could have made a
+humorous column of it for his paper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There stands a house near Abingdon Square. On the ground floor there has been
+for twenty-five years a little store where toys and notions and stationery are
+sold.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One night twenty years ago there was a wedding in the rooms above the store.
+The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen was married to
+Frank Barry. John Delaney was best man. Helen was eighteen, and her picture had
+been printed in a morning paper next to the headlines of a &ldquo;Wholesale
+Female Murderess&rdquo; story from Butte, Mont. But after your eye and
+intelligence had rejected the connection, you seized your magnifying glass and
+read beneath the portrait her description as one of a series of Prominent
+Beauties and Belles of the lower west side.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank Barry and John Delaney were &ldquo;prominent&rdquo; young beaux of the
+same side, and bosom friends, whom you expected to turn upon each other every
+time the curtain went up. One who pays his money for orchestra seats and
+fiction expects this. That is the first funny idea that has turned up in the
+story yet. Both had made a great race for Helen&rsquo;s hand. When Frank won,
+John shook his hand and congratulated him&mdash;honestly, he did.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was getting
+married in a traveling dress. She and Frank were going to Old Point Comfort for
+a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering cave-dwellers were waiting with
+their hands full of old Congress gaiters and paper bags of hominy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then there was a rattle of the fire-escape, and into her room jumps the mad and
+infatuated John Delaney, with a damp curl drooping upon his forehead, and made
+violent and reprehensible love to his lost one, entreating her to flee or fly
+with him to the Riviera, or the Bronx, or any old place where there are Italian
+skies and <i>dolce far niente</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him. With
+blazing and scornful eyes she fairly withered him by demanding whatever he
+meant by speaking to respectable people that way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a few moments she had him going. The manliness that had possessed him
+departed. He bowed low, and said something about &ldquo;irresistible
+impulse&rdquo; and &ldquo;forever carry in his heart the memory
+of&rdquo;&mdash;and she suggested that he catch the first fire-escape going
+down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will away,&rdquo; said John Delaney, &ldquo;to the furthermost parts
+of the earth. I cannot remain near you and know that you are another&rsquo;s. I
+will to Africa, and there amid other scenes strive to for&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;For goodness sake, get out,&rdquo; said Helen. &ldquo;Somebody might
+come in.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He knelt upon one knee, and she extended him one white hand that he might give
+it a farewell kiss.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever vouchsafed
+you&mdash;to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the one you
+don&rsquo;t want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to you and
+babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall forever bloom,
+an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to feel the sweet security
+of your own happy state; to send the unlucky one, broken-hearted, to foreign
+climes, while you congratulate yourself as he presses his last kiss upon your
+knuckles, that your nails are well manicured&mdash;say, girls, it&rsquo;s
+galluptious&mdash;don&rsquo;t ever let it get by you.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then, of course&mdash;how did you guess it?&mdash;the door opened and in
+stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen&rsquo;s hand, and out of the window
+and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A little slow music, if you please&mdash;faint violin, just a breath in the
+clarinet and a touch of the &lsquo;cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot,
+with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing and
+clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears them from
+his shoulders&mdash;once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and
+that&mdash;the stage manager will show you how&mdash;and throws her from him to
+the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he look upon
+her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring groups of
+astonished guests.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must stroll
+out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray, rich, poor,
+happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which must precede the
+rising of the curtain again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could have
+bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and general
+results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but she made of it no
+secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth balls, nor did she sell it to a
+magazine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day a middle-aged money-making lawyer, who bought his legal cap and ink of
+her, asked her across the counter to marry him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m really much obliged to you,&rdquo; said Helen, cheerfully,
+&ldquo;but I married another man twenty years ago. He was more a goose than a
+man, but I think I love him yet. I have never seen him since about half an hour
+after the ceremony. Was it copying ink that you wanted or just writing
+fluid?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lawyer bowed over the counter with old-time grace and left a respectful
+kiss on the back of her hand. Helen sighed. Parting salutes, however romantic,
+may be overdone. Here she was at thirty-eight, beautiful and admired; and all
+that she seemed to have got from her lovers were approaches and adieus. Worse
+still, in the last one she had lost a customer, too.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Business languished, and she hung out a Room to Let card. Two large rooms on
+the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers came, and went
+regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode of neatness, comfort and
+taste.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day came Ramonti, the violinist, and engaged the front room above. The
+discord and clatter uptown offended his nice ear; so a friend had sent him to
+this oasis in the desert of noise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short, pointed,
+foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and his
+artist&rsquo;s temperament&mdash;revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic
+manner&mdash;was a welcome tenant in the old house near Abingdon Square.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Helen lived on the floor above the store. The architecture of it was singular
+and quaint. The hall was large and almost square. Up one side of it, and then
+across the end of it ascended an open stairway to the floor above. This hall
+space she had furnished as a sitting room and office combined. There she kept
+her desk and wrote her business letters; and there she sat of evenings by a
+warm fire and a bright red light and sewed or read. Ramonti found the
+atmosphere so agreeable that he spent much time there, describing to Mrs. Barry
+the wonders of Paris, where he had studied with a particularly notorious and
+noisy fiddler.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Next comes lodger No. 2, a handsome, melancholy man in the early 40&rsquo;s,
+with a brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes. He, too,
+found the society of Helen a desirable thing. With the eyes of Romeo and
+Othello&rsquo;s tongue, he charmed her with tales of distant climes and wooed
+her by respectful innuendo.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From the first Helen felt a marvelous and compelling thrill in the presence of
+this man. His voice somehow took her swiftly back to the days of her
+youth&rsquo;s romance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to it, and it led
+her to an instinctive belief that he had been a factor in that romance. And
+then with a woman&rsquo;s reasoning (oh, yes, they do, sometimes) she leaped
+over common syllogisms and theory, and logic, and was sure that her husband had
+come back to her. For she saw in his eyes love, which no woman can mistake, and
+a thousand tons of regret and remorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously
+near to love requited, which is the <i>sine qua non</i> in the house that Jack
+built.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twenty years
+and then drops in again should not expect to find his slippers laid out too
+conveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar. There must be
+expiation, explanation, and possibly execration. A little purgatory, and then,
+maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be trusted with a harp and crown.
+And so she made no sign that she knew or suspected.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And my friend, the reporter, could see nothing funny in this! Sent out on an
+assignment to write up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing story
+of&mdash;but I will not knock a brother&mdash;let us go on with the story.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One evening Ramonti stopped in Helen&rsquo;s hall-office-reception-room and
+told his love with the tenderness and ardor of the enraptured artist. His words
+were a bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the heart of a man who is
+a dreamer and doer combined.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But before you give me an answer,&rdquo; he went on, before she could
+accuse him of suddenness, &ldquo;I must tell you that &lsquo;Ramonti?&rsquo; is
+the only name I have to offer you. My manager gave me that. I do not know who I
+am or where I came from. My first recollection is of opening my eyes in a
+hospital. I was a young man, and I had been there for weeks. My life before
+that is a blank to me. They told me that I was found lying in the street with a
+wound on my head and was brought there in an ambulance. They thought I must
+have fallen and struck my head upon the stones. There was nothing to show who I
+was. I have never been able to remember. After I was discharged from the
+hospital, I took up the violin. I have had success. Mrs. Barry&mdash;I do not
+know your name except that&mdash;I love you; the first time I saw you I
+realized that you were the one woman in the world for
+me&mdash;and&rdquo;&mdash;oh, a lot of stuff like that.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Helen felt young again. First a wave of pride and a sweet little thrill of
+vanity went all over her; and then she looked Ramonti in the eyes, and a
+tremendous throb went through her heart. She hadn&rsquo;t expected that throb.
+It took her by surprise. The musician had become a big factor in her life, and
+she hadn&rsquo;t been aware of it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Ramonti,&rdquo; she said sorrowfully (this was not on the stage,
+remember; it was in the old home near Abingdon Square), &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
+awfully sorry, but I&rsquo;m a married woman.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then she told him the sad story of her life, as a heroine must do, sooner
+or later, either to a theatrical manager or to a reporter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ramonti took her hand, bowed low and kissed it, and went up to his room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Helen sat down and looked mournfully at her hand. Well she might. Three suitors
+had kissed it, mounted their red roan steeds and ridden away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In an hour entered the mysterious stranger with the haunting eyes. Helen was in
+the willow rocker, knitting a useless thing in cotton-wool. He ricocheted from
+the stairs and stopped for a chat. Sitting across the table from her, he also
+poured out his narrative of love. And then he said: &ldquo;Helen, do you not
+remember me? I think I have seen it in your eyes. Can you forgive the past and
+remember the love that has lasted for twenty years? I wronged you
+deeply&mdash;I was afraid to come back to you&mdash;but my love overpowered my
+reason. Can you, will you, forgive me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a strong and
+trembling clasp.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene like
+that and her emotions to portray.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal love for
+her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory of her first
+choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure feeling. Honor and faith
+and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it. But the other half of her heart and
+soul was filled with something else&mdash;a later, fuller, nearer influence.
+And so the old fought against the new.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,
+petitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the noblest.
+The daws may peck upon one&rsquo;s sleeve without injury, but whoever wears his
+heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the neck.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This music and the musician called her, and at her side honor and the old love
+held her back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Forgive me,&rdquo; he pleaded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you
+love,&rdquo; she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How could I tell?&rdquo; he begged. &ldquo;I will conceal nothing from
+you. That night when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark
+street I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had struck
+a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and jealousy. I hid
+near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although you married him,
+Helen&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;<i>Who Are You?</i>&rdquo; cried the woman, with wide-open eyes,
+snatching her hand away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you remember me, Helen&mdash;the one who has always loved
+you best? I am John Delaney. If you can forgive&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs toward the
+music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for his in each of his
+two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed, cried and sang: &ldquo;Frank!
+Frank! Frank!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Three mortals thus juggling with years as though they were billiard balls, and
+my friend, the reporter, couldn&rsquo;t see anything funny in it!
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap12"></a>XII<br />
+A RAMBLE IN APHASIA</h2>
+
+<p>
+My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She left
+her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she plucked from my
+lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of woman to proclaim
+ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I had no cold. Next came her
+kiss of parting&mdash;the level kiss of domesticity flavored with Young Hyson.
+There was no fear of the extemporaneous, of variety spicing her infinite
+custom. With the deft touch of long malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set
+scarf pin; and then, as I closed the door, I heard her morning slippers
+pattering back to her cooling tea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur. The attack
+came suddenly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For many weeks I had been toiling, almost night and day, at a famous railroad
+law case that I won triumphantly but a few days previously. In fact, I had been
+digging away at the law almost without cessation for many years. Once or twice
+good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician, had warned me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t slacken up, Bellford,&rdquo; he said,
+&ldquo;you&rsquo;ll go suddenly to pieces. Either your nerves or your brain
+will give way. Tell me, does a week pass in which you do not read in the papers
+of a case of aphasia&mdash;of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past
+and his identity blotted out&mdash;and all from that little brain clot made by
+overwork or worry?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I always thought,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;that the clot in those instances
+was really to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Doctor Volney shook his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The disease exists,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You need a change or a rest.
+Court-room, office and home&mdash;there is the only route you travel. For
+recreation you&mdash;read law books. Better take warning in time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On Thursday nights,&rdquo; I said, defensively, &ldquo;my wife and I
+play cribbage. On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother.
+That law books are not a recreation remains yet to be established.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney&rsquo;s words. I was
+feeling as well as I usually did&mdash;possibly in better spirits than usual.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+I awoke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the
+incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and tried
+to think. After a long time I said to myself: &ldquo;I must have a name of some
+sort.&rdquo; I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a paper or
+monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly $3,000 in bills of
+large denomination. &ldquo;I must be some one, of course,&rdquo; I repeated to
+myself, and began again to consider.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must have
+been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed in the best
+good humor and spirits. One of them&mdash;a stout, spectacled gentleman
+enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes&mdash;took the vacant half of
+my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper. In the intervals between
+his periods of reading, we conversed, as travelers will, on current affairs. I
+found myself able to sustain the conversation on such subjects with credit, at
+least to my memory. By and by my companion said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this
+time. I&rsquo;m glad they held the convention in New York; I&rsquo;ve never
+been East before. My name&rsquo;s R. P. Bolder&mdash;Bolder &amp; Son, of
+Hickory Grove, Missouri.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it. Now
+must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent. My senses
+came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of drugs from my
+companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper, where my eye met a
+conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My name,&rdquo; said I, glibly, &ldquo;is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a
+druggist, and my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I knew you were a druggist,&rdquo; said my fellow traveler, affably.
+&ldquo;I saw the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the
+pestle rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Are all these men druggists?&rdquo; I asked, wonderingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They are. This car came through from the West. And they&rsquo;re your
+old-time druggists, too&mdash;none of your patent tablet-and-granule
+pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk. We
+percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain&rsquo;t above
+handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side line of
+confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I&rsquo;ve got an idea to spring
+on this convention&mdash;new ideas is what they want. Now, you know the shelf
+bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot. Tart. and Sod. et Pot.
+Tart.&mdash;one&rsquo;s poison, you know, and the other&rsquo;s harmless.
+It&rsquo;s easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do druggists mostly
+keep &rsquo;em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different shelves.
+That&rsquo;s wrong. I say keep &rsquo;em side by side, so when you want one you
+can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you catch the
+idea?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It seems to me a very good one,&rdquo; I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up.
+We&rsquo;ll make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream
+professors that think they&rsquo;re the only lozenges in the market look like
+hypodermic tablets.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If I can be of any aid,&rdquo; I said, warming, &ldquo;the two bottles
+of&mdash;er&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Shall henceforth sit side by side,&rdquo; I concluded, firmly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now, there&rsquo;s another thing,&rdquo; said Mr. Bolder. &ldquo;For an
+excipient in manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer&mdash;the magnesia
+carbonate or the pulverised glycerrhiza radix?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The&mdash;er&mdash;magnesia,&rdquo; I said. It was easier to say than
+the other word.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Give me the glycerrhiza,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Magnesia cakes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Here&rsquo;s another one of these fake aphasia cases,&rdquo; he said,
+presently, handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article.
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe in &rsquo;em. I put nine out of ten of &rsquo;em
+down as frauds. A man gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have
+a good time. He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have
+lost his memory&mdash;don&rsquo;t know his own name, and won&rsquo;t even
+recognize the strawberry mark on his wife&rsquo;s left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut!
+Why can&rsquo;t they stay at home and forget?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+&ldquo;D<small>ENVER</small>, June 12.&mdash;Elwyn C. Bellford, a prominent
+lawyer, is mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all
+efforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known citizen
+of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and lucrative law practice. He
+is married and owns a fine home and the most extensive private library in the
+State. On the day of his disappearance, he drew quite a large sum of money from
+his bank. No one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford
+was a man of singularly quiet and domestic tastes, and seemed to find his
+happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at all exists to his strange
+disappearance, it may be found in the fact that for some months he has been
+deeply absorbed in an important law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z.
+Railroad Company. It is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every
+effort is being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder,&rdquo; I
+said, after I had read the despatch. &ldquo;This has the sound, to me, of a
+genuine case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected,
+choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of memory do
+occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name, a history or a
+home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, gammon and jalap!&rdquo; said Mr. Bolder. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s larks
+they&rsquo;re after. There&rsquo;s too much education nowadays. Men know about
+aphasia, and they use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When
+it&rsquo;s all over they look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and
+say: &lsquo;He hypnotized me.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and philosophy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel, and I
+wrote my name &ldquo;Edward Pinkhammer&rdquo; in the register. As I did so I
+felt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy&mdash;a sense of
+unlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born into the
+world. The old fetters&mdash;whatever they had been&mdash;were stricken from my
+hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an infant enters,
+and I could set out upon it equipped with a man&rsquo;s learning and
+experience.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no baggage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Druggists&rsquo; Convention,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;My trunk has
+somehow failed to arrive.&rdquo; I drew out a roll of money.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said he, showing an auriferous tooth, &ldquo;we have quite a
+number of the Western delegates stopping here.&rdquo; He struck a bell for the
+boy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I endeavored to give color to my r&ocirc;le.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There is an important movement on foot among us Westerners,&rdquo; I
+said, &ldquo;in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles
+containing the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of sodium and
+potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gentleman to three-fourteen,&rdquo; said the clerk, hastily. I was
+whisked away to my room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life of
+Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve problems of
+the past.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up to my
+lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to him who is able
+to bear them. You must be either the city&rsquo;s guest or its victim.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet counting
+back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having come upon so
+diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat entranced on the magic
+carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens, that transported one into
+strange and delightful lands full of frolicsome music, pretty girls and
+grotesque drolly extravagant parodies upon human kind. I went here and there at
+my own dear will, bound by no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in
+weird cabarets, at weirder <i>tables d&rsquo;h&ocirc;te</i> to the sound of
+Hungarian music and the wild shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or,
+again, where the night life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic
+picture, and the millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they
+adorn, and the men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the
+spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that I have mentioned I learned
+one thing that I never knew before. And that is that the key to liberty is not
+in the hands of License, but Convention holds it. Comity has a toll-gate at
+which you must pay, or you may not enter the land of Freedom. In all the
+glitter, the seeming disorder, the parade, the abandon, I saw this law,
+unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail. Therefore, in Manhattan you must obey
+these unwritten laws, and then you will be freest of the free. If you decline
+to be bound by them, you put on shackles.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly murmuring palm
+rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate restraint, in which to dine.
+Again I would go down to the waterways in steamers packed with vociferous,
+bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks and shop-girls to their crude pleasures
+on the island shores. And there was always Broadway&mdash;glistening, opulent,
+wily, varying, desirable Broadway&mdash;growing upon one like an opium habit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a black
+mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed around him,
+he greet me with offensive familiarity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hello, Bellford!&rdquo; he cried, loudly. &ldquo;What the deuce are you
+doing in New York? Didn&rsquo;t know anything could drag you away from that old
+book den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,
+eh?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You have made a mistake, sir,&rdquo; I said, coldly, releasing my hand
+from his grasp. &ldquo;My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the
+clerk&rsquo;s desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about
+telegraph blanks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You will give me my bill,&rdquo; I said to the clerk, &ldquo;and have my
+baggage brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am
+annoyed by confidence men.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on lower
+Fifth Avenue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be served
+almost <i>al fresco</i> in a tropic array of screening flora. Quiet and luxury
+and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to take luncheon or
+refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way to a table among the
+ferns when I felt my sleeve caught.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Bellford!&rdquo; exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone&mdash;a lady of about thirty, with
+exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been her very dear
+friend.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You were about to pass me,&rdquo; she said, accusingly.
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tell me you do not know me. Why should we not shake
+hands&mdash;at least once in fifteen years?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the table. I
+summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was philandering with an
+orange ice. I ordered a <i>crème de menthe</i>. Her hair was reddish
+bronze. You could not look at it, because you could not look away from her
+eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are conscious of sunset while you
+look into the profundities of a wood at twilight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Are you sure you know me?&rdquo; I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said, smiling. &ldquo;I was never sure of that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What would you think,&rdquo; I said, a little anxiously, &ldquo;if I
+were to tell you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis,
+Kansas?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What would I think?&rdquo; she repeated, with a merry glance.
+&ldquo;Why, that you had not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of
+course. I do wish you had. I would have liked to see Marian.&rdquo; Her voice
+lowered slightly&mdash;&ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t changed much, Elwyn.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, you have,&rdquo; she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note
+in her latest tones; &ldquo;I see it now. You haven&rsquo;t forgotten. You
+haven&rsquo;t forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never
+could.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I poked my straw anxiously in the <i>crème de menthe</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure I beg your pardon,&rdquo; I said, a little uneasy at her
+gaze. &ldquo;But that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I&rsquo;ve
+forgotten everything.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed to see
+in my face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard of you at times,&rdquo; she went on.
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re quite a big lawyer out West&mdash;Denver, isn&rsquo;t it,
+or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of you. You knew, I suppose, that I
+married six months after you did. You may have seen it in the papers. The
+flowers alone cost two thousand dollars.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Would it be too late,&rdquo; I asked, somewhat timorously, &ldquo;to
+offer you congratulations?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not if you dare do it,&rdquo; she answered, with such fine intrepidity
+that I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb
+nail.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tell me one thing,&rdquo; she said, leaning toward me rather
+eagerly&mdash;&ldquo;a thing I have wanted to know for many years&mdash;just
+from a woman&rsquo;s curiosity, of course&mdash;have you ever dared since that
+night to touch, smell or look at white roses&mdash;at white roses wet with rain
+and dew?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took a sip of <i>crème de menthe</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It would be useless, I suppose,&rdquo; I said, with a sigh, &ldquo;for
+me to repeat that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory
+is completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained my words
+and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She laughed softly,
+with a strange quality in the sound&mdash;it was a laugh of
+happiness&mdash;yes, and of content&mdash;and of misery. I tried to look away
+from her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You lie, Elwyn Bellford,&rdquo; she breathed, blissfully. &ldquo;Oh, I
+know you lie!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I gazed dully into the ferns.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My name is Edward Pinkhammer,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;I came with the
+delegates to the Druggists&rsquo; National Convention. There is a movement on
+foot for arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and
+tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little
+interest.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her hand,
+and bowed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am deeply sorry,&rdquo; I said to her, &ldquo;that I cannot remember.
+I could explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
+Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the&mdash;the roses and
+other things.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Good-by, Mr. Bellford,&rdquo; she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile,
+as she stepped into her carriage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet man in
+dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails with a silk
+handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+ &ldquo;Mr. Pinkhammer,&rdquo; he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his
+ forefinger, &ldquo;may I request you to step aside with me for a little
+ conversation? There is a room here.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; I answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman were
+there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually good-looking had her
+features not been clouded by an expression of keen worry and fatigue. She was
+of a style of figure and possessed coloring and features that were agreeable to
+my fancy. She was in a traveling dress; she fixed upon me an earnest look of
+extreme anxiety, and pressed an unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would
+have started forward, but the gentleman arrested her movement with an
+authoritative motion of his hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a
+man of forty, a little gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful
+face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bellford, old man,&rdquo; he said, cordially, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad to
+see you again. Of course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you
+know, that you were overdoing it. Now, you&rsquo;ll go back with us, and be
+yourself again in no time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I smiled ironically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have been &lsquo;Bellforded&rsquo; so often,&rdquo; I said,
+&ldquo;that it has lost its edge. Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome.
+Would you be willing at all to entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward
+Pinkhammer, and that I never saw you before in my life?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She sprang past
+his detaining arm. &ldquo;Elwyn!&rdquo; she sobbed, and cast herself upon me,
+and clung tight. &ldquo;Elwyn,&rdquo; she cried again, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t break
+my heart. I am your wife&mdash;call my name once&mdash;just once. I could see
+you dead rather than this way.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; I said, severely, &ldquo;pardon me if I suggest that you
+accept a resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity,&rdquo; I went on, with an
+amused laugh, as the thought occurred to me, &ldquo;that this Bellford and I
+could not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium and
+antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the
+allusion,&rdquo; I concluded airily, &ldquo;it may be necessary for you to keep
+an eye on the proceedings of the Druggists&rsquo; National Convention.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?&rdquo; she moaned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He led her to the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Go to your room for a while,&rdquo; I heard him say. &ldquo;I will
+remain and talk with him. His mind? No, I think not&mdash;only a portion of the
+brain. Yes, I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with
+him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still
+manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may,&rdquo;
+said the gentleman who remained.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Very well, if you care to,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;and will excuse me
+if I take it comfortably; I am rather tired.&rdquo; I stretched myself upon a
+couch by a window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Let us speak to the point,&rdquo; he said, soothingly. &ldquo;Your name
+is not Pinkhammer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know that as well as you do,&rdquo; I said, coolly. &ldquo;But a man
+must have a name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly
+admire the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one&rsquo;s self
+suddenly, the fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had
+been Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with
+Pinkhammer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your name,&rdquo; said the other man, seriously, &ldquo;is Elwyn C.
+Bellford. You are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an
+attack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of
+it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too bare of
+natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the room is your
+wife.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She is what I would call a fine-looking woman,&rdquo; I said, after a
+judicial pause. &ldquo;I particularly admire the shade of brown in her
+hair.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two weeks
+ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in New York
+through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from Denver. He said
+that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did not recognize him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think I remember the occasion,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;The fellow called
+me &lsquo;Bellford,&rsquo; if I am not mistaken. But don&rsquo;t you think it
+about time, now, for you to introduce yourself?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am Robert Volney&mdash;Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend
+for twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford to
+trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man&mdash;try to
+remember!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the use to try?&rdquo; I asked, with a little frown.
+&ldquo;You say you are a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his
+memory does it return slowly, or suddenly?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it
+went.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?&rdquo; I
+asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Old friend,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do everything in my power,
+and will have done everything that science can do to cure you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Then you will consider that I am your
+patient. Everything is in confidence now&mdash;professional confidence.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said Doctor Volney.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the centre
+table&mdash;a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant. I threw
+them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the couch again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It will be best, Bobby,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;to have this cure happen
+suddenly. I&rsquo;m rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring
+Marian in. But, oh, Doc,&rdquo; I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the
+shin&mdash;&ldquo;good old Doc&mdash;it was glorious!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap13"></a>XIII<br />
+A MUNICIPAL REPORT</h2>
+
+<p class="poem">
+     The cities are full of pride,<br />
+        &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Challenging each to each&mdash;<br />
+     This from her mountainside,<br />
+        &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That from her burthened beach.
+</p>
+
+<p class="left">
+R. K<small>IPLING</small>.
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee!
+There are just three big cities in the United States that are &ldquo;story
+cities&rdquo;&mdash;New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San
+Francisco.&mdash;F<small>RANK</small> N<small>ORRIS</small>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.
+Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a State.
+They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less loyal to
+their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak of lake fish and
+the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into detail.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half an hour
+while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear. But as soon as
+they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness comes upon them, and
+they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the Bagdad of the New World. So
+far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary. But, dear cousins all
+(from Adam and Eve descended), it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the
+map and say: &ldquo;In this town there can be no romance&mdash;what could
+happen here?&rdquo; Yes, it is a bold and a rash deed to challenge in one
+sentence history, romance, and Rand and McNally.
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+N<small>ASHVILLE</small>&mdash;A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the
+State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the N. C. &amp; St. L.
+and the L. &amp; N. railroads.  This city is regarded as the most important
+educational centre in the South.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain for
+adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the form of a
+recipe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts; dewdrops
+gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of honeysuckle 15 parts.
+Mix.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville drizzle. It
+is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup; but &rsquo;tis
+enough&mdash;&rsquo;twill serve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for me to
+keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of Sidney Carton.
+The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and driven by something dark
+and emancipated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it the
+fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you). I knew its
+habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old &ldquo;marster&rdquo;
+or anything that happened &ldquo;befo&rsquo; de wah.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The hotel was one of the kind described as &ldquo;renovated.&rdquo; That means
+$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass
+cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. &amp; N. time table and a lithograph of
+Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management was
+without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy, the
+service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as Rip Van
+Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There is no other
+hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers <i>en brochette</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He
+pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: &ldquo;Well, boss, I
+don&rsquo;t really reckon there&rsquo;s anything at all doin&rsquo; after
+sundown.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long before.
+So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the streets in the
+drizzle to see what might be there.
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted by electricity
+at a cost of $32,470 per annum.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a company of
+freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with&mdash;no, I saw with relief that they
+were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan of black, clumsy
+vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, &ldquo;Kyar you anywhere in the town,
+boss, fuh fifty cents,&rdquo; I reasoned that I was merely a &ldquo;fare&rdquo;
+instead of a victim.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those streets
+ever came down again. Perhaps they didn&rsquo;t until they were
+&ldquo;graded.&rdquo; On a few of the &ldquo;main streets&rdquo; I saw lights
+in stores here and there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers
+hither and yon; saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a
+burst of semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor.
+The streets other than &ldquo;main&rdquo; seemed to have enticed upon their
+borders houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights
+shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled orderly
+and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little &ldquo;doing.&rdquo; I
+wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville,
+where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied
+forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine marksmanship of
+the South in its peaceful conflicts in the tobacco-chewing regions. But in my
+hotel a surprise awaited me. There were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious
+brass cuspidors in the great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so
+wide-mouthed that the crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been
+able to throw a ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a
+terrible battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.
+Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of
+Jefferson Brick! the tile floor&mdash;the beautiful tile floor! I could not
+avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my foolish
+habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew him
+for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat has no
+geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so well said
+almost everything:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+  Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,<br />
+  And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Let us regard the word &ldquo;British&rdquo; as interchangeable <i>ad lib</i>.
+A rat is a rat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had
+forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage, red,
+pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha. He possessed
+one single virtue&mdash;he was very smoothly shaven. The mark of the beast is
+not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a stubble. I think that if he
+had not used his razor that day I would have repulsed his advances, and the
+criminal calendar of the world would have been spared the addition of one
+murder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major Caswell
+opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive that the attacking
+force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles; so I side-stepped so
+promptly that the major seized the opportunity to apologize to a noncombatant.
+He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he had become my friend and had
+dragged me to the bar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by
+profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince
+Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug chewing.
+When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little lower on the
+leather-cornered seat and, well, order another W&uuml;rzburger and wish that
+Longstreet had&mdash;but what&rsquo;s the use?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort Sumter
+re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to hope. But then
+he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam was only a third cousin of
+a collateral branch of the Caswell family. Genealogy disposed of, he took up,
+to my distaste, his private family matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her
+descent back to Eve, and profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have
+had relations in the land of Nod.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure by noise
+the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that I would be
+bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he crashed a silver
+dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another serving was obligatory.
+And when I had paid for that I took leave of him brusquely; for I wanted no
+more of him. But before I had obtained my release he had prated loudly of an
+income that his wife received, and showed a handful of silver money.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: &ldquo;If that
+man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint, we will
+have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any known means of
+support, although he seems to have some money most the time. But we don&rsquo;t
+seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him out legally.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, no,&rdquo; said I, after some reflection; &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see
+my way clear to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record
+as asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town,&rdquo; I continued,
+&ldquo;seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or
+excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said the clerk, &ldquo;there will be a show here next
+Thursday. It is&mdash;I&rsquo;ll look it up and have the announcement sent up
+to your room with the ice water. Good night.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about ten
+o&rsquo;clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued, spangled
+with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the Ladies&rsquo;
+Exchange.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A quiet place,&rdquo; I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the
+ceiling of the occupant of the room beneath mine. &ldquo;Nothing of the life
+here that gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a
+good, ordinary, humdrum, business town.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centres of the
+country.  It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the
+largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an enormous
+wholesale drygoods, grocery, and drug business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the digression
+brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was traveling elsewhere on my
+own business, but I had a commission from a Northern literary magazine to stop
+over there and establish a personal connection between the publication and one
+of its contributors, Azalea Adair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had sent in
+some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors swear approvingly
+over their one o&rsquo;clock luncheon. So they had commissioned me to round up
+said Adair and corner by contract his or her output at two cents a word before
+some other publisher offered her ten or twenty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At nine o&rsquo;clock the next morning, after my chicken livers <i>en
+brochette</i> (try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the
+drizzle, which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner I came
+upon Uncle C&aelig;sar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids, with
+gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second afterwards of the
+late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat that I ever had seen or
+expect to see. It reached to his ankles and had once been a Confederate gray in
+colors. But rain and sun and age had so variegated it that Joseph&rsquo;s coat,
+beside it, would have faded to a pale monochrome. I must linger with that coat,
+for it has to do with the story&mdash;the story that is so long in coming,
+because you can hardly expect anything to happen in Nashville.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it had
+vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled
+magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead had been
+patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving &ldquo;black mammy&rdquo;) new
+frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine was frayed and
+disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a substitute for vanished
+splendors, with tasteless but painstaking devotion, for it followed faithfully
+the curves of the long-missing frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of
+the garment, all its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top
+alone remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the
+buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There was
+never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many mottled
+hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of yellow horn and
+sewed on with coarse twine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have started a
+hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals hitched to it. As
+I approached he threw open the door, drew out a feather duster, waved it
+without using it, and said in deep, rumbling tones:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Step right in, suh; ain&rsquo;t a speck of dust in it&mdash;jus&rsquo;
+got back from a funeral, suh.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra cleaning.
+I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was little choice
+among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked in my memorandum book
+for the address of Azalea Adair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street,&rdquo; I said, and was about to
+step into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of the
+old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of sudden
+suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly returning
+conviction, he asked blandishingly: &ldquo;What are you gwine there for,
+boss?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What is it to you?&rdquo; I asked, a little sharply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nothin&rsquo;, suh, jus&rsquo; nothin&rsquo;. Only it&rsquo;s a lonesome
+kind of part of town and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in.
+The seats is clean&mdash;jes&rsquo; got back from a funeral, suh.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A mile and a half it must have been to our journey&rsquo;s end. I could hear
+nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick
+paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with coal
+smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms. All I could
+see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim houses.
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which 137
+miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost $2,000,000, with 77 miles of
+mains.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards back from
+the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees and untrimmed
+shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid the paling fence from
+sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose that encircled the gate post
+and the first paling of the gate. But when you got inside you saw that 861 was
+a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former grandeur and excellence. But in the story,
+I have not yet got inside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came to a rest
+I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter, feeling a glow of
+conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s two dollars, suh,&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;I plainly heard you call out at
+the hotel: &lsquo;Fifty cents to any part of the town.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s two dollars, suh,&rdquo; he repeated obstinately.
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a long ways from the hotel.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is within the city limits and well within them.&rdquo; I argued.
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see
+those hills over there?&rdquo; I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not
+see them, myself, for the drizzle); &ldquo;well, I was born and raised on their
+other side. You old fool nigger, can&rsquo;t you tell people from other people
+when you see &rsquo;em?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. &ldquo;Is you from the South, suh? I
+reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin&rsquo; sharp in
+the toes for a Southern gen&rsquo;l&rsquo;man to wear.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?&rdquo; said I inexorably.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned, remained
+ten seconds, and vanished.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Boss,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;fifty cents is right; but I <i>needs</i>
+two dollars, suh; I&rsquo;m <i>obleeged</i> to have two dollars. I ain&rsquo;t
+<i>demandin&rsquo;</i> it now, suh; after I know whar you&rsquo;s from;
+I&rsquo;m jus&rsquo; sayin&rsquo; that I <i>has</i> to have two dollars
+to-night, and business is mighty po&rsquo;.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been luckier than
+he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn, ignorant of rates, he
+had come upon an inheritance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You confounded old rascal,&rdquo; I said, reaching down to my pocket,
+&ldquo;you ought to be turned over to the police.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; <i>he knew</i>. HE KNEW.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that one of
+them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was missing, and it
+had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A strip of blue tissue
+paper, pasted over the split, preserved its negotiability.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted the rope
+and opened a creaky gate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in twenty
+years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled it over like a
+house of cards until I looked again at the trees that hugged it close&mdash;the
+trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still drew their protecting branches
+around it against storm and enemy and cold.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the cavaliers, as
+thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the cheapest and cleanest
+dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a queen&rsquo;s, received me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in it except
+some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a cracked marble-top
+table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two or three chairs. Yes, there
+was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon drawing of a cluster of pansies. I
+looked around for the portrait of Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging
+basket but they were not there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated to you.
+She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the sheltered life. Her
+learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid originality in its
+somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at home, and her knowledge of the
+world was derived from inference and by inspiration. Of such is the precious,
+small group of essayists made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my
+fingers, trying, unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from
+the half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne and
+Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly everybody
+nowadays knows too much&mdash;oh, so much too much&mdash;of real life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a dress
+she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to the magazine
+and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas in the valley of
+the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like a harpsichord&rsquo;s,
+and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the presence of the nine
+Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower the topic to two cents. There
+would have to be another colloquy after I had regained my commercialism. But I
+spoke of my mission, and three o&rsquo;clock of the next afternoon was set for
+the discussion of the business proposition.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your town,&rdquo; I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is
+the time for smooth generalities), &ldquo;seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A
+home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever
+happen.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with the West and
+South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity of more than 2,000 barrels.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have never thought of it that way,&rdquo; she said, with a kind of
+sincere intensity that seemed to belong to her. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it in the
+still, quiet places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to
+create the earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out
+one&rsquo;s window and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He
+built up the everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the
+world&mdash;I mean the building of the Tower of Babel&mdash;result in finally?
+A page and a half of Esperanto in the <i>North American Review</i>.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said I platitudinously, &ldquo;human nature is the
+same everywhere; but there is more color&mdash;er&mdash;more drama and movement
+and&mdash;er&mdash;romance in some cities than in others.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On the surface,&rdquo; said Azalea Adair. &ldquo;I have traveled many
+times around the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings&mdash;print and
+dreams. I have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey
+bowstring with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in
+public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets because his
+wife was going out with her face covered&mdash;with rice powder. In San
+Francisco&rsquo;s Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped slowly, inch
+by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would never see her
+American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had reached three inches
+above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville the other night I saw Kitty
+Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates and lifelong friends because she
+had married a house painter. The boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart;
+but I wish you could have seen the fine little smile that she carried from
+table to table. Oh, yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick
+houses and mud and lumber yards.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair breathed a
+soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back in three minutes
+with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and ten years lifted from
+her shoulders.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You must have a cup of tea before you go,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and a
+sugar cake.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl about
+twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in mouth and
+bulging eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill, a dollar
+bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two pieces, and pasted
+together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was one of the bills I had
+given the piratical Negro&mdash;there was no doubt about it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Go up to Mr. Baker&rsquo;s store on the corner, Impy,&rdquo; she said,
+handing the girl the dollar bill, &ldquo;and get a quarter of a pound of
+tea&mdash;the kind he always sends me&mdash;and ten cents worth of sugar cakes.
+Now, hurry. The supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted,&rdquo; she
+explained to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet had died
+away on the back porch, a wild shriek&mdash;I was sure it was hers&mdash;filled
+the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry man&rsquo;s voice
+mingled with the girl&rsquo;s further squeals and unintelligible words.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two minutes
+I heard the hoarse rumble of the man&rsquo;s voice; then something like an oath
+and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;This is a roomy house,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and I have a tenant for
+part of it. I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was
+impossible to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr.
+Baker will be able to supply me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired concerning
+street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on my way I remembered
+that I had not learned Azalea Adair&rsquo;s name. But to-morrow would do.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this uneventful city
+forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but in that time I managed to
+lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an accomplice&mdash;after the fact, if
+that is the correct legal term&mdash;to a murder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the
+polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of his
+peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his ritual:
+&ldquo;Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean&mdash;jus&rsquo; got back from a
+funeral. Fifty cents to any&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then he knew me and grinned broadly. &ldquo;&rsquo;Scuse me, boss; you is
+de gen&rsquo;l&rsquo;man what rid out with me dis mawnin&rsquo;. Thank you
+kindly, suh.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three,&rdquo; said I,
+&ldquo;and if you will be here, I&rsquo;ll let you drive me. So you know Miss
+Adair?&rdquo; I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh,&rdquo; he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I judge that she is pretty poor,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;She hasn&rsquo;t
+much money to speak of, has she?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King Cettiwayo, and
+then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack driver.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She ain&rsquo;t gwine to starve, suh,&rdquo; he said slowly. &ldquo;She
+has reso&rsquo;ces, suh; she has reso&rsquo;ces.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,&rdquo; said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dat is puffeckly correct, suh,&rdquo; he answered humbly. &ldquo;I
+jus&rsquo; <i>had</i> to have dat two dollars dis mawnin&rsquo;, boss.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: &ldquo;A.
+Adair holds out for eight cents a word.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The answer that came back was: &ldquo;Give it to her quick you duffer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just before dinner &ldquo;Major&rdquo; Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with
+the greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so
+instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was
+standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the white
+ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks, hoping, thereby,
+to escape another; but he was one of those despicable, roaring, advertising
+bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks attend upon every cent that
+they waste in their follies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a pocket
+and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the dollar bill with
+the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the middle, and patched with
+a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar bill again. It could have been
+no other.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary, eventless
+Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that just before I
+went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar bill (which might have
+formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective story of San Francisco) by
+saying to myself sleepily: &ldquo;Seems as if a lot of people here own stock in
+the Hack-Driver&rsquo;s Trust. Pays dividends promptly, too. Wonder
+if&mdash;&rdquo; Then I fell asleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over the
+stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I was ready.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked on the
+day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per word she grew
+still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without much trouble I managed
+to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa and then I ran out to the
+sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored Pirate to bring a doctor. With a
+wisdom that I had not expected in him, he abandoned his team and struck off up
+the street afoot, realizing the value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with
+a grave, gray-haired and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much
+less than eight cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house
+of mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old Negro.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Uncle C&aelig;sar,&rdquo; he said calmly, &ldquo;Run up to my house and
+ask Miss Lucy to give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler
+of port wine. And hurry back. Don&rsquo;t drive&mdash;run. I want you to get
+back sometime this week.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the speeding
+powers of the land-pirate&rsquo;s steeds. After Uncle C&aelig;sar was gone,
+lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me over with great
+politeness and as much careful calculation until he had decided that I might
+do.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is only a case of insufficient nutrition,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;In
+other words, the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has
+many devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept nothing
+except from that old Negro, Uncle C&aelig;sar, who was once owned by her
+family.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mrs. Caswell!&rdquo; said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the
+contract and saw that she had signed it &ldquo;Azalea Adair Caswell.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I thought she was Miss Adair,&rdquo; I said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir,&rdquo; said the doctor.
+&ldquo;It is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant
+contributes toward her support.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea Adair.
+She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that were then in
+season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to her fainting seizure
+as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart. Impy fanned her as she lay
+on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere, and I followed him to the door. I
+told him that it was within my power and intentions to make a reasonable
+advance of money to Azalea Adair on future contributions to the magazine, and
+he seemed pleased.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;perhaps you would like to know that
+you have had royalty for a coachman. Old C&aelig;sar&rsquo;s grandfather was a
+king in Congo. C&aelig;sar himself has royal ways, as you may have
+observed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle C&aelig;sar&rsquo;s voice inside:
+&ldquo;Did he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis&rsquo; Zalea?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, C&aelig;sar,&rdquo; I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I
+went in and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the
+responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary formality
+in binding our bargain. And then Uncle C&aelig;sar drove me back to the hotel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The rest must
+be only bare statements of facts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At about six o&rsquo;clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle C&aelig;sar was at
+his corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster and
+began his depressing formula: &ldquo;Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to
+anywhere in the city&mdash;hack&rsquo;s puffickly clean, suh&mdash;jus&rsquo;
+got back from a funeral&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His coat had
+taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings were more frayed
+and ragged, the last remaining button&mdash;the button of yellow horn&mdash;was
+gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle C&aelig;sar!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of a drug
+store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I wedged my way
+inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs was stretched the
+mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A doctor was testing him for
+the immortal ingredient. His decision was that it was conspicuous by its
+absence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by curious
+and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had been engaged
+in terrific battle&mdash;the details showed that. Loafer and reprobate though
+he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had lost. His hands were yet
+clinched so tightly that his fingers would not be opened. The gentle citizens
+who had known him stood about and searched their vocabularies to find some good
+words, if it were possible, to speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after
+much thought: &ldquo;When &lsquo;Cas&rsquo; was about fo&rsquo;teen he was one
+of the best spellers in school.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of &ldquo;the man that
+was&rdquo; which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped
+something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little later on
+I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last struggle his hand
+must have seized that object unwittingly and held it in a death grip.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the possible
+exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major Caswell. I
+heard one man say to a group of listeners:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these
+no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon which he
+showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found the money was not
+on his person.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing the
+bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow horn overcoat
+button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends of coarse twine hanging
+from it, and cast it out of the window into the slow, muddy waters below.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>I wonder what&rsquo;s doing in Buffalo!</i>
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap14"></a>XIV<br />
+PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER</h2>
+
+<p>
+If you are a philosopher you can do this thing: you can go to the top of a high
+building, look down upon your fellow-men 300 feet below, and despise them as
+insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on summer ponds, they crawl and
+circle and hustle about idiotically without aim or purpose. They do not even
+move with the admirable intelligence of ants, for ants always know when they
+are going home. The ant is of a lowly station, but he will often reach home and
+get his slippers on while you are left at your elevated station.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a creeping,
+contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires, bootblacks, beauties,
+hod-carriers and politicians become little black specks dodging bigger black
+specks in streets no wider than your thumb.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an unintelligible mass
+of distorted buildings and impossible perspectives; the revered ocean is a duck
+pond; the earth itself a lost golf ball. All the minutiae of life are gone. The
+philosopher gazes into the infinite heavens above him, and allows his soul to
+expand to the influence of his new view. He feels that he is the heir to
+Eternity and the child of Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his
+immortal heritage, and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind shall
+traverse those mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet. The tiny
+world beneath his feet upon which this towering structure of steel rests as a
+speck of dust upon a Himalayan mountain&mdash;it is but one of a countless
+number of such whirling atoms. What are the ambitions, the achievements, the
+paltry conquests and loves of those restless black insects below compared with
+the serene and awful immensity of the universe that lies above and around their
+insignificant city?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They have been
+expressly compiled from the philosophies of the world and set down with the
+proper interrogation point at the end of them to represent the invariable
+musings of deep thinkers on high places. And when the philosopher takes the
+elevator down his mind is broader, his heart is at peace, and his conception of
+the cosmogony of creation is as wide as the buckle of Orion&rsquo;s summer
+belt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an Eighth Avenue candy
+store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet by eight, and earned
+$6 per week, and ate ten-cent lunches and were nineteen years old, and got up
+at 6.30 and worked till 9, and never had studied philosophy, maybe things
+wouldn&rsquo;t look that way to you from the top of a skyscraper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who kept
+the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a tool-box of the D.
+P. W., and was stuck like a swallow&rsquo;s nest against a corner of a
+down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit, candies, newspapers, song
+books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season. When stern winter shook his
+congealed locks and Joe had to move himself and the fruit inside, there was
+exactly room in the store for the proprietor, his wares, a stove the size of a
+vinegar cruet, and one customer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues and
+fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and wanted
+Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I got money saved up, Daisy,&rdquo; was his love song; &ldquo;and you
+know how bad I want you. That store of mine ain&rsquo;t very big,
+but&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, ain&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical
+one. &ldquo;Why, I heard Wanamaker&rsquo;s was trying to get you to sublet part
+of your floor space to them for next year.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Daisy passed Joe&rsquo;s corner every morning and evening.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hello, Two-by-Four!&rdquo; was her usual greeting. &ldquo;Seems to me
+your store looks emptier. You must have sold a pack of chewing gum.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ain&rsquo;t much room in here, sure,&rdquo; Joe would answer, with his
+slow grin, &ldquo;except for you, Daise. Me and the store are waitin&rsquo; for
+you whenever you&rsquo;ll take us. Don&rsquo;t you think you might before
+long?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Store!&rdquo;&mdash;a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy&rsquo;s uptilted
+nose&mdash;&ldquo;sardine box! Waitin&rsquo; for me, you say? Gee! you&rsquo;d
+have to throw out about a hundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of
+it, Joe.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t mind an even swap like that,&rdquo; said Joe,
+complimentary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Daisy&rsquo;s existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways
+between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall bedroom
+coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were so near to one
+another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of noise. She could light
+the gas with one hand and close the door with the other without taking her eyes
+off the reflection of her brown pompadour in the mirror. She had Joe&rsquo;s
+picture in a gilt frame on the dresser, and sometimes&mdash;but her next
+thought would always be of Joe&rsquo;s funny little store tacked like a soap
+box to the corner of that great building, and away would go her sentiment in a
+breeze of laughter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Daisy&rsquo;s other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board in
+the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a philosopher.
+Though young, attainments stood out upon him like continental labels on a
+Passaic (N. J.) suit-case. Knowledge he had kidnapped from cyclopedias and
+handbooks of useful information; but as for wisdom, when she passed he was left
+sniffling in the road without so much as the number of her motor car. He could
+and would tell you the proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas
+and veal, the shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle
+nails required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the
+population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of Mr. H. McKay
+Twombly&rsquo;s second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel, the best
+time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office messenger between
+Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, Pa., and the number of bones in the foreleg of
+a cat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were the
+sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk that he would
+set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And again he used them as
+breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse. Firing at you a volley of figures
+concerning the weight of a lineal foot of bar-iron 5 &times; 2&frac34; inches,
+and the average annual rainfall at Fort Snelling, Minn., he would transfix with
+his fork the best piece of chicken on the dish while you were trying to rally
+sufficiently to ask him weakly why does a hen cross the road.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good looks, of a
+hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon kind, it seems that Joe,
+of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival worthy of his steel. But Joe carried
+no steel. There wouldn&rsquo;t have been room in his store to draw it if he
+had.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One Saturday afternoon, about four o&rsquo;clock, Daisy and Mr. Dabster stopped
+before Joe&rsquo;s booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and&mdash;well, Daisy was a
+woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until Joe had seen it.
+A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible object of the call. Joe
+supplied it through the open side of his store. He did not pale or falter at
+sight of the hat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Dabster&rsquo;s going to take me on top of the building to observe
+the view,&rdquo; said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. &ldquo;I
+never was on a skyscraper. I guess it must be awfully nice and funny up
+there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;H&rsquo;m!&rdquo; said Joe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The panorama,&rdquo; said Mr. Dabster, &ldquo;exposed to the gaze from
+the top of a lofty building is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy
+has a decided pleasure in store for her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s windy up there, too, as well as here,&rdquo; said Joe.
+&ldquo;Are you dressed warm enough, Daise?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sure thing! I&rsquo;m all lined,&rdquo; said Daisy, smiling slyly at his
+clouded brow. &ldquo;You look just like a mummy in a case, Joe. Ain&rsquo;t you
+just put in an invoice of a pint of peanuts or another apple? Your stock looks
+awful over-stocked.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Daisy giggled at her favorite joke; and Joe had to smile with her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.&mdash;er&mdash;er,&rdquo;
+remarked Dabster, &ldquo;in comparison with the size of this building. I
+understand the area of its side to be about 340 by 100 feet. That would make
+you occupy a proportionate space as if half of Beloochistan were placed upon a
+territory as large as the United States east of the Rocky Mountains, with the
+Province of Ontario and Belgium added.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is that so, sport?&rdquo; said Joe, genially. &ldquo;You are
+Weisenheimer on figures, all right. How many square pounds of baled hay do you
+think a jackass could eat if he stopped brayin&rsquo; long enough to keep still
+a minute and five eighths?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to the top
+floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and out upon the roof.
+Dabster led her to the parapet so she could look down at the black dots moving
+in the street below.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What are they?&rdquo; she asked, trembling. She had never been on a
+height like this before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then Dabster must needs play the philosopher on the tower, and conduct her
+soul forth to meet the immensity of space.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bipeds,&rdquo; he said, solemnly. &ldquo;See what they become even at
+the small elevation of 340 feet&mdash;mere crawling insects going to and fro at
+random.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, they ain&rsquo;t anything of the kind,&rdquo; exclaimed Daisy,
+suddenly&mdash;&ldquo;they&rsquo;re folks! I saw an automobile. Oh, gee! are we
+that high up?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Walk over this way,&rdquo; said Dabster.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far below,
+starred here and there, early as it was, by the first beacon lights of the
+winter afternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south and east vanishing
+mysteriously into the sky.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like it,&rdquo; declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes.
+&ldquo;Say we go down.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But the philosopher was not to be denied his opportunity. He would let her
+behold the grandeur of his mind, the half-nelson he had on the infinite, and
+the memory he had for statistics. And then she would nevermore be content to
+buy chewing gum at the smallest store in New York. And so he began to prate of
+the smallness of human affairs, and how that even so slight a removal from
+earth made man and his works look like one tenth part of a dollar thrice
+computed. And that one should consider the sidereal system and the maxims of
+Epictetus and be comforted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t carry me with you,&rdquo; said Daisy. &ldquo;Say, I
+think it&rsquo;s awful to be up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them
+we saw might have been Joe. Why, Jiminy! we might as well be in New Jersey!
+Say, I&rsquo;m afraid up here!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The philosopher smiled fatuously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The earth,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is itself only as a grain of wheat in
+space. Look up there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short day was spent and the stars were
+coming out above.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yonder star,&rdquo; said Dabster, &ldquo;is Venus, the evening star. She
+is 66,000,000 miles from the sun.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Fudge!&rdquo; said Daisy, with a brief flash of spirit, &ldquo;where do
+you think I come from&mdash;Brooklyn? Susie Price, in our store&mdash;her
+brother sent her a ticket to go to San Francisco&mdash;that&rsquo;s only three
+thousand miles.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The philosopher smiled indulgently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Our world,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is 91,000,000 miles from the sun.
+There are eighteen stars of the first magnitude that are 211,000 times further
+from us than the sun is. If one of them should be extinguished it would be
+three years before we would see its light go out. There are six thousand stars
+of the sixth magnitude. It takes thirty-six years for the light of one of them
+to reach the earth. With an eighteen-foot telescope we can see 43,000,000
+stars, including those of the thirteenth magnitude, whose light takes 2,700
+years to reach us. Each of these stars&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re lyin&rsquo;,&rdquo; cried Daisy, angrily.
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re tryin&rsquo; to scare me. And you have; I want to go
+down!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stamped her foot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Arcturus&mdash;&rdquo; began the philosopher, soothingly, but he was
+interrupted by a demonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was
+endeavoring to portray with his memory instead of his heart. For to the
+heart-expounder of nature the stars were set in the firmament expressly to give
+soft light to lovers wandering happily beneath them; and if you stand tiptoe
+some September night with your sweetheart on your arm you can almost touch them
+with your hand. Three years for their light to reach us, indeed!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Out of the west leaped a meteor, lighting the roof of the skyscraper almost to
+midday. Its fiery parabola was limned against the sky toward the east. It
+hissed as it went, and Daisy screamed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Take me down,&rdquo; she cried, vehemently, &ldquo;you&mdash;you mental
+arithmetic!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dabster got her to the elevator, and inside of it. She was wild-eyed, and she
+shuddered when the express made its debilitating drop.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her. She
+vanished; and he stood, bewildered, without figures or statistics to aid him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Joe had a lull in trade, and by squirming among his stock succeeded in lighting
+a cigarette and getting one cold foot against the attenuated stove.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The door was burst open, and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit and
+candies, tumbled into his arms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, Joe, I&rsquo;ve been up on the skyscraper. Ain&rsquo;t it cozy and
+warm and homelike in here! I&rsquo;m ready for you, Joe, whenever you want
+me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap15"></a>XV<br />
+A BIRD OF BAGDAD</h2>
+
+<p>
+Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid
+descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Quigg&rsquo;s restaurant is in Fourth Avenue&mdash;that street that the city
+seems to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue&mdash;born and bred in the
+Bowery&mdash;staggers northward full of good resolutions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly in the
+glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit mate for its
+high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring, polyglot, broad-waisted
+cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and here the hoofs of the dray
+horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling the tread of marching
+hosts&mdash;Hooray! But now come the silent and terrible
+mountains&mdash;buildings square as forts, high as the clouds, shutting out the
+sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day. On the ground floors
+are only little fruit shops and laundries and book shops, where you see copies
+of &ldquo;Littell&rsquo;s Living Age&rdquo; and G. W. M. Reynold&rsquo;s novels
+in the windows. And next&mdash;poor Fourth Avenue!&mdash;the street glides into
+a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted to &ldquo;Antiques.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and menace the
+hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and helms,
+blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and the swords
+and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully in the ghostly
+light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with Jack-o&rsquo;-lanterns or
+phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound citizens, nerved by the
+tankards within to their fearsome journey adown that eldrich avenue lined with
+the bloodstained weapons of the fighting dead. What street could live inclosed
+by these mortuary relics, and trod by these spectral citizens in whose sunken
+hearts scarce one good whoop or tra-la-la remained?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the Little
+Rialto&mdash;not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There need be no
+tears, ladies and gentlemen; &rsquo;tis but the suicide of a street. With a
+shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the tunnel at
+Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare&rsquo;s dissolution stood the modest
+restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its crumbling
+red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges, tomatoes, layer cakes,
+pies, canned asparagus&mdash;its papier-m&acirc;ché lobster and two
+Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce&mdash;if you care to sit at one of
+the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the yellowest of coffee
+stains the trail of the Japanese advance&mdash;to sit there with one eye on
+your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle from which you drop the
+counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed charlatan who assumes to be our
+dear old lord and friend, the &ldquo;Nobleman in India.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Quigg&rsquo;s title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a
+Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of the
+dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become a reigning
+potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a restaurant. He was a
+man full of thought and reading. The business gave him a living, though he gave
+it little attention. One side of his house bequeathed to him a poetic and
+romantic adventure. The other gave him the restless spirit that made him seek
+adventure. By day he was Quigg, the restaurateur. By night he was the
+Margrave&mdash;the Caliph&mdash;the Prince of Bohemia&mdash;going about the
+city in search of the odd, the mysterious, the inexplicable, the recondite.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth upon his
+quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and the artistic in
+his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his short-trimmed brown
+and gray beard and turned westward toward the more central life conduits of the
+city. In his pocket he had stored an assortment of cards, written upon, without
+which he never stirred out of doors. Each of those cards was good at his own
+restaurant for its face value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or
+sandwiches and coffee; others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more
+days of full meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in
+effect, meal tickets good for a week.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph&rsquo;s
+heart&mdash;it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of
+Harun Al Rashid&rsquo;s. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put less
+warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars than had Quigg&rsquo;s
+beef stew among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of Manhattan.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of distress that
+he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd that whooped and
+fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and the crosstown street that he was
+traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld a young man of an exceedingly
+melancholy and preoccupied demeanor engaged in the pastime of casting silver
+money from his pockets in the middle of the street. With each motion of the
+generous one&rsquo;s hand the crowd huddled upon the falling largesse with
+yells of joy. Traffic was suspended. A policeman in the centre of the mob
+stooped often to the ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after knowledge
+concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his way swiftly to the
+young man&rsquo;s side and took his arm. &ldquo;Come with me at once,&rdquo; he
+said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had learned to fear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pinched,&rdquo; remarked the young man, looking up at him with
+expressionless eyes. &ldquo;Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away,
+flatty, and give me gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed Quigg to
+lead him away and down the street to a little park.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph&rsquo;s
+mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to know what
+evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving him to such
+ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and stores.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J.,
+wasn&rsquo;t I?&rdquo; asked the young man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to scramble
+after,&rdquo; said the Margrave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw
+chicken feed to&mdash; Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,
+roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Young sir,&rdquo; said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity,
+&ldquo;though I do not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I
+know humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist eyes a
+beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his
+bounty&mdash;through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure and
+distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated misfortunes that
+life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You may be familiar with the
+history of that glorious and immortal ruler, the Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose
+wise and beneficent excursions among his people in the city of Bagdad secured
+him the privilege of relieving so much of their distress. In my humble way I
+walk in his footsteps. I seek for romance and adventure in city
+streets&mdash;not in ruined castles or in crumbling palaces. To me the greatest
+marvels of magic are those that take place in men&rsquo;s hearts when acted
+upon by the furious and diverse forces of a crowded population. In your strange
+behavior this evening I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something
+deeper than the wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your
+countenance the certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat&mdash;I
+invite your confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise.
+Will you not trust me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gee, how you talk!&rdquo; exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration
+supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got
+the Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that old
+Turk you speak of. I read &lsquo;The Arabian Nights&rsquo; when I was a kid. He
+was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say, you
+might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon giants all
+night without ever touching me. My case won&rsquo;t yield to that kind of
+treatment.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If I could hear your story,&rdquo; said the Margrave, with his lofty,
+serious smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll spiel it in about nine words,&rdquo; said the young man, with
+a deep sigh, &ldquo;but I don&rsquo;t think you can help me any. Unless
+you&rsquo;re a peach at guessing it&rsquo;s back to the Bosphorus for you on
+your magic linoleum.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER&rsquo;S RIDDLE
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I work in Hildebrant&rsquo;s saddle and harness shop down in Grant
+Street. I&rsquo;ve worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That&rsquo;s
+enough to marry on, ain&rsquo;t it? Well, I&rsquo;m not going to get married.
+Old Hildebrant is one of these funny Dutchmen&mdash;you know the
+kind&mdash;always getting off bum jokes. He&rsquo;s got about a million riddles
+and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers&rsquo; great-grandfather. Bill
+Watson works there, too. Me and Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after
+day. Why do we do it? Well, jobs ain&rsquo;t to be picked off every Anheuser
+bush&mdash; And then there&rsquo;s Laura.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What? The old man&rsquo;s daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About
+nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of the Rhine
+and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of straw matting, and
+eyes as black and shiny as the best harness blacking&mdash;think of that!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Me? well, it&rsquo;s either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal.
+Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?&mdash;well, you saw me
+plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-night. That was on
+account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of what I
+wouldst.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon:
+&lsquo;Boys, one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot
+riddles antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to
+provide&mdash;is not that&mdash;hein?&rsquo; And he hands us a riddle&mdash;a
+conundrum, some calls it&mdash;and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us
+till to-morrow morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of
+us guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o&rsquo; Wednesday night to
+his daughter&rsquo;s birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us
+goes, for she&rsquo;s naturally aching for a husband, and it&rsquo;s either me
+or Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry
+somebody that&rsquo;ll carry on the business after he&rsquo;s stitched his last
+pair of traces.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The riddle? Why, it was this: &lsquo;What kind of a hen lays the
+longest? Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain&rsquo;t it
+like a Dutchman to risk a man&rsquo;s happiness on a fool proposition like
+that? Now, what&rsquo;s the use? What I don&rsquo;t know about hens would fill
+several incubators. You say you&rsquo;re giving imitations of the old Arab guy
+that gave away&mdash;libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy
+that&rsquo;ll solve this hen query, or not?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the park
+bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave and
+impressive tones:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in
+search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered a more
+interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have overlooked hens in my
+researches and observations. As to their habits, their times and manner of
+laying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life,
+their&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t make an Ibsen drama of it!&rdquo; interrupted the young
+man, flippantly. &ldquo;Riddles&mdash;especially old Hildebrant&rsquo;s
+riddles&mdash;don&rsquo;t have to be worked out seriously. They are light
+themes such as Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I
+can&rsquo;t strike just the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow
+will tell. Well, Your Majesty, I&rsquo;m glad anyhow that you butted in and
+whiled the time away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if
+one of his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I&rsquo;ll
+say good night. Peace fo&rsquo; yours, and what-you-may-call-its of
+Allah.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I cannot express my regret,&rdquo; he said, sadly. &ldquo;Never before
+have I found myself unable to assist in some way. &lsquo;What kind of a hen
+lays the longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called
+the Plymouth Rock that&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cut it out,&rdquo; said the young man. &ldquo;The Caliph trade is a
+mighty serious one. I don&rsquo;t suppose you&rsquo;d even see anything funny
+in a preacher&rsquo;s defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your
+Nibs.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a card
+and handed it to the young man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The time
+may come when it might be of use to you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thanks!&rdquo; said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. &ldquo;My
+name is Simmons.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+Shame to him who would hint that the reader&rsquo;s interest shall altogether
+pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray if my
+hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser&rsquo;s heart would follow. Then
+let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness
+maker.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Hildebrant&rsquo;s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw leather
+martingale.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bill Watson came in first.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Vell,&rdquo; said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of
+the joke-maker, &ldquo;haf you guessed him? &lsquo;Vat kind of a hen lays der
+longest?&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Er&mdash;why, I think so,&rdquo; said Bill, rubbing a servile chin.
+&ldquo;I think so, Mr. Hildebrant&mdash;the one that lives the longest&mdash;
+Is that right?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nein!&rdquo; said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. &ldquo;You haf
+not guessed der answer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In came the young man of the Arabian Night&rsquo;s fiasco&mdash;pale,
+melancholy, hopeless.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Vell,&rdquo; said Hildebrant, &ldquo;haf you guessed him? &lsquo;Vat
+kind of a hen lays der longest?&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this
+mountain of pernicious humor&mdash;curse him and die? Why should&mdash; But
+there was Laura.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood. His
+hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave&rsquo;s card. He drew it out
+and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There was
+written on it in Quigg&rsquo;s bold, round hand: &ldquo;Good for one roast
+chicken to bearer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A dead one!&rdquo; said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Goot!&rdquo; roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee.
+&ldquo;Dot is right! You gome at mine house at 8 o&rsquo;clock to der
+party.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap16"></a>XVI<br />
+COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON</h2>
+
+<p>
+There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted; and
+newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young journalists
+who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic view of life.
+Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced to very questionable
+sources&mdash;facts and philosophy. We will begin with&mdash;whichever you
+choose to call it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope under a
+bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish sorrows overwhelm
+them are we put to our wits&rsquo; end. We exhaust our paltry store of
+consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep. Then we grovel in the dust
+of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we call out of the rat-trap. As for
+the children, no one understands them except old maids, hunchbacks, and
+shepherd dogs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now comes the facts in the case of the Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion, and the
+Twenty-fifth of December.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her rag-doll.
+There were many servants in the Millionaire&rsquo;s palace on the Hudson, and
+these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding the lost treasure.
+The child was a girl of five, and one of those perverse little beasts that
+often wound the sensibilities of wealthy parents by fixing their affections
+upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles
+and pony phaetons.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the Millionaire, to
+whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as Bay State Gas; and to the
+Lady, the Child&rsquo;s mother, who was all form&mdash;that is, nearly all, as
+you shall see.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed, spindling, and
+corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire smiled and tapped his
+coffers confidently. The pick of the output of the French and German toymakers
+was rushed by special delivery to the mansion; but Rachel refused to be
+comforted. She was weeping for her rag child, and was for a high protective
+tariff against all foreign foolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside
+manners and stop-watches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely
+about peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their
+stop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or place.
+Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon as possible and
+restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at therapeutics, chewed a
+thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this time cablegrams were coming from
+Santa Claus saying that he would soon be here and enjoining us to show a true
+Christian spirit and let up on the pool-rooms and tontine policies and platoon
+systems long enough to give him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas
+was diffusing itself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawn-brokers had
+doubled their gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red
+sleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you waited on
+one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows of the stores, they
+who had &rsquo;em were getting their furs. You hardly knew which was the best
+bet in balls&mdash;three, high, moth, or snow. It was no time at which to lose
+the rag-doll or your heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If Doctor Watson&rsquo;s investigating friend had been called in to solve this
+mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the Millionaire&rsquo;s wall
+a copy of &ldquo;The Vampire.&rdquo; That would have quickly suggested, by
+induction, &ldquo;A rag and a bone and a hank of hair.&rdquo;
+&ldquo;Flip,&rdquo; a Scotch terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child&rsquo;s
+heart, frisked through the halls. The hank of hair! Aha! X, the unfound
+quantity, represented the rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones
+they&mdash;Done! It were an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip&rsquo;s
+forefeet. Look, Watson! Earth&mdash;dried earth between the toes. Of course,
+the dog&mdash;but Sherlock was not there. Therefore it devolves. But topography
+and architecture must intervene.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Millionaire&rsquo;s palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a
+lawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man&rsquo;s face two days after a shave. At
+one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce trimmed to a
+leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had ravished the rag-doll from
+the nursery, dragged it to a corner of the lawn, dug a hole, and buried it
+after the manner of careless undertakers. There you have the mystery solved,
+and no checks to write for the hypodermical wizard or fi&rsquo;-pun notes to
+toss to the sergeant. Then let&rsquo;s get down to the heart of the thing,
+tiresome readers&mdash;the Christmas heart of the thing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy was drunk&mdash;not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or I
+might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes a
+gentleman down on his luck.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the park bench, the
+kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary
+beds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly garnered
+largesse of great cities&mdash;these formed the chapters of his history.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy walked toward the river, down the street that bounded one side of the
+Millionaire&rsquo;s house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost
+rag-doll, protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputian murder mystery, from its
+untimely grave in a corner of the fence. He dragged forth the maltreated
+infant, tucked it under his arm, and went on his way crooning a road song of
+his brethren that no doll that has been brought up to the sheltered life should
+hear. Well for Betsy that she had no ears. And well that she had no eyes save
+unseeing circles of black; for the faces of Fuzzy and the Scotch terrier were
+those of brothers, and the heart of no rag-doll could withstand twice to become
+the prey of such fearsome monsters.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Though you may not know it, Grogan&rsquo;s saloon stands near the river and
+near the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled. In Grogan&rsquo;s,
+Christmas cheer was already rampant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast of Saturn
+he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously, seasoning his
+speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as one entertaining his
+lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught the farce of it, and roared.
+The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many of us carry rag-dolls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;One for the lady?&rdquo; suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another
+contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a success.
+Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a group near the stove sat &ldquo;Pigeon&rdquo; McCarthy, Black Riley, and
+&ldquo;One-ear&rdquo; Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring
+district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a newspaper
+back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and blunt forefinger
+pointed out was an advertisement headed &ldquo;One Hundred Dollars
+Reward.&rdquo; To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed, or stolen
+from the Millionaire&rsquo;s mansion. It seemed that grief still ravaged,
+unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the terrier, capered
+and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to distract. She wailed for
+her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking, mama-ing, and eye-closing French
+Mabelles and Violettes. The advertisement was a last resort.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his one-sided
+parabolic way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his arm, and
+was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates elsewhere.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, &lsquo;Bo,&rdquo; said Black Riley to him, &ldquo;where did you cop
+out dat doll?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;This doll?&rdquo; asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be
+sure that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by
+the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country home in
+Newport. This doll&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cheese the funny business,&rdquo; said Riley. &ldquo;You swiped it or
+picked it up at de house on de hill where&mdash;but never mind dat. You want to
+take fifty cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother&rsquo;s kid at home
+might be wantin&rsquo; to play wid it. Hey&mdash;what?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He produced the coin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to the
+office of Sarah Bernhardt&rsquo;s manager and propose to him that she be
+released from a night&rsquo;s performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum and
+Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy&rsquo;s laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler does. His
+hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine from the
+extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel unaware. But he
+refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three inches of well-nourished
+corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy linen, intervened between
+his vest and trousers. Countless small, circular wrinkles running around his
+coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed the quality of his bone and muscle. His
+small, blue eyes, bathed in the moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon
+you kindly, yet without abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily
+formidable. So, Black Riley temporized.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wot&rsquo;ll you take for it, den?&rdquo; he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Money,&rdquo; said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, &ldquo;cannot buy
+her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was intoxicated with the artist&rsquo;s first sweet cup of attainment. To
+set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic converse with
+it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of plaudits earned and his
+throat scorching with free libations poured in his honor&mdash;could base coin
+buy him from such achievements? You will perceive that Fuzzy had the
+temperament.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other
+cafés to conquer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were beginning to
+spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet. Christmas Eve,
+impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the hour. Millions had
+prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted red. You, yourself, have
+heard the horns and dodged the capers of the Saturnalians.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pigeon&rdquo; McCarthy, Black Riley, and &ldquo;One-ear&rdquo; Mike held
+a hasty converse outside Grogan&rsquo;s. They were narrow-chested, pallid
+striplings, not fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of
+warfare than the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have
+eaten the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already doomed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan&rsquo;s Casino.
+They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy could
+read&mdash;and more.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Boys,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you are certainly damn true friends. Give
+me a week to think it over.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless, and
+that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the morrow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A cool hundred,&rdquo; said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Boys,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you are true friends. I&rsquo;ll go up and
+claim the reward. The show business is not what it used to be.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot of the
+rise on which stood the Millionaire&rsquo;s house. There Fuzzy turned upon them
+acrimoniously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds,&rdquo; he roared. &ldquo;Go
+away.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They went away&mdash;a little way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In &ldquo;Pigeon&rdquo; McCarthy&rsquo;s pocket was a section of one-inch
+gas-pipe eight inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead
+plug. One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a
+slung-shot, being a conventional thug. &ldquo;One-ear&rdquo; Mike relied upon a
+pair of brass knucks&mdash;an heirloom in the family.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why fetch and carry,&rdquo; said Black Riley, &ldquo;when some one will
+do it for ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey&mdash;what?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We can chuck him in the river,&rdquo; said &ldquo;Pigeon&rdquo;
+McCarthy, &ldquo;with a stone tied to his feet.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Youse guys make me tired,&rdquo; said &ldquo;One-ear&rdquo; Mike sadly.
+&ldquo;Ain&rsquo;t progress ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little
+gasoline on &rsquo;im, and drop &rsquo;im on the Drive&mdash;well?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy entered the Millionaire&rsquo;s gate and zigzagged toward the softly
+glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate and
+lingered&mdash;one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They fingered
+their cold metal and leather, confident.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic instinct
+prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he wore no gloves;
+so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces shied
+at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his passport, his card of
+admission, his surety of welcome&mdash;the lost rag-doll of the daughter of the
+house dangling under his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen lights. The
+hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child. The doll was
+restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling to her breast; and
+then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of childhood, stamped her foot
+and whined hatred and fear of the odious being who had rescued her from the
+depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy wriggled himself into an ingratiatory
+attitude and essayed the idiotic smile and blattering small talk that is
+supposed to charm the budding intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was
+dragged away, hugging her Betsy close.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and
+worshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy&rsquo;s hand ten
+ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to James,
+its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with the other, and
+allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial regions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far as the
+front door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the money touched fuzzy&rsquo;s dingy palm his first instinct was to take
+to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that blunder of
+etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It&mdash;and, oh, what an elysium
+it opened to the gaze of his mind&rsquo;s eye! He had tumbled to the foot of
+the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged, cold, drifting; and he
+held in his hand the key to a paradise of the mud-honey that he craved. The
+fairy doll had waved a wand with her rag-stuffed hand; and now wherever he
+might go the enchanted palaces with shining foot-rests and magic red fluids in
+gleaming glassware would be open to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He followed James to the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for him to
+pass into the vestibule.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his two pals
+casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably fatal weapons
+that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire&rsquo;s door and bethought himself. Like
+little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green thoughts and
+memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite drunk, mind you, and
+the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths and festoons of holly with
+their scarlet berries making the great hall gay&mdash;where had he seen such
+things before? Somewhere he had known polished floors and odors of fresh
+flowers in winter, and&mdash;and some one was singing a song in the house that
+he thought he had heard before. Some one singing and playing a harp. Of course,
+it was Christmas&mdash;Fuzzy thought he must have been pretty drunk to have
+overlooked that.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of some
+impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white, transient,
+forgotten ghost&mdash;the spirit of <i>noblesse oblige</i>. Upon a gentleman
+certain things devolve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled walk to
+the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and &ldquo;One-ear&rdquo; Mike saw, and
+carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With a more imperious gesture than James&rsquo;s master had ever used or could
+ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a gentleman
+certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is cust&mdash;customary,&rdquo; he said to James, the flustered,
+&ldquo;when a gentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the
+season with the lady of the house. You und&rsquo;stand? I shall not move shtep
+till I pass compl&rsquo;ments season with lady the house.
+Und&rsquo;stand?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it through
+the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He was simply a tramp
+being visited by a ghost.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy in the
+hall. James explained somewhere to some one.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than any
+picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a doll. Fuzzy
+didn&rsquo;t understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped
+sterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to Fuzzy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities dropped from
+him for one brief moment. He straightened himself; and Time, so disobliging to
+most of us, turned backward to accommodate Fuzzy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most opulent
+Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan&rsquo;s whisky. What had the
+Millionaire&rsquo;s mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia hall, where
+the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl, drinking the ancient toast
+of the House? And why should the patter of the cab horses&rsquo; hoofs on the
+frozen street be in any wise related to the sound of the saddled hunters
+stamping under the shelter of the west veranda? And what had Fuzzy to do with
+any of it?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile fade away
+like a false dawn. Her eyes turned serious. She saw something beneath the rags
+and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not understand. But it did not matter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;P-pardon, lady,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but couldn&rsquo;t leave without
+exchangin&rsquo; comp&rsquo;ments sheason with lady th&rsquo; house.
+&rsquo;Gainst princ&rsquo;ples gen&rsquo;leman do sho.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the House when
+men wore lace ruffles and powder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The blessings of another year&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy&rsquo;s memory failed him. The Lady prompted:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&mdash;Be upon this hearth.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&mdash;The guest&mdash;&rdquo; stammered Fuzzy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&mdash;And upon her who&mdash;&rdquo; continued the Lady, with a leading
+smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, cut it out,&rdquo; said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t
+remember. Drink hearty.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy had shot his arrow. They drank. The Lady smiled again the smile of her
+caste. James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front door. The harp
+music still softly drifted through the house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; said the Lady to herself, musing, &ldquo;who&mdash;but
+there were so many who came. I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing
+to them after they have fallen so low.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door. The Lady called:
+&ldquo;James!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James stalked back obsequiously, leaving Fuzzy waiting unsteadily, with his
+brief spark of the divine fire gone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Outside, Black Riley stamped his cold feet and got a firmer grip on his section
+of gas-pipe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You will conduct this gentleman,&rdquo; said the lady,
+&ldquo;Downstairs. Then tell Louis to get out the Mercedes and take him to
+whatever place he wishes to go.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap17"></a>XVII<br />
+A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA</h2>
+
+<p>
+The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces, bazaars,
+khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers disguises, seeking
+diversion and victims for their unbridled generosity. You can scarcely find a
+poor beggar whom they are willing to let enjoy his spoils unsuccored, nor a
+wrecked unfortunate upon whom they will not reshower the means of fresh
+misfortune. You will hardly find anywhere a hungry one who has not had the
+opportunity to tighten his belt in gift libraries, nor a poor pundit who has
+not blushed at the holiday basket of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly
+through his door by the eleemosynary press.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed
+calenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber&rsquo;s Sixth Brother, hoping to
+escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories of those
+who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of the Faithful. Until
+dawn you might sit on the enchanted rug and listen to such stories as are told
+of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent the Forty Thieves to soak up the
+oil plant of Ali Baba; of the good Caliph Kar-Neg-Ghe, who gave away palaces;
+of the Seven Voyages of Sailbad, the Sinner, who frequented wooden excursion
+steamers among the islands; of the Fisherman and the Bottle; of the
+Barmecides&rsquo; Boarding house; of Aladdin&rsquo;s rise to wealth by means of
+his Wonderful Gas-meter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too valuable
+to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of narrative languishes.
+And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy poor and the resigned
+unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap upon them strange mercies and
+mysterious benefits, too often comes the report from Arabian headquarters that
+the captive refused &ldquo;to talk.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of their
+philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the shortcomings of
+this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called
+</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+THE STORY OF THE CALIPH WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water at his
+$1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its imbibition, for
+immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak soundly with his fist and
+shouted to the empty dining room:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;By the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If I
+can get that squared, it&rsquo;ll do the trick.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus, by the commonest artifice of the trade, having gained your interest, the
+action of the story will now be suspended, leaving you grumpily to consider a
+sort of dull biography beginning fifteen years before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania coal
+mine. I don&rsquo;t know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems to be
+standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have his picture
+taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But, instead of dying of
+overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents and brothers at the mercy of
+the union strikers&rsquo; reserve fund, he hitched up his galluses, put a
+dollar or two in a side proposition now and then, and at forty-five was worth
+$20,000,000.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There now! it&rsquo;s over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I&rsquo;ve seen
+biographies that&mdash;but let us dissemble.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at the
+seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble origin;
+second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth, capitalist; fifth,
+trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh, caliph; eighth, <i>x</i>. The
+eighth stage shall be left to the higher mathematics.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a czar was
+still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil, railroads,
+manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched Jacob&rsquo;s hands in
+a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully cleaned and dusted and
+fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage of untainted, spotless checks
+in the white fingers of his private secretary. Jacob built a
+three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of
+New Bagdad, and began to feel the mantle of the late H. A. Rashid descending
+upon him. Eventually Jacob slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a
+neat four-in-hand, and became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian
+proletariat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When a man&rsquo;s income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends him
+the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul&rsquo;s
+salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be
+forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his wealth.
+The trust magnate &ldquo;estimates&rdquo; it. The rich malefactor hands you a
+cigar and denies that he has bought the P. D. &amp; Q. The caliph merely smiles
+and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a record of
+tremendous altercation at breakfast in a &ldquo;Where-to-Dine-Well&rdquo;
+tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being that the
+wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher than did her future
+<i>divorcé</i>. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar quarrel between a
+man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in his pockets than he
+thought he had. After all, we are all human&mdash;Count Tolstoi, R.
+Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Don&rsquo;t lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort
+of moral essay for intellectual readers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels in the
+Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send a check for
+one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the Globe. You may have
+looked down through a grating in front of a decayed warehouse for a nickel that
+you had dropped through. But that is neither here nor there. The Association
+acknowledged receipt of his favor of the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated.
+Separated by a double line, but still mighty close to the matter under the
+caption of &ldquo;Oddities of the Day&rsquo;s News&rdquo; in an evening paper,
+Jacob Spraggins read that one &ldquo;Jasper Spargyous&rdquo; had &ldquo;donated
+$100,000 to the U. B. A. of G.&rdquo; A camel may have a stomach for each day
+in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him whiskers, for fear of the
+Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he have whiskers, surely not one of
+them will seem to have been inserted in the eye of a needle by that effort of
+that rich man to enter the K. of H. The right is reserved to reject any and all
+bids; signed, S. Peter, secretary and gatekeeper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and presented
+it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain a scientific
+course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate lavatory instead,
+which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever discovered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C degree.
+Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added the proper
+punctuation marks, and all was well.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw two
+professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor acoustics,
+undesignedly reached his ear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There goes the latest <i>chevalier d&rsquo;industrie</i>,&rdquo; said
+one of them, &ldquo;to buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree
+to-morrow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;<i>In foro conscienti&aelig;</i>,&rdquo; said the other.
+&ldquo;Let&rsquo;s &rsquo;eave &rsquo;arf a brick at &rsquo;im.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for him.
+There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that he had bought.
+That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs Act.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If I could see folks made happier,&rdquo; he said to
+himself&mdash;&ldquo;If I could see &rsquo;em myself and hear &rsquo;em express
+their gratitude for what I done for &rsquo;em it would make me feel better.
+This donatin&rsquo; funds to institutions and societies is about as
+satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot machine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to the homes
+of the poorest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The very thing!&rdquo; said Jacob. &ldquo;I will charter two river
+steamboats, pack them full of these unfortunate children and&mdash;say ten
+thousand dolls and drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a
+delightful outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to blow the
+taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than I can work it off
+my mind.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense person
+with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a &ldquo;Drop
+Letters Here&rdquo; sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him in a
+space between a barber&rsquo;s pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came out of
+the post-office slit&mdash;smooth, husky words with gloves on &rsquo;em, but
+sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike
+O&rsquo;Grady&rsquo;s district you&rsquo;re buttin&rsquo; into&mdash;see?
+Mike&rsquo;s got de stomach-ache privilege for every kid in dis
+neighborhood&mdash;see? And if dere&rsquo;s any picnics or red balloons to be
+dealt out here, Mike&rsquo;s money pays for &rsquo;em&mdash;see? Don&rsquo;t
+you butt in, or something&rsquo;ll be handed to you. Youse
+d&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash; settlers and reformers with your social ologies
+and your millionaire detectives have got dis district in a hell of a fix,
+anyhow. With your college students and professors rough-housing de soda-water
+stands and dem rubber-neck coaches fillin&rsquo; de streets, de folks down here
+are &rsquo;fraid to go out of de houses. Now, you leave &rsquo;em to Mike. Dey
+belongs to him, and he knows how to handle &rsquo;em. Keep on your own side of
+de town. Are you some wiser now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit&rsquo; Mike
+O&rsquo;Grady for de Santa Claus belt in dis district?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph Spraggins
+menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side. To keep down his
+growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized charity, presented the Y.
+M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000 collection of butterflies, and sent
+a check to the famine sufferers in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and
+diamond-filled teeth for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts
+seemed to bring peace to the caliph&rsquo;s heart. He tried to get a personal
+note into his benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills.
+He got well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with
+respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out an
+ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the star part
+in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of his cumbersome
+money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to write letters to her. But
+she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while his capital still kept piling up,
+and his <i>optikos needleorum camelibus</i>&mdash;or rich man&rsquo;s
+disease&mdash;was unrelieved.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In Caliph Spraggins&rsquo;s $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who
+used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in
+Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two fingers of
+her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back from boarding-school
+and from being polished off by private instructors in the restaurant languages
+and those études and things.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist&rsquo;s delineation of her charms on this
+very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized description. She was a
+nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful, brown-haired girl, with a sallow
+complexion, bright eyes, and a perpetual smile. She had a wholesome,
+Spraggins-inherited love for plain food, loose clothing, and the society of the
+lower classes. She had too much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth.
+She had a wide mouth that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail
+from the slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep
+this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the grocer&rsquo;s
+young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged in conceding
+immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the ultimate fate of the
+wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse should stand still when you
+are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid eggs out of the wagon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer&rsquo;s young man yourself.
+But you wouldn&rsquo;t have given him your heart, because you are saving it for
+a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid liver, or something quiet
+but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I know about it. So I am glad the
+grocer&rsquo;s young man was for Celia, and not for you.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The grocer&rsquo;s young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy in
+his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the new
+frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the back of his
+head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his sunburned face looked
+like one that smiled a good deal when he was not preaching the doctrine of
+everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon horses. He slung imported A1 fancy
+groceries about as though they were only the stuff he delivered at
+boarding-houses; and when he picked up his whip, your mind instantly recalled
+Mr. Tackett and his air with the buttonless foils.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the house. The
+grocer&rsquo;s wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days Celia
+watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time to admire in
+the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing around the choicest
+gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories. Then she consulted Annette.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a paragraph
+herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novels which she
+obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of the biggest caliphs
+in the business). She was Celia&rsquo;s side-kicker and chum, though Aunt
+Henrietta didn&rsquo;t know it, you may hazard a bean or two.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, canary-bird seed!&rdquo; exclaimed Annette. &ldquo;Ain&rsquo;t it a
+corkin&rsquo; situation? You a heiress, and fallin&rsquo; in love with him on
+sight! He&rsquo;s a sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain&rsquo;t
+susceptible like the common run of grocer&rsquo;s assistants. He never pays no
+attention to me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He will to me,&rdquo; said Celia.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Riches&mdash;&rdquo; began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable
+feminine sting.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, you&rsquo;re not so beautiful,&rdquo; said Celia, with her wide,
+disarming smile. &ldquo;Neither am I; but he sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t know that
+there&rsquo;s any money mixed up with my looks, such as they are. That&rsquo;s
+fair. Now, I want you to lend me one of your caps and an apron, Annette.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, marshmallows!&rdquo; cried Annette. &ldquo;I see. Ain&rsquo;t it
+lovely? It&rsquo;s just like &lsquo;Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole
+Maker&rsquo;s Wrongs.&rsquo; I&rsquo;ll bet he&rsquo;ll turn out to be a
+count.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a long hallway (or &ldquo;passageway,&rdquo; as they call it in the
+land of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the
+house. The grocer&rsquo;s young man went through this to deliver his goods. One
+morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow complexion, and
+wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid&rsquo;s cap and apron. But as he was
+cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy tomatoes and three
+bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most expensive Queen olives, he saw
+no more than that she was one of the maids.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling
+&ldquo;Fisher&rsquo;s Hornpipe&rdquo; so loudly and clearly that all the
+piccolos in the world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their
+cases for shame.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The grocer&rsquo;s young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on
+his collar button behind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s out o&rsquo; sight, Kid,&rdquo; said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My name is Celia, if you please,&rdquo; said the whistler, dazzling him
+with a three-inch smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right. I&rsquo;m Thomas McLeod. What part of the house
+do you work in?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m the&mdash;the second parlor maid.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you know the &lsquo;Falling Waters&rsquo;?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Celia, &ldquo;we don&rsquo;t know anybody. We got rich
+too quick&mdash;that is, Mr. Spraggins did.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll make you acquainted,&rdquo; said Thomas McLeod.
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a strathspey&mdash;the first cousin to a hornpipe.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If Celia&rsquo;s whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas
+McLeod&rsquo;s surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could
+actually whistle <i>bass</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and ride with
+him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of the Charon line.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be around to-morrow at 10:15,&rdquo; said Thomas, &ldquo;with
+some spinach and a case of carbonic.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll practice that what-you-may-call-it,&rdquo; said Celia.
+&ldquo;I can whistle a fine second.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general
+literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements of iron
+tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman&rsquo;s Auxiliary of the Ancient
+Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a description of certain
+stages of its progress without intruding upon the province of the X-ray or of
+park policemen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the latticed
+&ldquo;passage.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sixteen a week isn&rsquo;t much,&rdquo; said Thomas, letting his cap
+rest on his shoulder blades.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march. Shopping with
+Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for a dozen
+handkerchiefs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Maybe I&rsquo;ll get a raise next month,&rdquo; said Thomas.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be around to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and
+the laundry soap.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Celia. &ldquo;Annette&rsquo;s married cousin pays
+only $20 a month for a flat in the Bronx.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt
+Henrietta&rsquo;s invincible pride of caste and pa&rsquo;s mightiness as a
+Colossus of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her
+grocer&rsquo;s young man might go whistle for a living.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with &ldquo;The
+Devil&rsquo;s Dream,&rdquo; whistled keenly between his teeth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Raised to eighteen a week yesterday,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Been pricing
+flats around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and
+unpinning that cap, old girl.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, Tommy!&rdquo; said Celia, with her broadest smile.
+&ldquo;Won&rsquo;t that be enough? I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage
+pudding. I guess we could call it a flat pudding if we wanted to.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And tell no lie,&rdquo; said Thomas.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And I can sweep and polish and dust&mdash;of course, a parlor maid
+learns that. And we could whistle duets of evenings.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The old man said he&rsquo;d raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan
+couldn&rsquo;t think of any harder name to call a Republican than a
+&lsquo;postponer,&rsquo;&rdquo; said the grocer&rsquo;s young man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can sew,&rdquo; said Celia; &ldquo;and I know that you must make the
+gas company&rsquo;s man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and
+I know how to put up quince jam and window curtains.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bully! you&rsquo;re all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off
+on eighteen.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved discovery by
+running swiftly to the gate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And, oh, Tommy, I forgot,&rdquo; she called, softly. &ldquo;I believe I
+could make your neckties.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Forget it,&rdquo; said Thomas decisively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And another thing,&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;Sliced cucumbers at
+night will drive away cockroaches.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And sleep, too, you bet,&rdquo; said Mr. McLeod. &ldquo;Yes, I believe
+if I have a delivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I&rsquo;ll look in
+at a furniture store I know over there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck the
+sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about ten thousand
+dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the reflection that some
+stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into wells, move around in
+circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light on Jacob&rsquo;s words.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor coal-digger
+(ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and bought a small tract
+of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise corn. Not a nubbin. Jacob,
+whose nose was a divining-rod, told him there was a vein of coal beneath. He
+bought the land from the miner for $125 and sold it a month afterward for
+$10,000. Luckily the miner had enough left of his sale money to drink himself
+into a black coat opening in the back, as soon as he heard the news.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the sudden
+thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money to the heirs or
+assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe might be his.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand words and
+not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle cracked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any existed,
+of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going to be
+the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold back your
+mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so people can stop
+reading there if they want to.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand
+dollars&mdash;I mean miles&mdash;they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got
+his confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there were
+no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one morning in
+one of their offices.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked straight at him
+when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap over the top of a
+rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a slight flaw in Jacob&rsquo;s system of restitution. He did not
+consider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he
+represented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who had sent
+him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said Thomas, &ldquo;this sounds to me like an
+illustrated post-card from South Boston with &lsquo;We&rsquo;re having a good
+time here&rsquo; written on it. I don&rsquo;t know the game. Is this ten
+thousand dollars money, or do I have to save so many coupons to get it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully into
+his pocket.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Grandfather&rsquo;s best thanks,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to the party who
+sends it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure time, and
+what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas, the better he
+liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so frank and wholesome.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I would like to have you visit my house,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I might
+help you in investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have
+a daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are not
+many young men I would care to have call on her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m obliged,&rdquo; said Thomas. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not much at
+making calls. It&rsquo;s generally the side entrance for mine. And, besides,
+I&rsquo;m engaged to a girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the
+blossom. She&rsquo;s a parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She
+won&rsquo;t be working there much longer, though. Say, don&rsquo;t forget to
+give your friend my grandfather&rsquo;s best regards. You&rsquo;ll excuse me
+now; my wagon&rsquo;s outside with a lot of green stuff that&rsquo;s got to be
+delivered. See you again, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the Spraggins
+mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back, he took out the
+handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them carelessly. Annette took a
+pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the cook.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I told you he was a count,&rdquo; she said, after relating. &ldquo;He
+never would carry on with me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But you say he showed money,&rdquo; said the cook.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hundreds of thousands,&rdquo; said Annette. &ldquo;Carried around loose
+in his pockets. And he never would look at me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It was paid to me to-day,&rdquo; Thomas was explaining to Celia outside.
+&ldquo;It came from my grandfather&rsquo;s estate. Say, Cele, what&rsquo;s the
+use of waiting now? I&rsquo;m going to quit the job to-night. Why can&rsquo;t
+we get married next week?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tommy,&rdquo; said Celia. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m no parlor maid. I&rsquo;ve
+been fooling you. I&rsquo;m Miss Spraggins&mdash;Celia Spraggins. The
+newspapers say I&rsquo;ll be worth forty million dollars some day.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time since we
+have known him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose then,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I suppose then you&rsquo;ll not
+be marrying me next week. But you <i>can</i> whistle.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Celia, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll not be marrying you next week.
+My father would never let me marry a grocer&rsquo;s clerk. But I&rsquo;ll marry
+you to-night, Tommy, if you say so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make of it
+you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized fiction; had
+it been a street car I could have told you its voltage and the number of wheels
+it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had bought a ruby necklace for her,
+and wanted to hear her say what a kind, thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette, glowing
+with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy and histrionics.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, sir,&rdquo; said she, wondering if she should kneel, &ldquo;Miss
+Celia&rsquo;s just this minute running away out of the side gate with a young
+man to be married. I couldn&rsquo;t stop her, sir. They went in a cab.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What young man?&rdquo; roared old Jacob.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A millionaire, if you please, sir&mdash;a rich nobleman in disguise. He
+carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only to
+blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been delayed by
+trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the
+corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run it
+down.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes half shut
+and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly crowded the cab to
+the curb and pocketed it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What t&rsquo;ell you doin&rsquo;?&rdquo; yelled the cabman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pa!&rdquo; shrieked Celia.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Grandfather&rsquo;s remorseful friend&rsquo;s agent!&rdquo; said Thomas.
+&ldquo;Wonder what&rsquo;s on his conscience now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A thousand thunders,&rdquo; said Gaston, or Mike. &ldquo;I have no other
+match.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Young man,&rdquo; said old Jacob, severely, &ldquo;how about that parlor
+maid you were engaged to?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his private
+secretary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000
+toward the conversion of the Koreans,&rdquo; said the secretary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pass &rsquo;em up,&rdquo; said Jacob.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
+$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tell &rsquo;em it&rsquo;s been cut out.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
+buy alcohol to preserve specimens.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Waste basket.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants
+$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tell &rsquo;em to see an undertaker.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cut &rsquo;em all out,&rdquo; went on Jacob. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve quit
+being a good thing. I need every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to
+write to the directors of every company that I&rsquo;m interested in and
+recommend a 10 per cent. cut in salaries. And say&mdash;I noticed half a cake
+of soap lying in a corner of the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the
+scrubwoman about waste. I&rsquo;ve got no money to throw away. And
+say&mdash;we&rsquo;ve got vinegar pretty well in hand, haven&rsquo;t we?&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Globe Spice &amp; Seasons Company,&rdquo; said secretary,
+&ldquo;controls the market at present.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly Jacob Spraggins&rsquo;s plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He
+walked over to the secretary&rsquo;s desk and showed a small red mark on his
+thick forefinger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bit it,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;darned if he didn&rsquo;t, and he
+ain&rsquo;t had the tooth three weeks&mdash;Jaky McLeod, my Celia&rsquo;s kid.
+He&rsquo;ll be worth a hundred millions by the time he&rsquo;s twenty-one if I
+can pile it up for him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I&rsquo;ll be
+back in an hour and sign the letters.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the end of
+his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded all his former
+favorites and companions of his &ldquo;Arabian Nights&rdquo; rambles. Happy are
+we in these days of enlightenment, when the only death warrant the caliphs can
+serve on us is in the form of a tradesman&rsquo;s bill.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap18"></a>XVIII<br />
+THE GIRL AND THE HABIT</h2>
+
+<p class="letter">
+H<small>ABIT</small>&mdash;a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or
+frequent repetition.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that one we
+are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters of old they
+gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we strove to set forth real
+life they reproached us for trying to imitate Henry George, George Washington,
+Washington Irving, and Irving Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and
+they accused us of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our
+heart&mdash;and they said something about a disordered liver. We took a text
+from Matthew or&mdash;er&mdash;yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were
+hammering away at the inspiration idea before we could get into type. So,
+driven to the wall, we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral,
+unassailable vade mecum&mdash;the unabridged dictionary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle&rsquo;s. Hinkle&rsquo;s is one of the big
+downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the &ldquo;financial
+district.&rdquo; Each day from 12 o&rsquo;clock to 2 Hinkle&rsquo;s was full of
+hungry customers&mdash;messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
+stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending&mdash;and also people with
+money.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cashiership at Hinkle&rsquo;s was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted and
+griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched (as good a word
+as &ldquo;dined&rdquo;) many more. It might be said that Hinkle&rsquo;s
+breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted to a
+horde.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a strong, high
+fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at the bottom you thrust
+your waiter&rsquo;s check and the money, while your heart went pit-a-pat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of a $2
+bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could&mdash;Next!&mdash;lost
+your chance&mdash;please don&rsquo;t shove. She could keep cool and collected
+while she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
+indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better than
+Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper an egg with
+one of Hinkle&rsquo;s casters.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There is an old and dignified allusion to the &ldquo;fierce light that beats
+upon a throne.&rdquo; The light that beats upon the young lady cashier&rsquo;s
+cage is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Every male patron of Hinkle&rsquo;s, from the A. D. T. boys up to the curbstone
+brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks they wooed her with
+every wile known to Cupid&rsquo;s art. Between the meshes of the brass railing
+went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows, invitations to dinner, sighs,
+languishing looks and merry banter that was wafted pointedly back by the gifted
+Miss Merriam.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young lady
+cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she is duchess
+of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin, leading lady of love
+and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a Canadian dime, and you go your
+way uncomplaining. You count the cheery word or two that she tosses you as
+misers count their treasures; and you pocket the change for a five uncomputed.
+Perhaps the brass-bound inaccessibility multiplies her charms&mdash;anyhow, she
+is a shirt-waisted angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed,
+ready, alert&mdash;Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your
+circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The young men who broke bread at Hinkle&rsquo;s never settled with the cashier
+without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went to
+greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets and chocolates.
+The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms, generally withering the
+tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem flats. One broker, who had been
+squeezed by copper proposed to Miss Merriam more regularly than he ate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam&rsquo;s conversation, while she took
+money for checks, would run something like this:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Good morning, Mr. Haskins&mdash;sir?&mdash;it&rsquo;s natural, thank
+you&mdash;don&rsquo;t be quite so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny&mdash;ten, fifteen,
+twenty&mdash;chase along now or they&rsquo;ll take the letters off your cap . .
+. Beg pardon&mdash;count it again, please&mdash;Oh, don&rsquo;t mention it . .
+. Vaudeville?&mdash;thanks; not on your moving picture&mdash;I was to see
+Carter in Hedda Gabler on Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons . . . &rsquo;Scuse
+me, I thought that was a quarter . . . Twenty-five and seventy-five&rsquo;s a
+dollar&mdash;got that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you
+addressing?&mdash;say&mdash;you&rsquo;ll get all that&rsquo;s coming to you in
+a minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett&mdash;you&rsquo;re always
+fooling&mdash;no&mdash;? Well, maybe I&rsquo;ll marry you some day&mdash;three,
+four and sixty-five is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
+please . . . Ten cents?&mdash;&rsquo;scuse me; the check calls for
+seventy&mdash;well, maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like
+it that way, Mr. Saunders?&mdash;some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de
+Merody does suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike along
+there, buddy; don&rsquo;t take this for a Coney Island ticket booth . . .
+Huh?&mdash;why, Macy&rsquo;s&mdash;don&rsquo;t it fit nice? Oh, no, it
+isn&rsquo;t too cool&mdash;these light-weight fabrics is all the go this season
+. . . Come again, please&mdash;that&rsquo;s the third time you&rsquo;ve tried
+to&mdash;what?&mdash;forget it&mdash;that lead quarter is an old friend of mine
+. . . Sixty-five?&mdash;must have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . . I
+seen you on Sixth Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De
+Forest&mdash;swell?&mdash;oh, my!&mdash;who is she? . . . What&rsquo;s the
+matter with it?&mdash;why, it ain&rsquo;t money&mdash;what?&mdash;Columbian
+half?&mdash;well, this ain&rsquo;t South America . . . Yes, I like the mixed
+best&mdash;Friday?&mdash;awfully sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on
+Friday&mdash;Thursday, then . . . Thanks&mdash;that&rsquo;s sixteen times
+I&rsquo;ve been told that this morning&mdash;I guess I must be beautiful . . .
+Cut that out, please&mdash;who do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr.
+Westbrook&mdash;do you really think so?&mdash;the idea!&mdash;one&mdash;eighty
+and twenty&rsquo;s a dollar&mdash;thank you ever so much, but I don&rsquo;t
+ever go automobile riding with gentlemen&mdash;your aunt?&mdash;well,
+that&rsquo;s different&mdash;perhaps . . . Please don&rsquo;t get
+fresh&mdash;your check was fifteen cents, I believe&mdash;kindly step aside and
+let . . . Hello, Ben&mdash;coming around Thursday evening?&mdash;there&rsquo;s
+a gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty and sixty
+is a dollar, and one is two . . .&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo&mdash;whose other
+name is Fortune&mdash;suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker while
+he was walking past Hinkle&rsquo;s, on his way to a street car. A wealthy and
+eccentric banker who rides in street cars is&mdash;move up, please; there are
+others.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the spot
+lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle&rsquo;s restaurant. When the
+aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a beautiful vision
+bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing his forehead with beef
+tea and chafing his hands with something frappé out of a chafing-dish.
+Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed with deep gratitude upon his
+fair preserveress, and then recovered consciousness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker McRamsey had
+an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward Miss Merriam were
+fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with interest&mdash;not the kind
+that went with his talks during business hours. The next day he brought Mrs.
+McRamsey down to see her. The old couple were childless&mdash;they had only a
+married daughter living in Brooklyn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts of the good
+old couple. They came to Hinkle&rsquo;s again and again; they invited her to
+their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East Seventies. Miss
+Merriam&rsquo;s winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and impulsive heart
+took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss Merriam reminded them
+so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn matron, née Ramsey, had the
+figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal of an art photographer. Miss Merriam
+was a combination of curves, smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic
+posters. Enough of the fatuity of parents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she stood
+before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They&rsquo;re going to adopt me,&rdquo; she told the bereft
+restaurateur. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re funny old people, but regular dears. And the
+swell home they have got! Say, Hinkle, there isn&rsquo;t any use of
+talking&mdash;I&rsquo;m on the &agrave; la carte to wear brown duds and goggles
+in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least. Still, I somehow hate to break out
+of the old cage. I&rsquo;ve been cashiering so long I feel funny doing anything
+else. I&rsquo;ll miss joshing the fellows awfully when they line up to pay for
+the buckwheats and. But I can&rsquo;t let this chance slide. And they&rsquo;re
+awfully good, Hinkle; I know I&rsquo;ll have a swell time. You owe me
+nine-sixty-two and a half for the week. Cut out the half if it hurts you,
+Hinkle.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced the
+transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to the skin.
+Nerve&mdash;but just here will you oblige by perusing again the quotation with
+which this story begins?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their adopted
+one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
+Miss&mdash;er&mdash;McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget
+Hinkle&rsquo;s. To give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl,
+Hinkle&rsquo;s did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
+Seventy&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash; Street, America. He was only a
+fair-to-medium earl, without debts, and he created little excitement. But you
+will surely remember the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their
+bazaar in the W&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;f-A&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;a
+Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie on the hotel paper,
+and mailed it, just to show her that&mdash;you did not? Very well; that was the
+evening the baby was sick, of course.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer&mdash;er&mdash;McRamsey
+was exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to her
+since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity bazaar the affair
+was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a finish. An earl is as good as a
+duke. Better. His standing may be lower, but his outstanding accounts are also
+lower.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to sell
+worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The proceeds of the
+bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of the slums a Christmas
+din&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;Say! did you ever wonder where they get the
+other 364?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss McRamsey&mdash;beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
+radiant&mdash;fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with a
+little arched opening, fenced her in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring&mdash;admiring
+greatly, and faced the open wicket.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You look chawming, you know&mdash;&rsquo;pon my word you do&mdash;my
+deah,&rdquo; he said, beguilingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss McRamsey whirled around.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cut that joshing out,&rdquo; she said, coolly and briskly. &ldquo;Who do
+you think you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a certain
+booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond and puzzled
+whisker.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Miss McRamsey has fainted,&rdquo; some one explained.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap19"></a>XIX<br />
+PROOF OF THE PUDDING</h2>
+
+<p>
+Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the <i>Minerva
+Magazine</i>, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his favorite
+corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office when his feet
+became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette. Which is by way of saying
+that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street, safely forded the spring
+freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and meandered along the walks of budding
+Madison Square.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a pastoral;
+the color motif was green&mdash;the presiding shade at the creation of man and
+vegetation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a poisonous
+green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had breathed upon the
+soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree buds looked strangely
+familiar to those who had botanized among the garnishings of the fish course of
+a forty-cent dinner. The sky above was of that pale aquamarine tint that
+ballroom poets rhyme with &ldquo;true&rdquo; and &ldquo;Sue&rdquo; and
+&ldquo;coo.&rdquo; The one natural and frank color visible was the ostensible
+green of the newly painted benches&mdash;a shade between the color of a pickled
+cucumber and that of a last year&rsquo;s fast-black cravenette raincoat. But,
+to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape appeared a masterpiece.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle concourse that
+fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of the editor&rsquo;s mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Editor Westbrook&rsquo;s spirit was contented and serene. The April number of
+the <i>Minerva</i> had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the
+month&mdash;a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty
+copies more if he had &rsquo;em. The owners of the magazine had raised his (the
+editor&rsquo;s) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a recently
+imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning papers had published
+in full a speech he had made at a publishers&rsquo; banquet. Also there were
+echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a splendid song that his charming
+young wife had sung to him before he left his up-town apartment that morning.
+She was taking enthusiastic interest in her music of late, practising early and
+diligently. When he had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she
+had fairly hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic
+medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards of the
+convalescent city.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches (already
+filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood) he felt his
+sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be panhandled, he
+turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his captor
+was&mdash;Dawe&mdash;Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel
+scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight biography
+of Dawe is offered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook&rsquo;s old acquaintances. At one
+time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had some money in
+those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near Westbrook&rsquo;s. The
+two families often went to theatres and dinners together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs.
+Westbrook became &ldquo;dearest&rdquo; friends. Then one day a little tentacle
+of the octopus, just to amuse itself, ingurgitated Dawe&rsquo;s capital, and he
+moved to the Gramercy Park neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week,
+may sit upon one&rsquo;s trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite
+Carrara marble mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to
+live by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many to
+Westbrook. The <i>Minerva</i> printed one or two of them; the rest were
+returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter with each
+rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons for considering it
+unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear conception of what constituted
+good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was mainly concerned about the
+constituents of the scanty dishes of food that she managed to scrape together.
+One day Dawe had been spouting to her about the excellencies of certain French
+writers. At dinner they sat down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have
+encompassed at a gulp. Dawe commented.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s Maupassant hash,&rdquo; said Mrs. Dawe. &ldquo;It may not be
+art, but I do wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an
+Ella Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I&rsquo;m hungry.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor
+Westbrook&rsquo;s sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor
+had seen Dawe in several months.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, Shack, is this you?&rdquo; said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for
+the form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other&rsquo;s changed
+appearance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sit down for a minute,&rdquo; said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve.
+&ldquo;This is my office. I can&rsquo;t come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit
+down&mdash;you won&rsquo;t be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other
+benches will take you for a swell porch-climber. They won&rsquo;t know you are
+only an editor.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Smoke, Shack?&rdquo; said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the
+virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl pecks
+at a chocolate cream.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have just&mdash;&rdquo; began the editor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, I know; don&rsquo;t finish,&rdquo; said Dawe. &ldquo;Give me a
+match. You have just ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my
+office-boy and invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog
+that couldn&rsquo;t read the &lsquo;Keep off the Grass&rsquo; signs.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How goes the writing?&rdquo; asked the editor.
+
+&ldquo;Look at me,&rdquo; said Dawe, &ldquo;for your answer. Now don&rsquo;t
+put on that embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don&rsquo;t
+get a job as a wine agent or a cab driver. I&rsquo;m in the fight to a finish.
+I know I can write good fiction and I&rsquo;ll force you fellows to admit it
+yet. I&rsquo;ll make you change the spelling of &lsquo;regrets&rsquo; to
+&lsquo;c-h-e-q-u-e&rsquo; before I&rsquo;m done with you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly sorrowful,
+omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression&mdash;the copyrighted expression
+of the editor beleagured by the unavailable contributor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have you read the last story I sent you&mdash;&lsquo;The Alarum of the
+Soul&rsquo;?&rdquo; asked Dawe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had some
+good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it goes back to
+you. I regret&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Never mind the regrets,&rdquo; said Dawe, grimly. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
+neither salve nor sting in &rsquo;em any more. What I want to know is
+<i>why</i>. Come now; out with the good points first.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The story,&rdquo; said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh,
+&ldquo;is written around an almost original plot. Characterization&mdash;the
+best you have done. Construction&mdash;almost as good, except for a few weak
+joints which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good
+story, except&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can write English, can&rsquo;t I?&rdquo; interrupted Dawe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have always told you,&rdquo; said the editor, &ldquo;that you had a
+style.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then the trouble is&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Same old thing,&rdquo; said Editor Westbrook. &ldquo;You work up to your
+climax like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I
+don&rsquo;t know what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what
+you do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison with
+the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its impossible
+perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth. But you spoil every
+dénouement by those flat, drab, obliterating strokes of your brush that
+I have so often complained of. If you would rise to the literary pinnacle of
+your dramatic senses, and paint them in the high colors that art requires, the
+postman would leave fewer bulky, self-addressed envelopes at your door.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, fiddles and footlights!&rdquo; cried Dawe, derisively.
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got that old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the
+man with the black mustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have
+the mother kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: &lsquo;May high
+heaven witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless
+villain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another&rsquo;s
+vengeance!&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious complacency.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that in real life the woman would
+express herself in those words or in very similar ones.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not in a six hundred nights&rsquo; run anywhere but on the stage,&rdquo;
+said Dawe hotly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you what she&rsquo;d say in real life.
+She&rsquo;d say: &lsquo;What! Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord!
+It&rsquo;s one trouble after another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to
+the police-station. Why wasn&rsquo;t somebody looking after her, I&rsquo;d like
+to know? For God&rsquo;s sake, get out of my way or I&rsquo;ll never get ready.
+Not that hat&mdash;the brown one with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been
+crazy; she&rsquo;s usually shy of strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy!
+How I&rsquo;m upset!&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the way she&rsquo;d talk,&rdquo; continued Dawe.
+&ldquo;People in real life don&rsquo;t fly into heroics and blank verse at
+emotional crises. They simply can&rsquo;t do it. If they talk at all on such
+occasions they draw from the same vocabulary that they use every day, and
+muddle up their words and ideas a little more, that&rsquo;s all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Shack,&rdquo; said Editor Westbrook impressively, &ldquo;did you ever
+pick up the mangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a
+street car, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted
+mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and despair as
+they flowed spontaneously from her lips?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I never did,&rdquo; said Dawe. &ldquo;Did you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, no,&rdquo; said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. &ldquo;But
+I can well imagine what she would say.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;So can I,&rdquo; said Dawe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the oracle and
+silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an unarrived fictionist to
+dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and heroines of the <i>Minerva
+Magazine</i>, contrary to the theories of the editor thereof.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear Shack,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;if I know anything of life I know
+that every sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an
+apposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of feeling. How
+much of this inevitable accord between expression and feeling should be
+attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of art, it would be
+difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of the lioness that has been
+deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far above her customary whine and purr
+as the kingly and transcendent utterances of Lear are above the level of his
+senile vaporings. But it is also true that all men and women have what may be
+called a sub-conscious dramatic sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep
+and powerful emotion&mdash;a sense unconsciously acquired from literature and
+the stage that prompts them to express those emotions in language befitting
+their importance and histrionic value.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius,
+where did the stage and literature get the stunt?&rdquo; asked Dawe.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;From life,&rdquo; answered the editor, triumphantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but dumbly. He
+was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately his dissent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On a bench nearby a frowzy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that his
+moral support was due a downtrodden brother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Punch him one, Jack,&rdquo; he called hoarsely to Dawe.
+&ldquo;W&rsquo;at&rsquo;s he come makin&rsquo; a noise like a penny arcade for
+amongst gen&rsquo;lemen that comes in the square to set and think?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, &ldquo;what especial
+faults in &lsquo;The Alarum of the Soul&rsquo; caused you to throw it
+down?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;When Gabriel Murray,&rdquo; said Westbrook, &ldquo;goes to his telephone
+and is told that his fiancée has been shot by a burglar, he says&mdash;I
+do not recall the exact words, but&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said Dawe. &ldquo;He says: &lsquo;Damn Central; she always
+cuts me off.&rsquo; (And then to his friend) &lsquo;Say, Tommy, does a
+thirty-two bullet make a big hole? It&rsquo;s kind of hard luck, ain&rsquo;t
+it? Could you get me a drink from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing
+on the side.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And again,&rdquo; continued the editor, without pausing for argument,
+&ldquo;when Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he
+has fled with the manicure girl, her words are&mdash;let me see&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She says,&rdquo; interposed the author: &ldquo;&lsquo;Well, what do you
+think of that!&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Absurdly inappropriate words,&rdquo; said Westbrook, &ldquo;presenting
+an anti-climax&mdash;plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they
+mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms when
+confronted by sudden tragedy.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wrong,&rdquo; said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. &ldquo;I
+say no man or woman ever spouts &lsquo;high-falutin&rsquo; talk when they go up
+against a real climax. They talk naturally and a little worse.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside
+information.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, Westbrook,&rdquo; said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, &ldquo;would
+you have accepted &lsquo;The Alarum of the Soul&rsquo; if you had believed that
+the actions and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the
+story that we discussed?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way,&rdquo; said the
+editor. &ldquo;But I have explained to you that I do not.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If I could prove to you that I am right?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry, Shack, but I&rsquo;m afraid I haven&rsquo;t time to
+argue any further just now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to argue,&rdquo; said Dawe. &ldquo;I want to
+demonstrate to you from life itself that my view is the correct one.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How could you do that?&rdquo; asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; said the writer, seriously. &ldquo;I have thought of a
+way. It is important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized
+as correct by the magazines. I&rsquo;ve fought for it for three years, and
+I&rsquo;m down to my last dollar, with two months&rsquo; rent due.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have applied the opposite of your theory,&rdquo; said the editor,
+&ldquo;in selecting the fiction for the <i>Minerva Magazine</i>. The
+circulation has gone up from ninety thousand to&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Four hundred thousand,&rdquo; said Dawe. &ldquo;Whereas it should have
+been boosted to a million.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet
+theory.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will. If you&rsquo;ll give me about half an hour of your time
+I&rsquo;ll prove to you that I am right. I&rsquo;ll prove it by Louise.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your wife!&rdquo; exclaimed Westbrook. &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, not exactly by her, but <i>with</i> her,&rdquo; said Dawe.
+&ldquo;Now, you know how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks
+I&rsquo;m the only genuine preparation on the market that bears the old
+doctor&rsquo;s signature. She&rsquo;s been fonder and more faithful than ever,
+since I&rsquo;ve been cast for the neglected genius part.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion,&rdquo; agreed
+the editor. &ldquo;I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook
+once were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring
+Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we&rsquo;ll have one of those informal
+chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Later,&rdquo; said Dawe. &ldquo;When I get another shirt. And now
+I&rsquo;ll tell you my scheme. When I was about to leave home after
+breakfast&mdash;if you can call tea and oatmeal breakfast&mdash;Louise told me
+she was going to visit her aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would
+return at three o&rsquo;clock. She is always on time to a minute. It is
+now&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dawe glanced toward the editor&rsquo;s watch pocket.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Twenty-seven minutes to three,&rdquo; said Westbrook, scanning his
+time-piece.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We have just enough time,&rdquo; said Dawe. &ldquo;We will go to my flat
+at once. I will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where
+she will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room
+concealed by the portières. In that note I&rsquo;ll say that I have fled
+from her forever with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic soul
+as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and hear her
+words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one&mdash;yours or
+mine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, never!&rdquo; exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. &ldquo;That
+would be inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe&rsquo;s
+feelings played upon in such a manner.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Brace up,&rdquo; said the writer. &ldquo;I guess I think as much of her
+as you do. It&rsquo;s for her benefit as well as mine. I&rsquo;ve got to get a
+market for my stories in some way. It won&rsquo;t hurt Louise. She&rsquo;s
+healthy and sound. Her heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch.
+It&rsquo;ll last for only a minute, and then I&rsquo;ll step out and explain to
+her. You really owe it to me to give me the chance, Westbrook.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in the half
+of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all of us. Let him
+who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place. Pity &rsquo;tis that
+there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go around.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and then to
+the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood. Within its high iron
+railings the little park had put on its smart coat of vernal green, and was
+admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside the railings the hollow square
+of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip
+over the forgotten doings of the vanished quality. <i>Sic transit gloria
+urbis</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again eastward, then,
+after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow flathouse burdened
+with a floridly over-decorated fa&ccedil;ade. To the fifth story they toiled,
+and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door of one of the front
+flats.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how meanly
+and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Get a chair, if you can find one,&rdquo; said Dawe, &ldquo;while I hunt
+up pen and ink. Hello, what&rsquo;s this? Here&rsquo;s a note from Louise. She
+must have left it there when she went out this morning.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open. He
+began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having begun it aloud
+he so read it through to the end. These are the words that Editor Westbrook
+heard:
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+&ldquo;D<small>EAR</small> S<small>HACKLEFORD</small>:<br />
+<br />
+    By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and still
+a-going. I&rsquo;ve got a place in the chorus of the Occidental Opera Co., and
+we start on the road to-day at twelve o&rsquo;clock. I didn&rsquo;t want to
+starve to death, and so I decided to make my own living. I&rsquo;m not coming
+back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She said she was tired of living with a
+combination phonograph, iceberg and dictionary, and she&rsquo;s not coming
+back, either. We&rsquo;ve been practising the songs and dances for two months
+on the quiet. I hope you will be successful, and get along all right!
+Good-bye.<br />
+<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&ldquo;L<small>OUISE</small>.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and cried
+out in a deep, vibrating voice:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>&ldquo;My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,
+then let Thy Heaven&rsquo;s fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting
+by-words of traitors and fiends!&rdquo;</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Editor Westbrook&rsquo;s glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand
+fumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted between his pale lips:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>&ldquo;Say, Shack, ain&rsquo;t that a hell of a note? Wouldn&rsquo;t that
+knock you off your perch, Shack? Ain&rsquo;t it hell, now,
+Shack&mdash;ain&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;</i>
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap20"></a>XX<br />
+PAST ONE AT ROONEY&rsquo;S</h2>
+
+<p>
+Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet and Montagu
+survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If you but bite
+your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have work cut out for your
+steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a dozen blocks by his nose, and
+he will only bawl for the watch; but in the domain of the East Side Tybalts and
+Mercutios you must observe the niceties of deportment to the wink of any
+eyelash and to an inch of elbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes
+of your house and kin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted into
+Dutch Mike&rsquo;s for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of Montagus
+making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest parliamentary
+rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his thirst unslaked;
+caution steered him to a place at the bar where the mirror supplied the
+cognizance of the enemy&rsquo;s movements that his indifferent gaze seemed to
+disdain; experience whispered to him that the finger of trouble would be busy
+among the chattering steins at Dutch Mike&rsquo;s that night. Close by his side
+drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio, companion of his perambulations. Thus they
+stood, four of the Mulberry Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding
+their P&rsquo;s and Q&rsquo;s so solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on
+his customers and the other on an open space beneath his bar in which it was
+his custom to seek safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival
+associations congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry Docks. We
+must to Rooney&rsquo;s, where, on the most blighted dead branch of the tree of
+life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first overstepped
+the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were immediate. Buck Malone, of
+the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung
+round from his hurricane deck. But McManus&rsquo;s simile must be the torpedo.
+He glided in under the guns and slipped a scant three inches of knife blade
+between the ribs of the Mulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a
+devotee to strategy, had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch
+of the electrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire alone.
+Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying for the watch
+instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian shindy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by three
+distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the ethics of the
+gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no Capulet to be seen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Raus mit der interrogatories,&rdquo; said Buck Malone to the officer.
+&ldquo;Sure I know who done it. I always manages to get a bird&rsquo;s eye view
+of any guy that comes up an&rsquo; makes a show case for a hardware store out
+of me. No. I&rsquo;m not telling you his name. I&rsquo;ll settle with um
+meself. Wow&mdash;ouch! Easy, boys! Yes, I&rsquo;ll attend to his case meself.
+I&rsquo;m not making any complaint.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Side dock,
+and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick Cleary drifted
+casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll maybe not
+croak,&rdquo; said Brick; &ldquo;and he won&rsquo;t tell, of course. But Dutch
+Mike did. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up.
+It&rsquo;s unhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan&rsquo;s in Europe for a
+week&rsquo;s end with Kings. He&rsquo;ll be back on the <i>Kaiser Williams</i>
+next Friday. You&rsquo;ll have to duck out of sight till then. Tim&rsquo;ll fix
+it up all right for us when he comes back.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney&rsquo;s one night and
+there looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the first time in
+his precarious career.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princes and
+hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe for Cork in any
+of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the high rear room of a
+Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing the slow paddle wheels of the
+<i>Kaiser Wilhelm</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was on Thursday evening that Cork&rsquo;s seclusion became intolerable to
+him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool touch of a
+drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the hollow of his shoe
+and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and repartee along and across
+the shining bars. But he must avoid the district where he was known. The cops
+were looking for him everywhere, for news was scarce, and the newspapers were
+harping again on the failure of the police to suppress the gangs. If they got
+him before Corrigan came back, the big white finger could not be uplifted; it
+would be too late then. But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt
+sure there would be small danger in a little excursion that night among the
+crass pleasures that represented life to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street looking up at
+the name &ldquo;Rooney&rsquo;s,&rdquo; picked out by incandescent lights
+against a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the place as a
+tough &ldquo;hang-out&rdquo;; with its frequenters and its locality he was
+unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all such resorts,
+he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over the café.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled with
+Rooney&rsquo;s guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human pianola with
+drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furious unprecision. At
+merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak a song&mdash;songs full of
+&ldquo;Mr. Johnsons&rdquo; and &ldquo;babes&rdquo; and
+&ldquo;coons&rdquo;&mdash;historical word guaranties of the genuineness of
+African melodies composed by red waistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the
+cotton fields and rice swamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives, seats,
+manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He has
+Wellington&rsquo;s nose, Dante&rsquo;s chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois,
+the smile of Talleyrand, Corbett&rsquo;s foot work, and the poise of an
+eleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assisted by a
+lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who goes among
+the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now, what is there about
+Rooney&rsquo;s to inspire all this pother? It is more respectable by daylight;
+stout ladies with children and mittens and bundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up
+of afternoons for a stein and a chat. Even by gaslight the diversions are
+melancholy i&rsquo; the mouth&mdash;drink and rag-time, and an occasional
+surprise when the waiter swabs the suds from under your sticky glass. There is
+an answer. Transmigration! The soul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from
+beneath his slashed doublet to a kindred home under Rooney&rsquo;s visible
+plaid waistcoat. Rooney&rsquo;s is twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has
+removed the embargo. Rooney has spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of
+public opinion, and any Elizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as
+another. Attend to the revelation of the secret. In Rooney&rsquo;s ladies may
+smoke!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer that he
+ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his brick-dust head,
+twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and heaved a sigh of contentment
+from the breathing spaces of his innermost soul; for this mud honey was
+clarified sweetness to his taste. The sham gaiety, the hectic glow of
+counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious, joyless laughter, the wine-born
+warmth, the loud music retrieving the hour from frequent whiles of awful and
+corroding silence, the presence of well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of
+Rooney&rsquo;s removal of the restrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar
+blended odors of soaked lemon peel, flat beer, and <i>peau
+d&rsquo;Espagne</i>&mdash;all these were manna to Cork McManus, hungry for his
+week in the desert of the Capulet&rsquo;s high rear room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A girl, alone, entered Rooney&rsquo;s, glanced around with leisurely swiftness,
+and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested upon him for two seconds
+in the look with which woman reconnoitres all men whom she for the first time
+confronts. In that space of time she will decide upon one of two
+things&mdash;either to scream for the police, or that she may marry him later
+on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn red morocco
+shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed lace handkerchief
+flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a small beer from the
+immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of cigarettes and lighted one with
+slightly exaggerated ease of manner. Then she looked again in the eyes of Cork
+McManus and smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Instantly the doom of each was sealed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for a woman for
+a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among that humble
+portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or coats-of-arms or
+Shaw&rsquo;s plays. Love at first sight has occurred a time or two in high
+life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be found among unsophisticated
+creatures such as the dove, the blue-tailed dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week
+clerk. Poets, subscribers to all fiction magazines, and schatchens, take
+notice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each of them the
+instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which is the worst thing
+about the hypocritical disorder known as love.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have another beer?&rdquo; suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was
+considered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and
+references.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, thanks,&rdquo; said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her
+conventional words carefully. &ldquo;I&mdash;merely dropped in for&mdash;a
+slight refreshment.&rdquo; The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require
+explanation. &ldquo;My aunt is a Russian lady,&rdquo; she concluded, &ldquo;and
+we often have a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cheese it!&rdquo; said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. &ldquo;Your
+fingers are as yellow as mine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say,&rdquo; said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,
+&ldquo;what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?
+What?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and bright. Under
+her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, her crinkly, tawny hair
+parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in a thick, pendant knot behind. The
+roundness of girlhood still lingered in her chin and neck, but her cheeks and
+fingers were thinning slightly. She looked upon the world with defiance,
+suspicion, and sullen wonder. Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and
+expensive. Two inches below her black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a
+heliotrope silk underskirt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Beg your pardon,&rdquo; said Cork, looking at her admiringly. &ldquo;I
+didn&rsquo;t mean anything. Sure, it&rsquo;s no harm to smoke, Maudy.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Rooney&rsquo;s,&rdquo; said the girl, softened at once by his amends,
+&ldquo;is the only place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain&rsquo;t a
+nice habit, but aunty lets us at home. And my name ain&rsquo;t Maudy, if you
+please; it&rsquo;s Ruby Delamere.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a swell handle,&rdquo; said Cork approvingly.
+&ldquo;Mine&rsquo;s McManus&mdash;Cor&mdash;er&mdash;Eddie McManus.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, you can&rsquo;t help that,&rdquo; laughed Ruby. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
+apologize.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney&rsquo;s wall. The girl&rsquo;s
+ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know it&rsquo;s late,&rdquo; she said, reaching for her bag;
+&ldquo;but you know how you want a smoke when you want one. Ain&rsquo;t
+Rooney&rsquo;s all right? I never saw anything wrong here. This is twice
+I&rsquo;ve been in. I work in a bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls
+have been working overtime three nights a week. They won&rsquo;t let you smoke
+there, of course. I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain&rsquo;t
+it all right in here? If it ain&rsquo;t, I won&rsquo;t come any more.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere,&rdquo;
+said Cork. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you
+don&rsquo;t want to have your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday
+School teacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t know you,&rdquo; said the girl, with fine
+scrupulosity. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t accept the company of gentlemen I
+ain&rsquo;t acquainted with. My aunt never would allow that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why,&rdquo; said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m the
+latest thing in suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to
+escortin&rsquo; a lady. You bet you&rsquo;ll find me all right, Ruby. And
+I&rsquo;ll give you a tip as to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest
+cross-buns of the Wall Street push. Morgan&rsquo;s cab horse casts a shoe every
+time the old man sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I&rsquo;m in
+trainin&rsquo; down the Street. The old man&rsquo;s goin&rsquo; to put a seat
+on the Stock Exchange in my stockin&rsquo; my next birthday. But it all sounds
+like a lemon to me. What I like is golf and yachtin&rsquo;
+and&mdash;er&mdash;well, say a corkin&rsquo; fast ten-round bout between
+welter-weights with walkin&rsquo; gloves.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I guess you can walk to the door with me,&rdquo; said the girl
+hesitatingly, but with a certain pleased flutter. &ldquo;Still I never heard
+anything extra good about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize
+fights, either. Ain&rsquo;t you got any other recommendations?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think you&rsquo;re the swellest looker I&rsquo;ve had my lamps on in
+little old New York,&rdquo; said Cork impressively.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;ll be about enough of that, now. Ain&rsquo;t you the
+kidder!&rdquo; She modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming,
+smile-embellished look at her cavalier. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll drink our beer
+before we go, ha?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in spirals,
+waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended fogs like some
+fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four. Laughter and chat grew
+louder, stimulated by Rooney&rsquo;s liquids and Rooney&rsquo;s gallant
+hospitality to Lady Nicotine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One o&rsquo;clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and locking
+doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows carefully.
+Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front door, his cigarette
+cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforth whoever might seek admittance
+must present a countenance familiar to Rooney&rsquo;s hawk&rsquo;s
+eye&mdash;the countenance of a true sport.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their elbows
+on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side, scarcely touched,
+with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum. Since the stroke of one the
+stale pleasures of Rooney&rsquo;s had become renovated and spiced; not by any
+addition to the list of distractions, but because from that moment the sweets
+became stolen ones. The flattest glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality;
+the mildest claret punch struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless
+and genial company became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the
+stroke of one in such places as Rooney&rsquo;s, where neither bed nor board is
+to be had, drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four
+million. It is the law.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say,&rdquo; said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his
+eloquent chest and elbows, &ldquo;was that dead straight about you
+workin&rsquo; in the bookbindery and livin&rsquo; at home&mdash;and just
+happenin&rsquo; in here&mdash;and&mdash;and all that spiel you gave me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sure it was,&rdquo; answered the girl with spirit. &ldquo;Why, what do
+you think? Do you suppose I&rsquo;d lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask
+&rsquo;em. I handed it to you on the level.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On the dead level?&rdquo; said Cork. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the way I want
+it; because&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Because what?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I throw up my hands,&rdquo; said Cork. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got me
+goin&rsquo;. You&rsquo;re the girl I&rsquo;ve been lookin&rsquo; for. Will you
+keep company with me, Ruby?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Would you like me to&mdash;Eddie?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about&mdash;about yourself,
+you know. When a fellow had a girl&mdash;a steady girl&mdash;she&rsquo;s got to
+be all right, you know. She&rsquo;s got to be straight goods.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll find I&rsquo;ll be straight goods, Eddie.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can&rsquo;t
+blame me for wantin&rsquo; to find out. You don&rsquo;t see many girls
+smokin&rsquo; cigarettes in places like Rooney&rsquo;s after midnight that are
+like you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. &ldquo;I see that now,&rdquo;
+she said meekly. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t know how bad it looked. But I
+won&rsquo;t do it any more. And I&rsquo;ll go straight home every night and
+stay there. And I&rsquo;ll give up cigarettes if you say so,
+Eddie&mdash;I&rsquo;ll cut &rsquo;em out from this minute on.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cork&rsquo;s air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.
+&ldquo;A lady can smoke,&rdquo; he decided, slowly, &ldquo;at times and places.
+Why? Because it&rsquo;s bein&rsquo; a lady that helps her pull it off.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to quit. There&rsquo;s nothing to it,&rdquo; said the
+girl. She flicked the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;At times and places,&rdquo; repeated Cork. &ldquo;When I call round for
+you of evenin&rsquo;s we&rsquo;ll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square
+and have a puff or two. But no more Rooney&rsquo;s at one
+o&rsquo;clock&mdash;see?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Eddie, do you really like me?&rdquo; The girl searched his hard but
+frank features eagerly with anxious eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On the dead level.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;When are you coming to see me&mdash;where I live?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thursday&mdash;day after to-morrow evenin&rsquo;. That suit you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Fine. I&rsquo;ll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door
+with me to-night and I&rsquo;ll show you where I live. Don&rsquo;t forget, now.
+And don&rsquo;t you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you
+will, though.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On the dead level,&rdquo; said Cork, &ldquo;you make &rsquo;em all look
+like rag-dolls to me. Honest, you do. I know when I&rsquo;m suited. On the dead
+level, I do.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered. The
+loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a
+policeman&rsquo;s foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney
+jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric lights
+and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except for the
+winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of crashes came up
+from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring panic moved among the
+besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring, could be seen in the rosy
+glow of the burning tobacco, going from table to table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All keep still!&rdquo; was his caution. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk or make
+any noise! Everything will be all right. Now, don&rsquo;t feel the slightest
+alarm. We&rsquo;ll take care of you all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ruby felt across the table until Cork&rsquo;s firm hand closed upon hers.
+&ldquo;Are you afraid, Eddie?&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Are you afraid
+you&rsquo;ll get a free ride?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nothin&rsquo; doin&rsquo; in the teeth-chatterin&rsquo; line,&rdquo;
+said Cork. &ldquo;I guess Rooney&rsquo;s been slow with his envelope.
+Don&rsquo;t you worry, girly; I&rsquo;ll look out for you all right.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yet Mr. McManus&rsquo;s ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the police
+looking everywhere for Buck Malone&rsquo;s assailant, and with Corrigan still
+on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would mean an
+ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high rear room of the
+true Capulet reading the pink extras.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the police in
+conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their voices came up the
+stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of himself at the upper door.
+Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the extreme rear of the room and
+lighted a dim gas jet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;This way, everybody!&rdquo; he called sharply. &ldquo;In a hurry; but no
+noise, please!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney&rsquo;s lieutenant swung
+open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder already
+placed for the escape.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Down and out, everybody!&rdquo; he commanded. &ldquo;Ladies first! Less
+talking, please! Don&rsquo;t crowd! There&rsquo;s no danger.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel. Suddenly she
+swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Before we go out,&rdquo; she whispered in his ear&mdash;&ldquo;before
+anything happens, tell me again, Eddie, do you l&mdash;do you really like
+me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On the dead level,&rdquo; said Cork, holding her close with one arm,
+&ldquo;when it comes to you, I&rsquo;m all in.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last of the
+fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they bore the ladder,
+stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an adjoining low building
+over the roof of which their only route to safety.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We may as well sit down,&rdquo; said Cork grimly. &ldquo;Maybe Rooney
+will stand the cops off, anyhow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. One of
+them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the electric light. The
+other man was a cop of the old régime&mdash;a big cop, a thick cop, a
+fuming, abrupt cop&mdash;not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair at the table
+and sneered familiarly at the girl.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What are youse doin&rsquo; in here?&rdquo; he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dropped in for a smoke,&rdquo; said Cork mildly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Had any drinks?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not later than one o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Get out&mdash;quick!&rdquo; ordered the cop. Then, &ldquo;Sit
+down!&rdquo; he countermanded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took off Cork&rsquo;s hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. &ldquo;Your
+name&rsquo;s McManus.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bad guess,&rdquo; said Cork. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s Peterson.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Cork McManus, or something like that,&rdquo; said the cop. &ldquo;You
+put a knife into a man in Dutch Mike&rsquo;s saloon a week ago.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Aw, forget it!&rdquo; said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
+officer&rsquo;s tones. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got my mug mixed with somebody
+else&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have I? Well, you&rsquo;ll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be
+looked over. The description fits you all right.&rdquo; The cop twisted his
+fingers under Cork&rsquo;s collar. &ldquo;Come on!&rdquo; he ordered roughly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered. Her quick
+eye danced from one man&rsquo;s face to the other as they spoke or moved. What
+hard luck! Cork was thinking&mdash;Corrigan on the briny; and Ruby met and lost
+almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station would recognize him,
+without a doubt. Hard luck!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms extended
+against the cop. His hold on Cork&rsquo;s collar was loosened and he stumbled
+back two or three paces.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go so fast, Maguire!&rdquo; she cried in shrill fury.
+&ldquo;Keep your hands off my man! You know me, and you know I&rsquo;m
+givin&rsquo; you good advice. Don&rsquo;t you touch him again! He&rsquo;s not
+the guy you are lookin&rsquo; for&mdash;I&rsquo;ll stand for that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;See here, Fanny,&rdquo; said the Cop, red and angry, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
+take you, too, if you don&rsquo;t look out! How do you know this ain&rsquo;t
+the man I want? What are you doing in here with him?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How do I know?&rdquo; said the girl, flaming red and white by turns.
+&ldquo;Because I&rsquo;ve known him a year. He&rsquo;s mine. Oughtn&rsquo;t I
+to know? And what am I doin&rsquo; here with him? That&rsquo;s easy.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted draperies,
+heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the table toward Cork a
+folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened itself with little leisurely
+jerks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Take that, Jimmy, and let&rsquo;s go,&rdquo; said the girl.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m declarin&rsquo; the usual dividends, Maguire,&rdquo; she said
+to the officer. &ldquo;You had your usual five-dollar graft at the usual corner
+at ten.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A lie!&rdquo; said the cop, turning purple. &ldquo;You go on my beat
+again and I&rsquo;ll arrest you every time I see you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, you won&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said the girl. &ldquo;And I&rsquo;ll tell
+you why. Witnesses saw me give you the money to-night, and last week, too.
+I&rsquo;ve been getting fixed for you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: &ldquo;Come on,
+Fanny; let&rsquo;s have some chop suey before we go home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Clear out, quick, both of you, or I&rsquo;ll&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cop&rsquo;s bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the money without
+a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her hand-bag. Her
+expression was the same she had worn when she entered Rooney&rsquo;s that
+night&mdash;she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion and sullen
+wonder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I guess I might as well say good-bye here,&rdquo; she said dully.
+&ldquo;You won&rsquo;t want to see me again, of course. Will you&mdash;shake
+hands&mdash;Mr. McManus.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I mightn&rsquo;t have got wise if you hadn&rsquo;t give the snap
+away,&rdquo; said Cork. &ldquo;Why did you do it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;d have been pinched if I hadn&rsquo;t. That&rsquo;s why.
+Ain&rsquo;t that reason enough?&rdquo; Then she began to cry. &ldquo;Honest,
+Eddie, I was goin&rsquo; to be the best girl in the world. I hated to be what I
+am; I hated men; I was ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed
+different from everybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I
+thought I&rsquo;d make you believe I was good, and I was goin&rsquo; to be
+good. When you asked to come to my house and see me, why, I&rsquo;d have died
+rather than do anything wrong after that. But what&rsquo;s the use of talking
+about it? I&rsquo;ll say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cork was pulling at his ear. &ldquo;I knifed Malone,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I
+was the one the cop wanted.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; said the girl listlessly. &ldquo;It
+didn&rsquo;t make any difference about that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don&rsquo;t do nothin&rsquo;
+but hang out with a tough gang on the East Side.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That was all right, too,&rdquo; repeated the girl. &ldquo;It
+didn&rsquo;t make any difference.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. &ldquo;I could get a
+job at O&rsquo;Brien&rsquo;s,&rdquo; he said aloud, but to himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Good-by,&rdquo; said the girl.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come on,&rdquo; said Cork, taking her arm. &ldquo;I know a place.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house facing a
+little park.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What house is this?&rdquo; she asked, drawing back. &ldquo;Why are you
+going in there?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at one side
+of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps. &ldquo;Read
+that,&rdquo; said he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a
+scream. &ldquo;No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won&rsquo;t let you do
+that&mdash;not now! Let me go! You shan&rsquo;t do that! You
+can&rsquo;t&mdash;you mus&rsquo;n&rsquo;t! Not after you know! No, no! Come
+away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork&rsquo;s
+right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Another cop&mdash;how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the
+wing!&mdash;came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. &ldquo;Here! What are
+you doing with that girl?&rdquo; he called gruffly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She&rsquo;ll be all right in a minute,&rdquo; said Cork.
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a straight deal.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Reverend Jeremiah Jones,&rdquo; read the cop from the door-plate with
+true detective cunning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Correct,&rdquo; said Cork. &ldquo;On the dead level, we&rsquo;re
+goin&rsquo; to get married.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap21"></a>XXI<br />
+THE VENTURERS</h2>
+
+<p>
+Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the <i>Non Sequitur</i>
+Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation car
+&ldquo;<i>Raison d&rsquo;&ecirc;tre</i>&rdquo; for one moment. It is for no
+longer than to consider a brief essay on the subject&mdash;let us call it:
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s Around the Corner.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est</i>&mdash;men who wear rubbers and
+pay poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more
+continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and the poll
+has developed into an income tax, the other half will be paralleling the canals
+of Mars with radium railways.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the dictionaries. To
+the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a prize to be won.
+Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk in the shadows at the
+roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and alluring; that of Adventure is
+flushed and heroic. The face of Chance is the beautiful
+countenance&mdash;perfect because vague and dream-born&mdash;that we see in our
+tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and toast.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The V<small>ENTURER</small> is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and
+wayside groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the
+difference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit was the
+best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it happened is the
+highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is disturbing to the cosmogony
+of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and city-directoried citizens, let us light
+our pipes, chide the children and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow
+rocker under the flickering gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little
+tale of two modern followers of Chance.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+&ldquo;Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?&rdquo; asked
+Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate the
+interior of the Powhatan Club.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Doubtless,&rdquo; said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the
+room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long before
+this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the air (as Hamlet
+says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted and would not mind.
+Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go away from anywhere. A man, in
+order to get on good terms with himself, must have his opinions corroborated
+and his moods matched by some one else. (I had written that
+&ldquo;somebody&rdquo;; but an A. D. T. boy who once took a telegram for me
+pointed out that I could save money by using the compound word. This is a vice
+versa case.)
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Forster&rsquo;s favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower of
+Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition and the
+narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied him full privilege.
+He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares and many of the side roads
+that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life. But none had sufficed. The
+reason was that he knew what was to be found at the end of every street. He
+knew from experience and logic almost precisely to what end each digression
+from routine must lead. He found a depressing monotony in all the variations
+that the music of his sphere had grafted upon the tune of life. He had not
+learned that, although the world was made round, the circle has been squared,
+and that it&rsquo;s true interest is to be in &ldquo;What&rsquo;s Around the
+Corner.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax either his
+judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He would have been glad
+to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no hope of that. Adventure and
+Fortune move at your beck and call in the Greater City; but Chance is oriental.
+She is a veiled lady in a sedan chair, protected by a special traffic squad of
+dragonians. Crosstown, uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the end of an hour&rsquo;s stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,
+smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old hotel
+softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that he must dine;
+and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of his favorite
+caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the service and so delicately
+choice the food, that he regretted the hunger that must be appeased by the
+&ldquo;dead perfection&rdquo; of the place&rsquo;s cuisine. Even the music
+there seemed to be always playing <i>da capo</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious, restaurant
+lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all countries of the world
+spread their national cookery for the omnivorous American. Something might
+happen there out of the routine&mdash;he might come upon a subject without a
+predicate, a road without an end, a question without an answer, a cause without
+an effect, a gulf stream in life&rsquo;s salt ocean. He had not dressed for
+evening; he wore a dark business suit that would not be questioned even where
+the waiters served the spaghetti in their shirt sleeves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because the
+more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the thirteen
+pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored carefully and found
+not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five figures to his credit in
+the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really regarding
+him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of thirty or so,
+neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one waiting for a street car.
+But there was no car line on that avenue. So his proximity and unconcealed
+curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of the nature of a personal intrusion.
+But, as he was a consistent seeker after &ldquo;What&rsquo;s Around the
+Corner,&rdquo; instead of manifesting resentment he only turned a
+half-embarrassed smile upon the other&rsquo;s grin of amusement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All in?&rdquo; asked the intruder, drawing nearer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Seems so,&rdquo; said Forster. &ldquo;Now, I thought there was a dollar
+in&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, I know,&rdquo; said the other man, with a laugh. &ldquo;But there
+wasn&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;ve just been through the same process myself, as I was
+coming around the corner. I found in an upper vest pocket&mdash;I don&rsquo;t
+know how they got there&mdash;exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a
+dinner exactly two pennies will buy!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t dined, then?&rdquo; asked Forster.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have not. But I would like to. Now, I&rsquo;ll make you a proposition.
+You look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and
+respectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny of a
+head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine together. We will
+choose from the menu like millionaires&mdash;or, if you prefer, like gentlemen
+in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly for once. When we have finished
+we will match with my two pennies to see which of us will stand the brunt of
+the house&rsquo;s displeasure and vengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have
+lived in the same station of life&mdash;before our money took wings.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re on,&rdquo; said Forster, joyfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious country of
+Chance&mdash;anyhow, it promised something better than the stale infestivity of
+a table d&rsquo;h&ocirc;te.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room. Ives
+chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Match for which of us gives the order,&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Forster lost.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with the
+absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born. Forster,
+listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am a man,&rdquo; said Ives, during the oysters, &ldquo;Who has made a
+lifetime search after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the
+ordinary adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like a
+gambler who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake. What I want
+is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion. It is the
+breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its blindest manifestations. The
+world has come to run so much by rote and gravitation that you can enter upon
+hardly any footpath of chance in which you do not find signboards informing you
+of what you may expect at its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution
+Office who always complained bitterly when any one came in to ask information.
+&lsquo;He wanted to <i>know</i>, you know!&rsquo; was the kick he made to his
+fellow-clerks. Well, I don&rsquo;t want to know, I don&rsquo;t want to reason,
+I don&rsquo;t want to guess&mdash;I want to bet my hand without seeing
+it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; said Forster delightedly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve often
+wanted the way I feel put into words. You&rsquo;ve done it. I want to take
+chances on what&rsquo;s coming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the
+next course.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Agreed,&rdquo; said Ives. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad you catch my idea. It
+will increase the animosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary
+you, we will pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true
+venturer&mdash;one who does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins
+a journey. But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more
+difficult it is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee.
+In the Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from doors
+and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle of a wall and
+&lsquo;get away with it.&rsquo; Nowadays, if you speak disrespectfully to a
+policeman, all that is left to the most romantic fancy is to conjecture in what
+particular police station he will land you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know&mdash;I know,&rdquo; said Forster, nodding approval.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I returned to New York to-day,&rdquo; continued Ives, &ldquo;from a
+three years&rsquo; ramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad
+than they are at home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The
+only thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I&rsquo;ve tried shooting
+big game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many yards; and
+when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I enjoy it about as much
+as I did when I was kept in after school to do a sum in long division on the
+blackboard.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know&mdash;I know,&rdquo; said Forster.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There might be something in aeroplanes,&rdquo; went on Ives,
+reflectively. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a
+cut-and-dried affair of wind and ballast.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Women,&rdquo; suggested Forster, with a smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Three months ago,&rdquo; said Ives. &ldquo;I was pottering around in one
+of the bazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but with
+a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some amber and pearl
+ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an attendant&mdash;a big Nubian,
+as black as coal. After a while the attendant drew nearer to me by degrees and
+slipped a scrap of paper into my hand. I looked at it when I got a chance. On
+it was scrawled hastily in pencil: &lsquo;The arched gate of the Nightingale
+Garden at nine to-night.&rsquo; Does that appear to you to be an interesting
+premise, Mr. Forster?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the
+property of an old Turk&mdash;a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Of
+course I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The same Nubian
+attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside and sat on a
+bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had quite an extended
+chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who was writing up the
+Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said she noticed the New York cut
+of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered if I couldn&rsquo;t work something
+into the metropolitan papers about it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I see,&rdquo; said Forster. &ldquo;I see.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve canoed through Canada,&rdquo; said Ives, &ldquo;down many
+rapids and over many falls. But I didn&rsquo;t seem to get what I wanted out of
+it because I knew there were only two possible outcomes&mdash;I would either go
+to the bottom or arrive at the sea level. I&rsquo;ve played all games at cards;
+but the mathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the percentages.
+I&rsquo;ve made acquaintances on trains, I&rsquo;ve answered advertisements,
+I&rsquo;ve rung strange door-bells, I&rsquo;ve taken every chance that
+presented itself; but there has always been the conventional ending&mdash;the
+logical conclusion to the premise.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know,&rdquo; repeated Forster. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve felt it all. But
+I&rsquo;ve had few chances to take my chance at chances. Is there any life so
+devoid of impossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad of
+opportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousand fails
+to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways and street cars
+disappointed one as seldom.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The sun has risen,&rdquo; said Ives, &ldquo;on the Arabian nights. There
+are no more caliphs. The fisherman&rsquo;s vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,
+warranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours. Life moves
+by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no more opportunities such as
+Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster had. The only certain thing is
+that there is nothing uncertain.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Forster, &ldquo;my experience has been the limited one
+of a city man. I haven&rsquo;t seen the world as you have; but it seems that we
+view it with the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even this
+little venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There may be at least
+one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner is presented. Perhaps, after
+all, the pilgrims who traveled without scrip or purse found a keener taste to
+life than did the knights of the Round Table who rode abroad with a retinue and
+King Arthur&rsquo;s certified checks in the lining of their helmets. And now,
+if you&rsquo;ve finished your coffee, suppose we match one of your insufficient
+coins for the impending blow of Fate. What have I up?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Heads,&rdquo; called Ives.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Heads it is,&rdquo; said Forster, lifting his hand. &ldquo;I lose. We
+forgot to agree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when the
+waiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I will hold the
+fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hat and be off. I
+thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives, and wish we might have
+others.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If my memory is not at fault,&rdquo; said Ives, laughing, &ldquo;the
+nearest police station is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too,
+let me assure you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotive effort
+that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism, glided to the
+table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser&rsquo;s cup. Forster took
+it up and added the figures with deliberate care. Ives leaned back comfortably
+in his chair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; said Forster; &ldquo;but I thought you were going to
+ring Grimes about that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten
+about it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, &ldquo;I can do
+that later on. Get me a glass of water, waiter.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Want to be in at the death, do you?&rdquo; asked Forster.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hope you don&rsquo;t object,&rdquo; said Ives, pleadingly.
+&ldquo;Never in my life have I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant
+for swindling it out of a dinner.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Forster, calmly. &ldquo;You are entitled to see a
+Christian die in the arena as your <i>pousse-café</i>.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged air of an
+inexorable collector.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his pocket
+and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and took it away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The fact is,&rdquo; said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh,
+&ldquo;I doubt whether I&rsquo;m what they call a &lsquo;game sport,&rsquo;
+which means the same as a &lsquo;soldier of Fortune.&rsquo; I&rsquo;ll have to
+make a confession. I&rsquo;ve been dining at this hotel two or three times a
+week for more than a year. I always sign my checks.&rdquo; And then, with a
+note of appreciation in his voice: &ldquo;It was first-rate of you to stay to
+see me through with it when you knew I had no money, and that you might be
+scooped in, too.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I guess I&rsquo;ll confess, too,&rdquo; said Ives, with a grin. &ldquo;I
+own the hotel. I don&rsquo;t run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on
+the third floor for my use when I happen to stray into town.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He called a waiter and said: &ldquo;Is Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? All
+right. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms made ready
+and aired.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Another venture cut short by the inevitable,&rdquo; said Forster.
+&ldquo;Is there a conundrum without an answer in the next number? But
+let&rsquo;s hold to our subject just for a minute or two, if you will. It
+isn&rsquo;t often that I meet a man who understands the flaws I pick in
+existence. I am engaged to be married a month from to-day.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I reserve comment,&rdquo; said Ives.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Right; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond of the
+lady; but I can&rsquo;t decide whether to show up at the church or make a sneak
+for Alaska. It&rsquo;s the same idea, you know, that we were
+discussing&mdash;it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.
+Everybody knows the routine&mdash;you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea after
+breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress for
+dinner&mdash;theatre twice a week&mdash;bills&mdash;moping around most evenings
+trying to make conversation&mdash;a little quarrel occasionally&mdash;maybe
+sometimes a big one, and a separation&mdash;or else a settling down into a
+middle-aged contentment, which is worst of all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said Ives, nodding wisely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the dead certainty of the thing,&rdquo; went on Forster,
+&ldquo;that keeps me in doubt. There&rsquo;ll nevermore be anything around the
+corner.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nothing after the &lsquo;Little Church,&rsquo;&rdquo; said Ives.
+&ldquo;I know.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Understand,&rdquo; said Forster, &ldquo;that I am in no doubt as to my
+feelings toward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there
+is something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out against
+any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I know that I want
+it. I&rsquo;m talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I&rsquo;m sure of what I
+mean.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I understand you,&rdquo; said Ives, with a slow smile. &ldquo;Well, I
+think I will be going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one
+evening soon, Mr. Forster, I&rsquo;d be glad.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thursday?&rdquo; suggested Forster.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;At seven, if it&rsquo;s convenient,&rdquo; answered Ives.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Seven goes,&rdquo; assented Forster.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in one of the
+correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the reception room of an
+old-fashioned house into which the spirits of Fortune, Chance and Adventure had
+never dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistler etchings, the steel
+engravings by Oh-what&rsquo;s-his-name?, the still-life paintings of the grapes
+and garden truck with the watermelon seeds spilled on the table as natural as
+life, and the Greuze head. It was a household. There were even brass andirons.
+On a table was an album, half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on the
+corners of the lids. A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, with a warning click
+at five minutes to nine. Ives looked at it curiously, remembering a time-piece
+in his grandmother&rsquo;s home that gave such a warning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was
+twenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this
+much&mdash;youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet eyes
+are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with the sweet
+cordiality of an old friendship.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You can&rsquo;t think what a pleasure it is,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;to
+have you drop in once every three years or so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the conversation.
+You will find it in books in the circulating library. When that part of it was
+over, Mary said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What I wanted?&rdquo; said Ives.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn&rsquo;t
+play marbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water
+where you didn&rsquo;t know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. And
+when you grew up you were just the same. We&rsquo;ve often talked about your
+peculiar ways.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose I am an incorrigible,&rdquo; said Ives. &ldquo;I am opposed to
+the doctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation, taxation,
+and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me something like a
+serial story would be if they printed above each instalment a synopsis of
+<i>succeeding</i> chapters.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mary laughed merrily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bob Ames told us once,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;of a funny thing you did.
+It was when you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a town
+where you hadn&rsquo;t intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up a
+sign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I remember,&rdquo; said Ives. &ldquo;That &lsquo;next station&rsquo; has
+been the thing I&rsquo;ve always tried to get away from.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; said Mary. &ldquo;And you&rsquo;ve been very foolish.
+I hope you didn&rsquo;t find what you wanted not to find, or get off at the
+station where there wasn&rsquo;t any, or whatever it was you expected
+wouldn&rsquo;t happen to you during the three years you&rsquo;ve been
+away.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There was something I wanted before I went away,&rdquo; said Ives.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweet smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There was,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You wanted me. And you could have had
+me, as you very well know.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There had
+been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years before. He
+vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind then. The contents of
+that room were as fixed, in their way, as the everlasting hills. No change
+would ever come there except the inevitable ones wrought by time and decay.
+That silver-mounted album would occupy that corner of that table, those
+pictures would hang on the walls, those chairs be found in their same places
+every morn and noon and night while the household hung together. The brass
+andirons were monuments to order and stability. Here and there were relics of a
+hundred years ago which were still living mementos and would be for many years
+to come. One going from and coming back to that house would never need to
+forecast or doubt. He would find what he left, and leave what he found. The
+veiled lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outer
+door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet and
+unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass his life
+with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he would never
+perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her, and she was still
+waiting for him as established and constant as the house itself. He was sure
+that she had once cared for him. It was the knowledge that she would always do
+so that had driven him away. Thus his thoughts ran.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am going to be married soon,&rdquo; said Mary.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive&rsquo;s hotel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Old man,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we&rsquo;ll have to put that dinner off
+for a year or so; I&rsquo;m going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a
+great talk we had the other night, and it decided me. I&rsquo;m going to knock
+around the world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both you
+and me&mdash;the terrible dread of knowing what&rsquo;s going to happen.
+I&rsquo;ve done one thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know
+it&rsquo;s best for both of us. I&rsquo;ve written to the lady to whom I was
+engaged and explained everything&mdash;told her plainly why I was
+leaving&mdash;that the monotony of matrimony would never do for me. Don&rsquo;t
+you think I was right?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is not for me to say,&rdquo; answered Ives. &ldquo;Go ahead and shoot
+elephants if you think it will bring the element of chance into your life.
+We&rsquo;ve got to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,
+Forster, I&rsquo;ve found the way. I&rsquo;ve found out the biggest hazard in
+the world&mdash;a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may
+end in the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge until
+the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know&mdash;not until his
+last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage without a rudder or
+compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch, every day and night,
+yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found the V<small>ENTURE</small>.
+Don&rsquo;t bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster. I married her
+yesterday at noon.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap22"></a>XXII<br />
+THE DUEL</h2>
+
+<p>
+The gods, lying beside their nectar on &rsquo;Lympus and peeping over the edge
+of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would seem that to
+their vision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills without special
+characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits of ants from so great a
+height should be but a mild diversion when coupled with the soft drink that
+mythology tells us is their only solace. But doubtless they have amused
+themselves by the comparison of villages and towns; and it will be no news to
+them (nor, perhaps, to many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands
+unique among the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story
+addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet on
+another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment while
+boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I love to sit
+upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus beating Bird
+Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine&rsquo;s. They came here in
+various ways and for many reasons&mdash;Hendrik Hudson, the art schools, green
+goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers&rsquo; convention, the Pennsylvania
+Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates, brains, personal
+column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight trains&mdash;all these have
+had a hand in making up the population.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan has got
+to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his adversary wins.
+There is no resting between rounds, for there are no rounds. It is slugging
+from the first. It is a fight to a finish.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the
+ferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has conquered
+you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket or only the price
+of a week&rsquo;s lodging.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn the
+rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You cannot
+remain neutral. You must be for or against&mdash;lover or enemy&mdash;bosom
+friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only by
+blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the subtlety of
+a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse, Beethoven, chloral
+and John L. in his best days.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long as you
+please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and be a citizen and
+still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and without rebuke. You may become
+a civic pillar in any other town but Knickerbocker&rsquo;s, and all the time
+publicly sneering at its buildings, comparing them with the architecture of
+Colonel Telfair&rsquo;s residence in Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you
+will not be set upon. But in New York you must be either a New Yorker or an
+invader of a modern Troy, concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited
+provincialism. And this dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the
+unimportant figures of William and Jack.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They came to
+dig their fortunes out of the big city.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander on the
+nose and the other an upper-cut with his left, just to let them know that the
+fight was on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and ambitious; so
+they countered and clinched. I think they were from Nebraska or possibly
+Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for success and scraps and scads,
+and they tackled the city like two Lochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at
+the City Hall.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man blew in
+like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped into the chair that
+was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and had ordered as far as cheese
+before the artist had time to do more than nod. After the nod a humorous smile
+came into his eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Billy,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re done for. The city has
+gobbled you up. It has taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you
+with its brand. You are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen to-day that
+you couldn&rsquo;t be picked out from them if it weren&rsquo;t for your laundry
+marks.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Camembert,&rdquo; finished William. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that? Oh,
+you&rsquo;ve still got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old
+Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It&rsquo;s giving me mine. And,
+say, I used to think the West was the whole round world&mdash;only slightly
+flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell myself hoarse about
+the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon, and say cutting things in the
+grocery to little soap drummers from the East. But I&rsquo;d never seen New
+York, then, Jack. Me for it from the rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West
+to me now. Have you heard this fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I
+say, but my wife made me go. Give me May Irwin or E. S. Willard any
+time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Poor Billy,&rdquo; said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette.
+&ldquo;You remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about
+this great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it get
+the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had always been,
+and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man. You have changed from a
+maverick into a butterick.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t see exactly what you are driving at,&rdquo; said William.
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t wear an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker
+vest on dress occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to
+a pattern&mdash;well, ain&rsquo;t the pattern all right? When you&rsquo;re in
+Rome you&rsquo;ve got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have
+other alleged metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad
+schedule I&rsquo;ve got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are
+asterisk stops&mdash;which means you wave a red flag and get on every other
+Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There&rsquo;s
+something or somebody doing all the time. I&rsquo;m clearing $8,000 a year
+selling automatic pumps, and I&rsquo;m living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I
+was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent&rsquo;s
+sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May play in the
+evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke everybody up in the
+hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board sidewalk in Oshkosh. What
+have you got against this town, Jack? There&rsquo;s only one thing in it that I
+don&rsquo;t care for, and that&rsquo;s a ferryboat.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. &ldquo;This
+town,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is a leech. It drains the blood of the country.
+Whoever comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the figure of the
+leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence, the
+genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute. Hand to hand every
+newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You&rsquo;ve lost, Billy. It shall
+never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or&mdash;the color
+work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very vastness and power. It has the
+poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the lowest skyscrapers, the
+dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It has caught you, old man, but I
+will never run beside its chariot wheels. It glosses itself as the Chinaman
+glosses his collars. Give me the domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by
+wealth or one ruled by an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest
+ingredients. Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its
+pre-eminence, it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is
+the narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country. I would
+go back there to-morrow if I could.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you like this <i>filet mignon</i>?&rdquo; said William.
+&ldquo;Shucks, now, what&rsquo;s the use to knock the town! It&rsquo;s the
+greatest ever. I couldn&rsquo;t sell one automatic pump between Harrisburg and
+Tommy O&rsquo;Keefe&rsquo;s saloon, in Sacramento, where I sell twenty here.
+And have you seen Sara Bernhardt in &lsquo;Andrew Mack&rsquo; yet?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The town&rsquo;s got you, Billy,&rdquo; said Jack.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said William. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to buy a cottage
+on Lake Ronkonkoma next summer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it. He caught his breath at
+what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The irregular
+houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep gulches and winding
+streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long, desert cañons. Such
+was the background of the wonderful, cruel, enchanting, bewildering, fatal,
+great city. But into this background were cut myriads of brilliant
+parallelograms and circles and squares through which glowed many colored
+lights. And out of the violet and purple depths ascended like the city&rsquo;s
+soul sounds and odors and thrills that make up the civic body. There arose the
+breath of gaiety unrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man
+can know. There below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from
+the four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich, despoil,
+elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it came up to him and
+went into his blood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a knock on his door. A telegram had come for him. It came from the
+West, and these were its words:
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+&ldquo;Come back and the answer will be yes.
+</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+D<small>OLLY</small>.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He kept the boy waiting ten minutes, and then wrote the reply:
+&ldquo;Impossible to leave here at present.&rdquo; Then he sat at the window
+again and let the city put its cup of mandragora to his lips again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After all it isn&rsquo;t a story; but I wanted to know which one of the heroes
+won the battle against the city. So I went to a very learned friend and laid
+the case before him. What he said was: &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t bother me; I
+have Christmas presents to buy.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So there it rests; and you will have to decide for yourself.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap23"></a>XXIII<br />
+&ldquo;WHAT YOU WANT&rdquo;</h2>
+
+<p>
+Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as
+Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour that
+belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets, bazaars and
+walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled with the same kind
+of folk that so much interested our interesting old friend, the late Mr. H. A.
+Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred years nearer to the latest styles than
+H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but they were about the same people underneath. With
+the eye of faith, you could have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor,
+Fitbad the Tailor, the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and
+Forty Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the
+old Arabian gang easily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But let us revenue to our lamb chops.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks and bonds
+with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph you must have
+money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr. Rashid is not safe. If
+you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a Turkish bath or a side street,
+and inquire into his private and personal affairs, the police court&rsquo;ll
+get you.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money and
+everything. That&rsquo;s what makes a caliph&mdash;you must get to despise
+everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want something that
+you can&rsquo;t pay for.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take a little trot around town all by myself,&rdquo; thought
+old Tom, &ldquo;and try if I can stir up anything new. Let&rsquo;s see&mdash;it
+seems I&rsquo;ve read about a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times
+who used to go about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he
+hadn&rsquo;t been introduced to. That don&rsquo;t listen like a bad idea. I
+certainly have got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I do know.
+That old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran upon &rsquo;em and
+give &rsquo;em gold&mdash;sequins, I think it was&mdash;and make &rsquo;em
+marry or got &rsquo;em good Government jobs. Now, I&rsquo;d like something of
+that sort. My money is as good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every
+month where I got it. Yes, I guess I&rsquo;ll do a little Cardiff business
+to-night, and see how it goes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and walked
+westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate, who holds the
+ends of the strings in the central offices of all the enchanted cities pulled a
+thread, and a young man twenty blocks away looked at a wall clock, and then put
+on his coat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments on Sixth
+Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door open, and where they
+clean your hat while you wait&mdash;two days. James stood all day at an
+electric machine that turned hats around faster than the best brands of
+champagne ever could have done. Overlooking your mild impertinence in feeling a
+curiosity about the personal appearance of a stranger, I will give you a
+modified description of him. Weight, 118; complexion, hair and brain, light;
+height, five feet six; age, about twenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of
+greenish-blue serge; pockets containing two keys and sixty-three cents in
+change.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a General Alarm
+that James was either lost or a dead one.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>Allons!</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremely susceptible
+to impositions being put upon or below them. All day long they burned and
+smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience. But he was earning
+twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support his feet whether his feet
+would support him or not.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as you and I
+have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts and motor-cars and
+to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe at evenfall and watch a
+badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into their common prairie home one by one.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James Turner&rsquo;s idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go
+directly to his boarding-house when his day&rsquo;s work was done. After his
+supper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples and
+infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall room. Then he
+would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of his burning feet against
+the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark Russell&rsquo;s sea yarns. The
+delicious relief of the cool metal applied to his smarting soles was his
+nightly joy. His favorite novels never palled upon him; the sea and the
+adventures of its navigators were his sole intellectual passion. No millionaire
+was ever happier than James Turner taking his ease.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of his way
+home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the sidewalk stands
+he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume of Clark Russell at half
+price.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down miscellany of
+cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His discerning eye, made
+keen by twenty years&rsquo; experience in the manufacture of laundry soap (save
+the wrappers!) recognized instantly the poor and discerning scholar, a worthy
+object of his caliphanous mood. He descended the two shallow stone steps that
+led from the sidewalk, and addressed without hesitation the object of his
+designed munificence. His first words were no worse than salutatory and
+tentative.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James Turner looked up coldly, with &ldquo;Sartor Resartus&rdquo; in one hand
+and &ldquo;A Mad Marriage&rdquo; in the other.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Beat it,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to buy any coat
+hangers or town lots in Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with
+your Teddy bear.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Young man,&rdquo; said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat
+cleaner, &ldquo;I observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is
+one of the finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth mentioning,
+but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West, where we imagine
+nothing but facts. Maybe I couldn&rsquo;t understand the poetry and allusions
+in them books you are picking over, but I like to see somebody else seem to
+know what they mean. I&rsquo;m worth about $40,000,000, and I&rsquo;m getting
+richer every day. I made the height of it manufacturing Aunt Patty&rsquo;s
+Silver Soap. I invented the art of making it. I experimented for three years
+before I got just the right quantity of chloride of sodium solution and caustic
+potash mixture to curdle properly. And after I had taken some $9,000,000 out of
+the soap business I made the rest in corn and wheat futures. Now, you seem to
+have the literary and scholarly turn of character; and I&rsquo;ll tell you what
+I&rsquo;ll do. I&rsquo;ll pay for your education at the finest college in the
+world. I&rsquo;ll pay the expense of your rummaging over Europe and the art
+galleries, and finally set you up in a good business. You needn&rsquo;t make it
+soap if you have any objections. I see by your clothes and frazzled necktie
+that you are mighty poor; and you can&rsquo;t afford to turn down the offer.
+Well, when do you want to begin?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is an eye
+expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment suspended as high as
+Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of challenge, curiosity, defiance,
+cynicism, and, strange as you may think it, of a childlike yearning for
+friendliness and fellowship that must be hidden when one walks among the
+&ldquo;stranger bands.&rdquo; For in New Bagdad one, in order to survive, must
+suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks, rides, walks or sleeps in the adjacent
+chair, house, booth, seat, path or room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, Mike,&rdquo; said James Turner, &ldquo;what&rsquo;s your line,
+anyway&mdash;shoe laces? I&rsquo;m not buying anything. You better put an egg
+in your shoe and beat it before incidents occur to you. You can&rsquo;t work
+off any fountain pens, gold spectacles you found on the street, or trust
+company certificate house clearings on me. Say, do I look like I&rsquo;d
+climbed down one of them missing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What&rsquo;s
+vitiating you, anyhow?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Son,&rdquo; said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, &ldquo;as I
+said, I&rsquo;m worth $40,000,000. I don&rsquo;t want to have it all put in my
+coffin when I die. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over
+these here volumes of literature, and I thought I&rsquo;d keep you. I&rsquo;ve
+give the missionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing
+but a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of young man
+I&rsquo;d like to take up and see what money could make of him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old Book Shop.
+And James Turner&rsquo;s smarting and aching feet did not tend to improve his
+temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit equal to any
+caliph&rsquo;s.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, you old faker,&rdquo; he said, angrily, &ldquo;be on your way. I
+don&rsquo;t know what your game is, unless you want change for a bogus
+$40,000,000 bill. Well, I don&rsquo;t carry that much around with me. But I do
+carry a pretty fair left-handed punch that you&rsquo;ll get if you don&rsquo;t
+move on.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup,&rdquo; said the caliph.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the collar
+and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two bookstands
+were overturned, and the books sent flying. A cop came up, took an arm of each,
+and marched them to the nearest station house. &ldquo;Fighting and disorderly
+conduct,&rdquo; said the cop to the sergeant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Three hundred dollars bail,&rdquo; said the sergeant at once,
+asseveratingly and inquiringly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sixty-three cents,&rdquo; said James Turner with a harsh laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change amounting
+to four dollars.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am worth,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;forty million dollars,
+but&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Lock &rsquo;em up,&rdquo; ordered the sergeant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. &ldquo;Maybe
+he&rsquo;s got the money, and maybe he ain&rsquo;t. But if he has or he
+ain&rsquo;t, what does he want to go &rsquo;round butting into other
+folks&rsquo;s business for? When a man knows what he wants, and can get it,
+it&rsquo;s the same as $40,000,000 to him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself out
+luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars of the cell
+door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his cot gave one shoulder
+discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a paper-covered volume by Clark
+Russell called &ldquo;A Sailor&rsquo;s Sweetheart.&rdquo; He gave a great sigh
+of contentment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seems
+to have been the goods after all. He &rsquo;phoned to his friends, and
+he&rsquo;s out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman
+car pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tell him I ain&rsquo;t in,&rdquo; said James Turner.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #2141 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2141)
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Strictly Business, by O. Henry
+
+
+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: Strictly Business
+       More Stories of the Four Million
+
+
+Author: O. Henry
+
+
+
+Release Date: April, 2000  [eBook #2141]
+Most recently updated: September 21, 2011
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRICTLY BUSINESS***
+
+
+E-text prepared by anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteers and revised by
+Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
+
+
+
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+More Stories of the Four Million
+
+by
+
+O. HENRY
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+   I.     STRICTLY BUSINESS
+   II.    THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+   III.   BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+   IV.    THE DAY RESURGENT
+   V.     THE FIFTH WHEEL
+   VI.    THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+   VII.   THE ROBE OF PEACE
+   VIII.  THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+   IX.    THE CALL OF THE TAME
+   X.     THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+   XI.    THE THING'S THE PLAY
+   XII.   A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+   XIII.  A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+   XIV.   PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+   XV.    A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+   XVI.   COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+   XVII.  A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+   XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+   XIX.   PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+   XX.    PAST ONE AT RODNEY'S
+   XXI.   THE VENTURERS
+   XXII.  THE DUEL
+   XXIII. "WHAT YOU WANT"
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+
+I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You've been
+touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and
+the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the
+long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your
+ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like
+this:
+
+Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better
+than your own (madam) if they weren't padded. Chorus girls are
+inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back
+to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses
+reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their
+step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew's real name is Boyle O'Kelley. The
+ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first
+sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.
+Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.
+
+All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne
+and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures
+have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.
+
+Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the
+profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the
+players with an eye full of patronizing superiority--and we go home and
+practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking
+glasses.
+
+Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It
+seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians
+and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk, students and
+ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and
+conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a
+manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of
+the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.
+
+Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true
+one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little
+story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only
+the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of
+Keetor's old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of
+gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch--and where I
+last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time
+to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.
+
+The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had
+been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years
+with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes
+with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a
+buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the
+bass-viol player in more than one house--than which no performer ever
+received more satisfactory evidence of good work.
+
+The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful
+performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order to
+give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest Broadway
+corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a matin�e
+offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime of a
+minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with that
+most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles--the audible contact of the
+palm of one hand against the palm of the other.
+
+One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known
+vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got
+his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.
+
+A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed
+into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the
+audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, "All
+the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself," sat with his face as long and
+his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his
+grandmother to wind into a ball.
+
+But when H came on, "The Mustard" suddenly sat up straight. H was the
+happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs
+and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;
+but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to
+the old man's account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and
+ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed you
+ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old log
+school-house besides cipherin' and nouns, especially "When the Teach-er
+Kept Me in." Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings,
+she reappeared in considerably less than a "trice" as a fluffy
+"Parisienne"--so near does Art bring the old red mill to the Moulin
+Rouge. And then--
+
+But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else. He
+thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short order
+stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of "Helen
+Grimes" in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the tray
+of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor,
+grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play
+tucked away somewhere. They tuck 'em in trays of trunks, trunks of
+trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults,
+handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call. They
+belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.
+
+But Bob Hart's sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called
+it "Mice Will Play." He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever since he
+wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of "Helen
+Grimes." And here was "Helen" herself, with all the innocent abandon,
+the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that his
+critical taste demanded.
+
+After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and got
+Cherry's address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty old
+house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.
+
+By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with her
+hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have
+been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon's daughter, in the
+great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.
+
+"I know your act, Mr. Hart," she said after she had looked over his card
+carefully. "What did you wish to see me about?"
+
+"I saw you work last night," said Hart. "I've written a sketch that I've
+been saving up. It's for two; and I think you can do the other part. I
+thought I'd see you about it."
+
+"Come in the parlor," said Miss Cherry. "I've been wishing for something
+of the sort. I think I'd like to act instead of doing turns."
+
+Bob Hart drew his cherished "Mice Will Play" from his pocket, and read
+it to her.
+
+"Read it again, please," said Miss Cherry.
+
+And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by
+introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the
+dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the
+pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen
+Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to
+all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on
+the sketch's weaker points. That was her woman's intuition that he had
+lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the judgment,
+experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that "Mice Will
+Play" would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of the
+circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings of her
+smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of
+a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.
+
+"Mr. Hart," said she, "I believe your sketch is going to win out. That
+Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a
+handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the
+Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers' Bazaar. And I've seen you
+work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is
+business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?"
+
+"Two hundred," answered Hart.
+
+"I get one hundred for mine," said Cherry. "That's about the natural
+discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every
+week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all
+right. I love it; but there's something else I love better--that's a
+little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six ducks
+wandering around the yard.
+
+"Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me
+to play the opposite part in your sketch, I'll do it. And I believe we
+can make it go. And there's something else I want to say: There's no
+nonsense in my make-up; I'm _on the level_, and I'm on the stage for
+what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I'm
+going to save my money to keep me when I'm past doing my stunts. No Old
+Ladies' Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.
+
+"If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
+nonsense cut out of it, I'm in on it. I know something about vaudeville
+teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want
+you to know that I'm on the stage for what I can cart away from it every
+pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where
+the cashier has licked the flap. It's kind of a hobby of mine to want to
+cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to
+know just how I am. I don't know what an all-night restaurant looks
+like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance
+in my life, and I've got money in five savings banks."
+
+"Miss Cherry," said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, "you're in
+on your own terms. I've got 'strictly business' pasted in my hat and
+stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a
+five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking
+clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to
+the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side
+porch, reading Stanley's 'Explorations into Africa.' And nobody else
+around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?"
+
+"Not any," said Cherry. "What I'm going to do with my money is to bank
+it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I've been
+earning, I've figured out that in ten years I'd have an income of about
+$50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest some of
+the principal in a little business--say, trimming hats or a beauty
+parlor, and make more."
+
+"Well," said Hart, "You've got the proper idea all right, all right,
+anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who
+couldn't fix themselves for the wet days to come if they'd save their
+money instead of blowing it. I'm glad you've got the correct business
+idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch
+will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped
+up."
+
+The subsequent history of "Mice Will Play" is the history of all
+successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,
+remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and
+business, changed the lines, restored 'em, added more, cut 'em out,
+renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger
+for the pistol, restored the pistol--put the sketch through all the
+known processes of condensation and improvement.
+
+They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely
+used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would
+occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded
+revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of
+the sketch.
+
+Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a
+real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen
+Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and
+daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private
+secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,
+"Arapahoe" Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch
+that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,
+L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow
+Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving
+you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case
+may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should
+want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in 'em.
+
+Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of
+play, whether we admit it or not--something along in between "Bluebeard,
+Jr.," and "Cymbeline" played in the Russian.
+
+There were only two parts and a half in "Mice Will Play." Hart and
+Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always
+played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a
+panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn
+down the gas fire in the grate by the manager's orders.
+
+There was another girl in the sketch--a Fifth Avenue society
+swelless--who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine
+when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost
+his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic
+state--Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan--of the
+Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.
+
+And now for the thriller. Old "Arapahoe" Grimes dies of angina pectoris
+one night--so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the
+footlights--while only his secretary was present. And that same day he
+was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just
+received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts
+for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.
+Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his
+(alleged) croak.
+
+"Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed--" you sabe, don't
+you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue
+Girl--who doesn't come on the stage--and can we blame her, with the
+vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be buttoned
+in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?
+
+But, wait. Here's the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,
+is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine
+is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop
+$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like
+the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to make
+any perfect lady mad. So, then!
+
+They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk
+heads (didn't the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the
+d�nouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a
+play unless it be when the prologue ends.
+
+Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?
+The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra hadn't
+left their seats; and no man could get past "Old Jimmy," the stage
+door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as a
+guarantee of eligibility.
+
+Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine:
+"Robber and thief--and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this
+should be your fate!"
+
+With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.
+
+"But I will be merciful," goes on Helen. "You shall live--that will be
+your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to the
+death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the mantel. I will
+send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have pierced
+your craven heart."
+
+And she does it. And there's no fake blank cartridges or assistants
+pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet--the actual bullet--goes
+through the face of the photograph--and then strikes the hidden spring
+of the sliding panel in the wall--and lo! the panel slides, and there is
+the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.
+It's great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a
+target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the
+sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,
+covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the
+same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same spot,
+and she had to shoot steady and true every time.
+
+Of course old "Arapahoe" had tucked the funds away there in the secret
+place; and, of course, Jack hadn't taken anything except his salary
+(which really might have come under the head of "obtaining money under";
+but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York girl
+was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and,
+necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson--and there you are.
+
+After Hart and Cherry had gotten "Mice Will Play" flawless, they had a
+try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house
+wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a
+theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,
+being dressed for it, swam in tears.
+
+After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed
+fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was what
+it panned out.
+
+That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good night
+at her boarding-house door.
+
+"Mr. Hart," said she thoughtfully, "come inside just a few minutes.
+We've got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to do
+is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can."
+
+"Right," said Bob. "It's business with me. You've got your scheme for
+banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap
+cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net
+receipts will engage my attention."
+
+"Come inside just a few minutes," repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.
+"I've got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a
+lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine--and
+all on business principles."
+
+
+"Mice Will Play" had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten
+weeks--rather neat for a vaudeville sketch--and then it started on the
+circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid
+drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.
+
+Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor's New York houses, said of Hart &
+Cherry:
+
+"As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.
+It's a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard
+workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,
+straight home after their act, and each of 'em as gentlemanlike as a
+lady. I don't expect to handle any attractions that give me less trouble
+or more respect for the profession."
+
+And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of the
+story:
+
+At the end of its second season "Mice Will Play" came back to New York
+for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never
+any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his
+bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank
+books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment
+plan to hold them.
+
+I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can't believe it,
+that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
+ambitions--just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
+grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious
+to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
+allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they
+often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.
+
+But, listen.
+
+At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
+Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When
+she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the
+bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk,
+went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck. Not expecting to get
+it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic
+manner.
+
+The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy
+in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great
+enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the
+curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and more
+or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The next turn
+went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.
+
+The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
+waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The doctor
+examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.
+
+"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been
+two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
+far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,
+you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any
+one of the girls' Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the
+parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse
+me; I've got a serious case outside to look after."
+
+After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay
+came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn
+man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple
+sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played. Vincente
+had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their
+peripatetic friend.
+
+"Bob," said Vincente in his serious way, "I'm glad it's no worse. The
+little lady is wild about you."
+
+"Who?" asked Hart.
+
+"Cherry," said the juggler. "We didn't know how bad you were hurt; and
+we kept her away. It's taking the manager and three girls to hold her."
+
+"It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She
+wasn't feeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no
+hard feelings. She's strictly business. The doctor says I'll be on the
+job again in three days. Don't let her worry."
+
+"Man," said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,
+"are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry's crying her
+heart out for you--calling 'Bob, Bob,' every second, with them holding
+her hands and keeping her from coming to you."
+
+"What's the matter with her?" asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. "The
+sketch'll go on again in three days. I'm not hurt bad, the doctor says.
+She won't lose out half a week's salary. I know it was an accident.
+What's the matter with her?"
+
+"You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool," said Vincente. "The girl
+loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What's the matter with
+_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you."
+
+"Loves me?" asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which he
+lay. "Cherry loves me? Why, it's impossible."
+
+"I wish you could see her and hear her," said Griggs.
+
+"But, man," said Bob Hart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's
+impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing."
+
+"No human being," said the Tramp Juggler, "could mistake it. She's wild
+for love of you. How have you been so blind?"
+
+"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's _too late_. It's
+too late, I tell you, Sam; _it's too late_. It can't be. You must be
+wrong. It's _impossible_. There's some mistake.
+
+"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you she's
+fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare to raise
+the curtain. Wake up, man."
+
+"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell you
+it's too late? It's too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married
+two years!_"
+
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+
+
+A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
+you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
+Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not
+gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his
+bottle of testing acid.
+
+Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George
+the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
+quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you
+can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I walks."
+
+Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets
+where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical
+warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is "El
+Refugio," a caf� and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from
+the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of
+Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the
+cloaked and sombreroed se�ores, who are scattered like burning lava by
+the political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to
+lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist
+filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at
+long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.
+
+In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the
+palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the story
+thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the Gallic
+chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a fish--bluefish,
+shad or pompano from the Gulf--baked after the Spanish method. Tomatoes
+give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon
+it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and
+mystery, and--but its crowning glory deserves a new sentence. Around
+it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity--but never in it--hovers an
+ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that only the
+Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not say that
+garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than as if the
+spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that lingers in the
+parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life, "by hopeless
+fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And then, when Conchito, the
+waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and a carafe of wine that
+has never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio--ah, Dios!
+
+One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen. Perrico
+Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The General
+was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist
+and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache of
+a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas
+congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.
+
+Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire
+his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that
+neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that
+read, "Hotel Espa�ol." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se
+habla Espa�ol." The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
+
+In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had
+blond--oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,
+and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with
+his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables
+sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of
+a bunch.
+
+"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, pleasantly.
+
+"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly. "I speak the
+Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
+here. How is that?"
+
+"Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam. "I'm sure I
+can't."
+
+At the Hotel Espa�ol General Falcon engaged rooms and established
+himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders
+of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the
+wonderful golden hair of Mme. O'Brien. "It is here," said the General
+to himself, no doubt in his own language, "that one shall find the most
+beautiful se�oras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among
+our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to
+think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion."
+
+At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became
+involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset
+him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an
+inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He
+scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle
+of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. "V�lgame Dios! What
+devil's city is this?"
+
+As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded
+snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was
+"Bully" McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm
+and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of
+the asphalt was "Spider" Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.
+
+In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the
+quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.
+
+"G'wan!" he commanded harshly. "I saw it first." McGuire slunk away,
+awed by superior intelligence.
+
+"Pardon me," said Mr. Kelley, to the General, "but you got balled up in
+the shuffle, didn't you? Let me assist you." He picked up the General's
+hat and brushed the dust from it.
+
+The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered
+and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a
+caballero with a most disinterested heart.
+
+"I have a desire," said the General, "to return to the hotel of O'Brien,
+in which I am stop. Caramba! se�or, there is a loudness and rapidness of
+going and coming in the city of this Nueva York."
+
+Mr. Kelley's politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to
+brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel
+Espa�ol they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the
+street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to
+whom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a "Dago
+joint." All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of
+"Dagoes" and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
+thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.
+
+An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in
+the conspirator's corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were between
+them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his mission
+to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase arms--2,000
+stands of Winchester rifles--for the Colombian revolutionists. He
+had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York
+correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were
+shouting their political secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was
+as loud as the General. He pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine;
+he roared to his friend that his errand was a secret one, and not to be
+hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley himself was stirred to
+sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General's hand across the table.
+
+"Monseer," he said, earnestly, "I don't know where this country of yours
+is, but I'm for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United States,
+though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us Columbia, too,
+sometimes. It's a lucky thing for you that you butted into me to-night.
+I'm the only man in New York that can get this gun deal through for you.
+The Secretary of War of the United States is me best friend. He's in the
+city now, and I'll see him for you to-morrow. In the meantime, monseer,
+you keep them drafts tight in your inside pocket. I'll call for you
+to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that ain't the District of
+Columbia you're talking about, is it?" concluded Mr. Kelley, with a
+sudden qualm. "You can't capture that with no 2,000 guns--it's been
+tried with more."
+
+"No, no, no!" exclaimed the General. "It is the Republic of Colombia--it
+is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.
+Yes."
+
+"All right," said Mr. Kelley, reassured. "Now suppose we trek along home
+and go by-by. I'll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date with
+him. It's a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky himself
+can't do it."
+
+They parted at the door of the Hotel Espa�ol. The General rolled his
+eyes at the moon and sighed.
+
+"It is a great country, your Nueva York," he said. "Truly the cars in
+the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly
+makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Se�or Kelley--the se�oras with hair
+of much goldness, and admirable fatness--they are magnificas! Muy
+magnificas!"
+
+Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary's caf�,
+far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.
+
+"Is that Jimmy Dunn?" asked Kelley.
+
+"Yes," came the answer.
+
+"You're a liar," sang back Kelley, joyfully. "You're the Secretary of
+War. Wait there till I come up. I've got the finest thing down here in
+the way of a fish you ever baited for. It's a Colorado-maduro, with a
+gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and a
+statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I'll be up on the next car."
+
+Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence
+line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout
+drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but
+the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing in
+New York. It was the ambition of "Spider" Kelley to elevate himself into
+Jimmy's class.
+
+These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary's. Kelley
+explained.
+
+"He's as easy as a gumshoe. He's from the Island of Colombia, where
+there's a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they've sent him
+up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He showed
+me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank here. 'S
+truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn't have it in
+thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now, we've
+got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us."
+
+They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; "Bring him to
+No. ---- Broadway, at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."
+
+In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Espa�ol for the General. He found
+the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs. O'Brien.
+
+"The Secretary of War is waitin' for us," said Kelley.
+
+The General tore himself away with an effort.
+
+"Ay, se�or," he said, with a sigh, "duty makes a call. But, se�or, the
+se�oras of your Estados Unidos--how beauties! For exemplification, take
+you la Madame O'Brien--que magnifica! She is one goddess--one Juno--what
+you call one ox-eyed Juno."
+
+Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the fire
+of their own imagination.
+
+"Sure!" he said with a grin; "but you mean a peroxide Juno, don't you?"
+
+Mrs. O'Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye
+rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except
+in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.
+
+When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway
+address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then
+admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,
+with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to the
+Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known by his
+old friend, Mr. Kelley.
+
+"Ah--Colombia!" said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to
+understand; "I'm afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.
+The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the
+established government, while I--" the secretary gave the General a
+mysterious but encouraging smile. "You, of course, know, General Falcon,
+that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed requiring
+all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this country to pass
+through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be
+glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley. But it must be in
+absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard
+favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will
+have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now in the
+warehouse."
+
+The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T. on
+his cap stepped promptly into the room.
+
+"Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory," said the Secretary.
+
+The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied
+it closely.
+
+"I find," he said, "that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is
+shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the
+Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule
+is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.
+My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of
+arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer's price. And you will
+forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the
+Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!"
+
+As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his
+esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War was
+extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases and
+filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse rented
+for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to the
+Hotel Espa�ol, Mrs. O'Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from his
+lapel, and said:
+
+"Say, se�or, I don't want to 'butt in,' but what does that monkey-faced,
+cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?"
+
+"Sangre de mi vida!" exclaimed the General. "Impossible it is that you
+speak of my good friend, Se�or Kelley."
+
+"Come into the summer garden," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I want to have a talk
+with you."
+
+Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.
+
+"And you say," said the General, "that for the sum of $18,000 can be
+purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with
+this garden so lovely--so resembling unto the patios of my cara
+Colombia?"
+
+"And dirt cheap at that," sighed the lady.
+
+"Ah, Dios!" breathed General Falcon. "What to me is war and politics?
+This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to
+continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of
+mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel
+Espa�ol and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on
+guns."
+
+Mrs. O'Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the
+Colombian patriot.
+
+"Oh, se�or," she sighed, happily, "ain't you terrible!"
+
+Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to
+the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented
+warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his
+friend Kelley to fetch the victim.
+
+Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Espa�ol. He found the
+General behind the desk adding up accounts.
+
+"I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day buy
+the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General
+Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O'Brien."
+
+Mr. Kelley almost strangled.
+
+"Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered, "you're
+a swindler--that's what you are! You've bought a boarding house with
+money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is."
+
+"Ah," said the General, footing up a column, "that is what you call
+politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best that
+one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to keep
+hotels and be with that Juno--that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of the
+gold it is that she have!"
+
+Mr. Kelley choked again.
+
+"Ah, Senor Kelley!" said the General, feelingly and finally, "is it that
+you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O'Brien she
+make?"
+
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+
+
+Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says
+to me once in Little Rock: "If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get
+too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the
+West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in
+chunks of roe--you can't count 'em!"
+
+Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of the
+Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I
+knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver's advice.
+
+I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And
+I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of
+haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his
+nails with a silk handkerchief.
+
+"Paresis or superannuated?" I asks him.
+
+"Hello, Billy," says Silver; "I'm glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me
+that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I've been
+saving New York for dessert. I know it's a low-down trick to take things
+from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and fro and
+think ever and anon. I'd hate for my mother to know I was skinning these
+weak-minded ones. She raised me better."
+
+"Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
+does skin grafting?" I asks.
+
+"Well, no," says Silver; "you needn't back Epidermis to win to-day.
+I've only been here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the members of
+Willie Manhattan's Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to
+contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well
+send their photos to the _Evening Daily_.
+
+"I've been studying the town," says Silver, "and reading the papers
+every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an
+O'Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when
+you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my
+room and I'll tell you. We'll work the town together, Billy, for the
+sake of old times."
+
+Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects
+lying about.
+
+"There's more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,"
+says Silver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They'll
+bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are
+in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn't
+a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller,
+Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's celebrated painting of the young Saint John!
+
+"You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's gold
+mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
+hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy
+it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,
+and then I took it off the market. I don't want people to give me their
+money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction
+to keep my pride from being hurt. I want 'em to guess the missing letter
+in Chic--go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of
+money.
+
+"Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit
+it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor
+on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I was Admiral
+Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but
+I didn't know my uncle's first name. It shows, though, what an easy town
+it is. As for burglars, they won't go in a house now unless there's a
+hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on 'em. They're
+slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess,
+taking the town from end to end, it's a plain case of assault and
+Battery."
+
+"Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattan
+correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only
+been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me that it's ours with a
+cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I'd be
+a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or more in
+their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms.
+They don't look easy to me."
+
+"You've got it, Billy," says Silver. "All emigrants have it. New York's
+bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You'll
+be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because
+they don't send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide
+sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears
+the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper's wife, and
+Bella, the Buncosteerer's bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than a
+blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I'll break
+the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of
+twenties."
+
+"I hope you are right, Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had
+been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of farmers
+is never so short out there but what you can get a few of 'em to sign
+a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200 at
+the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of
+self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured
+enough to tackle this game."
+
+"Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown
+correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River
+ain't a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway
+who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their lives!
+A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous enough here
+inside of three months to incur either Jerome's clemency or Lawson's
+displeasure."
+
+"Hyperbole aside," says I, "do you know of any immediate system of
+buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the
+Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould's doorsteps?"
+
+"Dozens of 'em," says Silver. "How much capital have you got, Billy?"
+
+"A thousand," I told him.
+
+"I've got $1,200," says he. "We'll pool and do a big piece of business.
+There's so many ways we can make a million that I don't know how to
+begin."
+
+The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and
+stirred with a kind of silent joy.
+
+"We're to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon," says he. "A man I know in
+the hotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He says he likes
+to meet people from the West."
+
+"That sounds nice and plausible," says I. "I'd like to know Mr. Morgan."
+
+"It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few
+finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with
+strangers."
+
+The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o'clock Klein brought his
+Wall Street friend to see us in Silver's room. "Mr. Morgan" looked some
+like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left
+foot, and he walked with a cane.
+
+"Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud," says Klein. "It sounds superfluous," says
+he, "to mention the name of the greatest financial--"
+
+"Cut it out, Klein," says Mr. Morgan. "I'm glad to know you gents; I
+take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you're from Little Rock.
+I think I've a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of you
+guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I--"
+
+"Now, Pierpont," cuts in Klein, "you forget!"
+
+"Excuse me, gents!" says Morgan; "since I've had the gout so bad I
+sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never
+knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He
+lived in Seattle, New Mexico."
+
+Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane
+and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.
+
+"They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?"
+asks Klein, smiling.
+
+"Stocks! No!" roars Mr. Morgan. "It's that picture I sent an agent to
+Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it
+ain't to be found in all Italy. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for that
+picture--yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I
+cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to--"
+
+"Why, Mr. Morgan," says klein; "I thought you owned all of the De Vinchy
+paintings."
+
+"What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?" asks Silver. "It must be as big
+as the side of the Flatiron Building."
+
+"I'm afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver," says Morgan.
+"The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called 'Love's Idle Hour.' It
+represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank of a
+purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to this
+country. My collection will never be complete without that picture.
+Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours."
+
+Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked
+about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said what
+a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I said I
+thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a stroll
+after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue
+to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his
+admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while he buys 'em.
+
+After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me
+and waves his hands.
+
+"Did you see it?" says he. "Did you see it, Billy?"
+
+"What?" I asks.
+
+"Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It's hanging in that pawnshop,
+behind the desk. I didn't say anything because Klein was there. It's the
+article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can make
+them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any skirts, and
+they're doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with the blues.
+What did Mr. Morgan say he'd give for it? Oh, don't make me tell you.
+They can't know what it is in that pawnshop."
+
+When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing
+there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a drink.
+We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains.
+
+"That's a violent specimen of a chromo you've got up there," remarked
+Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse over the girl
+with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for it
+cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in hurrying
+it off the nail?"
+
+The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.
+
+"That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian
+gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called 'Love's Idle Hour,' and
+it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired, and it
+became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is worn a
+great deal now."
+
+At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and
+walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started
+for Morgan's office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two hours
+Silver comes back.
+
+"Did you see Mr. Morgan?" I asks. "How much did he pay you for it?"
+
+Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.
+
+"I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan," he says, "because Mr. Morgan's been
+in Europe for a month. But what's worrying me, Billy, is this: The
+department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for
+$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone--that's what I can't
+understand."
+
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+THE DAY RESURGENT
+
+
+I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes
+to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions
+of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.
+
+First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have
+free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper number
+of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the well-known
+model, will pose for it in the "Lethergogallagher," or whatever it was
+that Trilby called it.
+
+Second--the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.
+This is magazine-covery, but reliable.
+
+Third--Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.
+
+Fourth--Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy
+and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.
+
+Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the
+higher criticism has hard-boiled them.
+
+The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of
+all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception.
+It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back
+still further to the first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a
+new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_.
+
+Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth
+the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a
+holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in
+the footsteps of Danny McCree.
+
+Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the
+calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30
+Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his
+face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard,
+smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap,
+and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder
+between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in
+Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front
+room of the flat Danny's father sat by an open window smoking his pipe,
+with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still
+clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years
+before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without
+permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that
+they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to
+you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the
+headlines?
+
+"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.
+
+"Scramble mine," said Danny.
+
+After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of
+the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur--frock coat, striped
+trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest,
+and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein's
+(between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit stand) Saturday night sale.
+
+"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man McCree,
+a little wistfully. "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it's fine
+spring weather. I can feel it in the air."
+
+"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest
+tones. "Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my
+team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
+you've just eat, I'd like to know? Answer me that!"
+
+"All right, lad," said the old man. "I'm not complainin'. While me two
+eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a Sunday out.
+There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the windy. I have me
+tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your mother
+had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the hippopotamus--but
+let that be."
+
+"Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?" asked Danny
+of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. "Have you been taking
+him to the Zoo? And for what?"
+
+"I have not," said Mrs. McCree. "He sets by the windy all day. 'Tis
+little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I'm thinkin'
+they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without
+stoppin' for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there's lard burnin'
+in the fryin' pan. There is not. He says I do not understand. 'Tis weary
+days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny. There was
+no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes. 'Tis a fine
+day, son. Injoy yeself ag'inst the morning. There will be cold supper at
+six."
+
+"Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of Mike, the
+janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.
+
+"I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis the
+only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that
+I've not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or
+else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,
+then?"
+
+"It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny. "Likely there's
+nothing in it."
+
+Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into
+the heart of the district where Easter--modern Easter, in new, bright
+raiment--leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the
+blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving
+parterres of living flowers--so it seemed when your eye looked upon the
+Easter girl.
+
+Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the
+background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The
+windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent
+creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
+
+Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked
+Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
+
+"Why, Corrigan," he asked, "is Easter? I know it comes the first time
+you're full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March--but why?
+Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it
+out of politics?"
+
+"'Tis an annual celebration," said Corrigan, with the judicial air of
+the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, "peculiar to New York. It extends
+up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and
+Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion 'tis not political."
+
+"Thanks," said Danny. "And say--did you ever hear a man complain of
+hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean."
+
+"Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and there
+was wood alcohol in that."
+
+Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously
+a Sunday and a festival day was his.
+
+The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often
+that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made
+garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the
+griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the
+Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,
+attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,
+and took his pleasure sadly.
+
+The family entrance of Dugan's caf� was feasible; so Danny yielded to
+the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,
+linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the
+mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.
+
+"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"
+
+"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. "Is that a new one?
+All right. Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess. I give it up.
+What's the answer--two apples or a yard and a half?"
+
+From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in
+him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong
+diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.
+
+A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They
+pumped hands on the corner.
+
+"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's wrong?
+Come away with me to church and be cheerful."
+
+"What's doing at church?" asked Danny.
+
+"Why, it's Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin'
+you might come around to go."
+
+"What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily. "Nobody
+seems to know."
+
+"Nobody as blind as you," said Katy with spirit. "You haven't even
+looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it's when all the girls put on new
+spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?"
+
+"I will," said Danny. "If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought to
+be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain't a beauty. The
+green roses are great."
+
+At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke
+rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;
+but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his
+theme--resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of
+the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a
+wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth
+pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.
+
+After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique in
+her sky-blue eyes.
+
+"Are you coming along to the house?" she asked. "But don't mind me. I'll
+get there all right. You seem to be studyin' a lot about something. All
+right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr. McCree?"
+
+"I'll be around Wednesday night as usual," said Danny, turning and
+crossing the street.
+
+Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny
+stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,
+at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep
+in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening
+that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender
+than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and
+deeper-rooted than the love of woman--for had he not turned away from
+green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny
+did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his
+dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow
+the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.
+
+Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.
+
+"Hippopotamus!" he shouted to an elevated road pillar. "Well, how is
+that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was
+driving at now.
+
+"Hippopotamus! Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx! It's been a year
+since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far. We quit at 469
+B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn't have guessed
+what he was trying to get out of him."
+
+Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor
+supported.
+
+Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on
+the sill.
+
+"Will that be you, lad?" he asked.
+
+Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the
+outset of committing a good deed.
+
+"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" he
+snapped, viciously. "Have I no right to come in?"
+
+"Ye're a faithful lad," said old man McCree, with a sigh. "Is it evening
+yet?"
+
+Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt
+letters, "The History of Greece." Dust was on it half an inch thick. He
+laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper.
+And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:
+
+"Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?"
+
+"Did I hear ye open the book?" said old man McCree. "Many and weary be
+the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great
+likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. 'Tis a fine day outside,
+lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair
+by the windy and me pipe."
+
+"Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
+hippopotamus," said Danny. "The war began there. It kept something doing
+for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon,
+in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the
+battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I'll read it."
+
+With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree
+sat for an hour, listening.
+
+Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree
+was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man
+McCree's eyes.
+
+"Do you hear our lad readin' to me?" he said. "There is none finer in
+the land. My two eyes have come back to me again."
+
+After supper he said to Danny: "'Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now
+ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough."
+
+"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" said
+Danny, angrily. "Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is
+yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the
+kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire.
+Am I nothing in this house?"
+
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+THE FIFTH WHEEL
+
+
+The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They
+were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth
+Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked
+at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted
+them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues. The
+Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture looming
+mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood for the
+tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by the
+winged walking delegate of the Lord.
+
+Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the
+Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north
+wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a
+man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you
+credit.
+
+The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over
+the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and had assumed for
+himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box
+on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for
+other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,
+this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all
+might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and
+the rent man and business go to the deuce.
+
+The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
+dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth's
+monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with
+conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the
+Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
+coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad
+of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms
+beautifully devoid of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative
+monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must
+hear one phrase of the Preacher's--the one that formed his theme that
+night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in the
+world.
+
+_"No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky."_
+
+Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to the
+Potter's Field.
+
+A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
+emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his
+coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed
+signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling goose. But,
+conscientiously, I must warn the milliner's apprentice who reads this,
+expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no further. The
+young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for
+drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the
+one-night bed seekers.
+
+If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family
+carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage
+is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van
+Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year's Eve feather
+tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays
+and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady's maid. But it is
+one of the saddest things about romance that a tight shoe or an empty
+commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary heretic of any
+Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas's physical troubles were not few. Therefore,
+his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost lady's maid than it
+was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent things that his
+racked nerves almost convinced him were flying, dancing, crawling, and
+wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above and around the dismal
+campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of straight whisky and
+a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a
+psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by
+phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and intercourse.
+
+The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own
+age, shabby but neat.
+
+"What's the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?" asked Thomas, with the
+freemasonic familiarity of the damned--"Booze? That's mine. You don't
+look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the
+lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that ever
+made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how
+do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale."
+
+The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy
+ex-coachman.
+
+"No," said he, "mine isn't exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow that
+Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion of my
+unforgiving relatives. I've been out of work for a year because I don't
+know how to work; and I've been sick in Bellevue and other hospitals for
+months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I was turned out
+of the hospital yesterday. And I haven't a cent. That's my tale of woe."
+
+"Tough luck," said Thomas. "A man alone can pull through all right. But
+I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it."
+
+Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,
+so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that
+it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and
+pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.
+
+When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became
+loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake
+of the flying car.
+
+Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the
+Preacher's goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
+swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
+both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
+canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with
+the lost tire.
+
+One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand
+an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save
+his pride.
+
+Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
+chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
+sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.
+
+Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner
+and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be
+suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to
+higher denominations.
+
+But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received
+the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,
+and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
+
+"Strange--strange!" said he. "Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied
+that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?"
+
+Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful
+Thomas.
+
+"Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
+if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
+Washington Square North?"
+
+"Oughtn't I to?" replied Thomas. "I lived there. Wish I did yet."
+
+The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
+
+"Step in please," he said. "You have been expected."
+
+Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
+motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
+the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
+course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.
+
+"Maybe the guy hasn't got any change," was his diagnosis. "Lots of these
+swell rounders don't lug about any ready money. Guess he'll dump me out
+when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow,
+it's a cinch that I've got that open-air bed convention beat to a
+finish."
+
+Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself,
+to marvel at the surprises of life. "Wonderful! amazing! strange!" he
+repeated to himself constantly.
+
+When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
+a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front
+houses.
+
+"Be kind enough to enter my house with me," said the sealskinned
+gentleman when they had alighted. "He's going to dig up, sure,"
+reflected Thomas, following him inside.
+
+There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a door
+to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness.
+Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly in
+the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly
+appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy
+tales.
+
+The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
+fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
+porti�res of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The
+furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman's feet
+sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three or
+four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet drapery.
+
+Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one
+eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor--to find that
+he had disappeared.
+
+"B'gee!" muttered Thomas, "this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn't
+wonder if it ain't one of these Moravian Nights' adventures that you
+read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy."
+
+Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated
+globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant
+electric glow.
+
+With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
+Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
+terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
+crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
+light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
+porti�res parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the
+room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate
+taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy
+hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave
+him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive
+a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah's throne-room advancing to greet a
+visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his
+manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t's_ to be mindful of his
+_p's_ and _q's_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat
+terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.
+
+"Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap.
+I hope I didn't break anything. But I've nearly got the williwalloos,
+and when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a
+snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the
+sideboard."
+
+"That is merely a mechanical toy," said the gentleman with a wave of his
+hand. "May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you to
+my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with the
+psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to the
+point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know the
+Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North."
+
+"Any silver missing?" asked Thomas tartly. "Any joolry displaced? Of
+course I know 'em. Any of the old ladies' sunshades disappeared? Well,
+I know 'em. And then what?"
+
+The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.
+
+"Wonderful!" he murmured. "Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the
+Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you," he continued, "that
+there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you
+that very good fortune awaits you. We will see."
+
+"Do they want me back?" asked Thomas, with something of his old
+professional pride in his voice. "I'll promise to cut out the booze and
+do the right thing if they'll try me again. But how did you get wise,
+doc? B'gee, it's the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its
+flashlight owls and so forth."
+
+With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two
+minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the chauffeur,
+who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious apartment,
+he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by his witty and
+genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the cold streets
+from which he had been so recently and so singularly rescued. A servant
+brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a glass of miraculous
+wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop him. Thus half an
+hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned motor car at the
+door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with another soft
+petition for a brief absence.
+
+Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front
+door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall
+through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was
+screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double
+porti�res. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely
+tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were
+scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or
+toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.
+
+The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She
+was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,
+took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an
+attendant might have done.
+
+"You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco," said the elder woman, wearily.
+"I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I've about
+lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to
+your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it."
+
+"Madam," said the professor, with his princeliest smile, "the true Art
+cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes
+requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the
+crystal, the stars, the magic formul� of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of
+Po. But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean
+Chiroscope has been successful in our search."
+
+The professor's voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in
+his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more
+interest.
+
+"Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on
+it," she said. "What do you mean?"
+
+"The words were these," said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full
+magnificent height: "_'By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall
+come.'_"
+
+"I haven't seen many chariots," said the lady, "but I never saw one with
+five wheels."
+
+"Progress," said the professor--"progress in science and mechanics has
+accomplished it--though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an
+extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I
+repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only answer
+the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before your
+eyes the proof thereof."
+
+And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.
+
+"O professor!" she cried anxiously--"When?--where? Has he been found? Do
+not keep me in suspense."
+
+"I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes," said Professor
+Cherubusco, "and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the
+true Art."
+
+Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl
+when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.
+
+"Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
+welcome and restoration to favor?" he asked, with his courteous, royal
+smile.
+
+"Do I look bughouse?" answered Thomas. "Enough of the footback life for
+me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways as
+a nut on a new axle."
+
+"My dear young man," said the other, "she has been searching for you
+everywhere."
+
+"Great!" said Thomas. "I'm on the job. That team of dropsical
+dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman
+like myself; but I'll take the job back, sure, doc. They're good people
+to be with."
+
+And now a change came o'er the suave countenance of the Caliph of
+Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.
+
+"May I ask what your name is?" he said shortly.
+
+"You've been looking for me," said Thomas, "and don't know my name?
+You're a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office
+gumshoers. I'm Thomas McQuade, of course; and I've been chauffeur of
+the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago
+for--well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on
+booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing
+in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.
+Now, what's the prize for the best answer to all this?"
+
+To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and
+dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was
+opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,
+disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian's shoe.
+
+As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he
+hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.
+
+"Crazy guy," was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. "Just
+wanted to have some fun kiddin', I guess. He might have dug up a dollar,
+anyhow. Now I've got to hurry up and get back to that gang of bum bed
+hunters before they all get preached to sleep."
+
+When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of
+the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the
+proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file
+in front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals and
+something of a wife and child.
+
+"Sorry to see you back again," said the young man, turning to speak to
+him. "I hoped you had struck something better than this."
+
+"Me?" said Thomas. "Oh, I just took a run around the block to keep warm!
+I see the public ain't lending to the Lord very fast to-night."
+
+"In this kind of weather," said the young man, "charity avails itself of
+the proverb, and both begins and ends at home."
+
+And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of
+petition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes
+still registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in.
+
+In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with
+wind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight
+toward him from the opposite sidewalk. "Annie!" he yelled, and ran
+toward her.
+
+"You fool, you fool!" she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging upon
+his neck, "why did you do it?"
+
+"The Stuff," explained Thomas briefly. "You know. But subsequently nit.
+Not a drop." He led her to the curb. "How did you happen to see me?"
+
+"I came to find you," said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. "Oh, you
+big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you here."
+
+"Professor Ch---- Don't know the guy. What saloon does he work in?"
+
+"He's a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found you
+with the Chaldean telescope, he said."
+
+"He's a liar," said Thomas. "I never had it. He never saw me have
+anybody's telescope."
+
+"And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something."
+
+"Annie," said Thoms solicitously, "you're giving me the wheels now. If
+I had a chariot I'd have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any
+singing and preaching for a nightcap, either."
+
+"Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she'll take you back. I begged
+her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;
+and your old room over the stable is ready."
+
+"Great!" said Thomas earnestly. "You are It, Annie. But when did these
+stunts happen?"
+
+"To-night at Professor Cherubusco's. He sent his automobile for the
+Missis, and she took me along. I've been there with her before."
+
+"What's the professor's line?"
+
+"He's a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows
+everything. But he hasn't done the Missis any good yet, though she's
+paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told him we
+could find you here."
+
+"What's the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?"
+
+"That's a family secret," said Annie. "And now you've asked enough
+questions. Come on home, you big fool."
+
+They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped.
+
+"Got any dough with you, Annie?" he asked.
+
+Annie looked at him sharply.
+
+"Oh, I know what that look means," said Thomas. "You're wrong. Not
+another drop. But there's a guy that was standing next to me in the bed
+line over there that's in bad shape. He's the right kind, and he's got
+wives or kids or something, and he's on the sick list. No booze. If you
+could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a decent bed I'd like
+it."
+
+Annie's fingers began to wiggle in her purse.
+
+"Sure, I've got money," said she. "Lots of it. Twelve dollars." And then
+she added, with woman's ineradicable suspicion of vicarious benevolence:
+"Bring him here and let me see him first."
+
+Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As
+the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:
+
+"Mr. Walter-- Oh--Mr. Walter!
+
+"Is that you, Annie?" said the young man meekly.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Walter!--and the Missis hunting high and low for you!"
+
+"Does mother want to see me?" he asked, with a flush coming out on his
+pale cheek.
+
+"She's been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see you.
+She wants you to come home. She's tried police and morgues and lawyers
+and advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she
+took up clearvoyants. You'll go right home, won't you, Mr. Walter?"
+
+"Gladly, if she wants me," said the young man. "Three years is a long
+time. I suppose I'll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars are
+giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of bays we
+used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?"
+
+"They have," said Thomas, feelingly. "And they'll have 'em ten years
+from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one
+hundred and forty-nine years. I'm the coachman. Just got my
+reappointment five minutes ago. Let's all ride up in a surface car--that
+is--er--if Annie will pay the fares."
+
+On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to
+pay the conductor.
+
+"Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of
+money around," said Thomas sarcastically.
+
+"In that purse," said Annie decidedly, "is exactly $11.85. I shall take
+every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the
+greatest man in the world."
+
+"Well," said Thomas, "I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe off
+things the way he does. I'm glad his spooks told him where you could
+find me. If you'll give me his address, some day I'll go up there,
+myself, and shake his hand."
+
+Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt an
+abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.
+
+"Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last dreams
+of booze, but I've a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile
+with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights.
+He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front
+steps. If it was the _d t's_, why am I so sore?"
+
+"Shut up, you fool," said Annie.
+
+"If I could find that funny guy's house," said Thomas, in conclusion,
+"I'd go up there some day and punch his nose for him."
+
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+
+
+The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion
+with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.
+
+It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
+song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
+
+When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak
+dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:
+
+"Too artificial."
+
+Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and
+swallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls.
+
+And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a
+well-arrived writer of fiction--a man who had trod on asphalt all his
+life, and who had never looked upon bucolic scenes except with
+sensations of disgust from the windows of express trains.
+
+Conant wrote a poem and called it "The Doe and the Brook." It was a
+fine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had
+strayed with Amaryllis only as far as the florist's windows, and whose
+sole ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter. Conant
+signed this poem, and we sent it to the same editor.
+
+But this has very little to do with the story.
+
+Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next
+morning, a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped slowly
+up Forty-second Street.
+
+The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and
+hair the exact color of the little orphan's (afterward discovered to be
+the earl's daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney's plays. His trousers were
+corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his
+back. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,
+though in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating
+the suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.
+In his hand was a valise--description of it is an impossible task; a
+Boston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office
+in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay--the rustic's
+letter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of the
+Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men.
+
+Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw
+stranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall buildings.
+At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been
+done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney
+"attraction" or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his
+memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the newsboys looked
+bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the way of cabs and
+street cars.
+
+At Eighth Avenue stood "Bunco Harry," with his dyed mustache and shiny,
+good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
+sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who
+had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his
+head.
+
+"Too thick, pal," he said, critically--"too thick by a couple of inches.
+I don't know what your lay is; but you've got the properties too thick.
+That hay, now--why, they don't even allow that on Proctor's circuit any
+more."
+
+"I don't understand you, mister," said the green one. "I'm not lookin'
+for any circus. I've just run down from Ulster County to look at the
+town, bein' that the hayin's over with. Gosh! but it's a whopper. I
+thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times
+as big."
+
+"Oh, well," said "Bunco Harry," raising his eyebrows, "I didn't mean
+to butt in. You don't have to tell. I thought you ought to tone down
+a little, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success at your graft,
+whatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow."
+
+"I wouldn't mind having a glass of lager beer," acknowledged the other.
+
+They went to a caf� frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty eyes,
+and sat at their drinks.
+
+"I'm glad I come across you, mister," said Haylocks. "How'd you like to
+play a game or two of seven-up? I've got the keerds."
+
+He fished them out of Noah's valise--a rare, inimitable deck, greasy
+with bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields.
+
+"Bunco Harry" laughed loud and briefly.
+
+"Not for me, sport," he said, firmly. "I don't go against that make-up
+of yours for a cent. But I still say you've overdone it. The Reubs
+haven't dressed like that since '79. I doubt if you could work Brooklyn
+for a key-winding watch with that layout."
+
+"Oh, you needn't think I ain't got the money," boasted Haylocks. He drew
+forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and laid it
+on the table.
+
+"Got that for my share of grandmother's farm," he announced. "There's
+$950 in that roll. Thought I'd come to the city and look around for a
+likely business to go into."
+
+"Bunco Harry" took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost
+respect in his smiling eyes.
+
+"I've seen worse," he said, critically. "But you'll never do it in them
+clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw
+hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and
+freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work
+off phony stuff like that."
+
+"What's his line?" asked two or three shifty-eyed men of "Bunco Harry"
+after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed.
+
+"The queer, I guess," said Harry. "Or else he's one of Jerome's men.
+Or some guy with a new graft. He's too much hayseed. Maybe that his--I
+wonder now--oh, no, it couldn't have been real money."
+
+Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived
+into a dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight
+of him their eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated
+rusticity became apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion.
+
+Haylocks swung his valise across the bar.
+
+"Keep that a while for me, mister," he said, chewing at the end of a
+virulent claybank cigar. "I'll be back after I knock around a spell. And
+keep your eye on it, for there's $950 inside of it, though maybe you
+wouldn't think so to look at me."
+
+Somewhere outside a phonograph struck up a band piece, and Haylocks was
+off for it, his coat-tail buttons flopping in the middle of his back.
+
+"Divvy, Mike," said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at one
+another.
+
+"Honest, now," said the bartender, kicking the valise to one side. "You
+don't think I'd fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he ain't no jay.
+One of McAdoo's come-on squad, I guess. He's a shine if he made himself
+up. There ain't no parts of the country now where they dress like that
+since they run rural free delivery to Providence, Rhode Island. If he's
+got nine-fifty in that valise it's a ninety-eight cent Waterbury that's
+stopped at ten minutes to ten."
+
+When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse he
+returned for his valise. And then down Broadway he gallivanted, culling
+the sights with his eager blue eyes. But still and evermore Broadway
+rejected him with curt glances and sardonic smiles. He was the oldest of
+the "gags" that the city must endure. He was so flagrantly impossible,
+so ultra rustic, so exaggerated beyond the most freakish products of the
+barnyard, the hayfield and the vaudeville stage, that he excited only
+weariness and suspicion. And the wisp of hay in his hair was so genuine,
+so fresh and redolent of the meadows, so clamorously rural that even a
+shell-game man would have put up his peas and folded his table at the
+sight of it.
+
+Haylocks seated himself upon a flight of stone steps and once more
+exhumed his roll of yellow-backs from the valise. The outer one, a
+twenty, he shucked off and beckoned to a newsboy.
+
+"Son," said he, "run somewhere and get this changed for me. I'm mighty
+nigh out of chicken feed. I guess you'll get a nickel if you'll hurry
+up."
+
+A hurt look appeared through the dirt on the newsy's face.
+
+"Aw, watchert'ink! G'wan and get yer funny bill changed yerself. Dey
+ain't no farm clothes yer got on. G'wan wit yer stage money."
+
+On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He saw
+Haylocks, and his expression suddenly grew cold and virtuous.
+
+"Mister," said the rural one. "I've heard of places in this here town
+where a fellow could have a good game of old sledge or peg a card at
+keno. I got $950 in this valise, and I come down from old Ulster to see
+the sights. Know where a fellow could get action on about $9 or $10? I'm
+goin' to have some sport, and then maybe I'll buy out a business of some
+kind."
+
+The steerer looked pained, and investigated a white speck on his left
+forefinger nail.
+
+"Cheese it, old man," he murmured, reproachfully. "The Central Office
+must be bughouse to send you out looking like such a gillie. You
+couldn't get within two blocks of a sidewalk crap game in them Tony
+Pastor props. The recent Mr. Scotty from Death Valley has got you beat
+a crosstown block in the way of Elizabethan scenery and mechanical
+accessories. Let it be skiddoo for yours. Nay, I know of no gilded halls
+where one may bet a patrol wagon on the ace."
+
+Rebuffed once again by the great city that is so swift to detect
+artificialities, Haylocks sat upon the curb and presented his thoughts
+to hold a conference.
+
+"It's my clothes," said he; "durned if it ain't. They think I'm a
+hayseed and won't have nothin' to do with me. Nobody never made fun of
+this hat in Ulster County. I guess if you want folks to notice you in
+New York you must dress up like they do."
+
+So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through their
+noses and rubbed their hands and ran the tape line ecstatically over the
+bulge in his inside pocket where reposed a red nubbin of corn with an
+even number of rows. And messengers bearing parcels and boxes streamed
+to his hotel on Broadway within the lights of Long Acre.
+
+At 9 o'clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom Ulster
+County would have foresworn. Bright tan were his shoes; his hat the
+latest block. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue
+silk handkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant English
+walking coat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond
+hair was trimmed close; the wisp of hay was gone.
+
+For an instant he stood, resplendent, with the leisurely air of a
+boulevardier concocting in his mind the route for his evening pleasures.
+And then he turned down the gay, bright street with the easy and
+graceful tread of a millionaire.
+
+But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in the
+city had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with gray
+eyes picked two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from the row
+of loungers in front of the hotel.
+
+"The juiciest jay I've seen in six months," said the man with gray eyes.
+"Come along."
+
+It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh
+Street Police Station with the story of his wrongs.
+
+"Nine hundred and fifty dollars," he gasped, "all my share of
+grandmother's farm."
+
+The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust
+Valley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the
+strong-arm gentlemen.
+
+When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was
+received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is
+decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown.
+
+"When I read the first line of 'The Doe and the Brook,'" said the
+editor, "I knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to
+heart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to that
+fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild, free
+child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and walk
+down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show."
+
+"Thanks," said Conant. "I suppose the check will be round on Thursday,
+as usual."
+
+The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your
+choice of "Stay on the Farm" or "Don't Write Poetry."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+THE ROBE OF PEACE
+
+
+Mysteries follow one another so closely in a great city that the reading
+public and the friends of Johnny Bellchambers have ceased to marvel
+at his sudden and unexplained disappearance nearly a year ago. This
+particular mystery has now been cleared up, but the solution is so
+strange and incredible to the mind of the average man that only a select
+few who were in close touch with Bellchambers will give it full
+credence.
+
+Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically
+inner circle of the _�lite_. Without any of the ostentation of the
+fashionable ones who endeavor to attract notice by eccentric display of
+wealth and show he still was _au fait_ in everything that gave deserved
+lustre to his high position in the ranks of society.
+
+Especially did he shine in the matter of dress. In this he was the
+despair of imitators. Always correct, exquisitely groomed, and possessed
+of an unlimited wardrobe, he was conceded to be the best-dressed man in
+New York, and, therefore, in America. There was not a tailor in Gotham
+who would not have deemed it a precious boon to have been granted the
+privilege of making Bellchambers' clothes without a cent of pay. As he
+wore them, they would have been a priceless advertisement. Trousers
+were his especial passion. Here nothing but perfection would he notice.
+He would have worn a patch as quickly as he would have overlooked a
+wrinkle. He kept a man in his apartments always busy pressing his ample
+supply. His friends said that three hours was the limit of time that he
+would wear these garments without exchanging.
+
+Bellchambers disappeared very suddenly. For three days his absence
+brought no alarm to his friends, and then they began to operate the
+usual methods of inquiry. All of them failed. He had left absolutely no
+trace behind. Then the search for a motive was instituted, but none was
+found. He had no enemies, he had no debts, there was no woman. There
+were several thousand dollars in his bank to his credit. He had never
+showed any tendency toward mental eccentricity; in fact, he was of a
+particularly calm and well-balanced temperament. Every means of tracing
+the vanished man was made use of, but without avail. It was one of those
+cases--more numerous in late years--where men seem to have gone out like
+the flame of a candle, leaving not even a trail of smoke as a witness.
+
+In May, Tom Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam, two of Bellchambers' old
+friends, went for a little run on the other side. While pottering around
+in Italy and Switzerland, they happened, one day, to hear of a monastery
+in the Swiss Alps that promised something outside of the ordinary
+tourist-beguiling attractions. The monastery was almost inaccessible to
+the average sightseer, being on an extremely rugged and precipitous spur
+of the mountains. The attractions it possessed but did not advertise
+were, first, an exclusive and divine cordial made by the monks that was
+said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse. Next a huge brass bell
+so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceased sounding since it
+was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it was asserted that no
+Englishman had ever set foot within its walls. Eyres and Gilliam decided
+that these three reports called for investigation.
+
+It took them two days with the aid of two guides to reach the monastery
+of St. Gondrau. It stood upon a frozen, wind-swept crag with the snow
+piled about it in treacherous, drifting masses. They were hospitably
+received by the brothers whose duty it was to entertain the infrequent
+guest. They drank of the precious cordial, finding it rarely potent and
+reviving. They listened to the great, ever-echoing bell, and learned
+that they were pioneer travelers, in those gray stone walls, over the
+Englishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly every corner of the
+earth.
+
+At three o'clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young Gothamites
+stood with good Brother Cristofer in the great, cold hallway of the
+monastery to watch the monks march past on their way to the refectory.
+They came slowly, pacing by twos, with their heads bowed, treading
+noiselessly with sandaled feet upon the rough stone flags. As the
+procession slowly filed past, Eyres suddenly gripped Gilliam by the arm.
+"Look," he whispered, eagerly, "at the one just opposite you now--the
+one on this side, with his hand at his waist--if that isn't Johnny
+Bellchambers then I never saw him!"
+
+Gilliam saw and recognized the lost glass of fashion.
+
+"What the deuce," said he, wonderingly, "is old Bell doing here? Tommy,
+it surely can't be he! Never heard of Bell having a turn for the
+religious. Fact is, I've heard him say things when a four-in-hand didn't
+seem to tie up just right that would bring him up for court-martial
+before any church."
+
+"It's Bell, without a doubt," said Eyres, firmly, "or I'm pretty badly
+in need of an oculist. But think of Johnny Bellchambers, the Royal High
+Chancellor of swell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here in cold
+storage doing penance in a snuff-colored bathrobe! I can't get it
+straight in my mind. Let's ask the jolly old boy that's doing the
+honors."
+
+Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the
+monks had passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one they
+referred. Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned their
+worldly names when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to speak
+with one of the brothers? If they would come to the refectory and
+indicate the one they wished to see, the reverend abbot in authority
+would, doubtless, permit it.
+
+Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother
+Cristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They
+saw his face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never
+looking up, eating broth from a coarse, brown bowl.
+
+Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two
+travelers by the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to
+come. When he did come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and
+Gilliam looked at him in perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny
+Bellchambers, but he had a different look. Upon his smooth-shaven face
+was an expression of ineffable peace, of rapturous attainment, of
+perfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly erect, his eyes
+shone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and well-groomed
+as in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now he
+seemed clothed in but a single garment--a long robe of rough brown
+cloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose
+folds nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old
+ease and grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that meeting
+it was not manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no seats;
+they stood to converse.
+
+"Glad to see you, old man," said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. "Wasn't
+expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all.
+Society's an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and
+retire to--er--contemplation and--er--prayer and hymns, and those
+things.
+
+"Oh, cut that, Tommy," said Bellchambers, cheerfully. "Don't be afraid
+that I'll pass around the plate. I go through these thing-um-bobs with
+the rest of these old boys because they are the rules. I'm Brother
+Ambrose here, you know. I'm given just ten minutes to talk to you
+fellows. That's rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn't it,
+Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?"
+
+"It's the same old Johnny," said Gilliam, joyfully. "What the devil--I
+mean why-- Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?"
+
+"Peel the bathrobe," pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, "and go back with
+us. The old crowd'll go wild to see you. This isn't in your line, Bell.
+I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you
+shook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a
+dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice
+factory. You'll get catarrh here, Johnny--and-- My God! you haven't any
+socks on!"
+
+Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled.
+
+"You fellows don't understand," he said, soothingly. "It's nice of you
+to want me to go back, but the old life will never know me again. I
+have reached here the goal of all my ambitions. I am entirely happy
+and contented. Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days. You
+see this robe that I wear?" Bellchambers caressingly touched the
+straight-hanging garment: "At last I have found something that will not
+bag at the knees. I have attained--"
+
+At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated
+through the monastery. It must have been a summons to immediate
+devotions, for Brother Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the
+chamber without another word. A slight wave of his hand as he passed
+through the stone doorway seemed to say a farewell to his old friends.
+They left the monastery without seeing him again.
+
+And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought back
+with them from their latest European tour.
+
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+
+
+The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is
+a conscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is
+the Western Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from
+speculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden
+toys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to a
+pulp.
+
+Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for
+a rest. He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the
+wilderness business is about as much rest and pleasure to him as sliding
+down the bumps at Coney would be to President Taft. "Give me," says
+Pogue, "a big city for my vacation. Especially New York. I'm not much
+fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the globe
+where I don't find any."
+
+While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places.
+One is a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads
+books about his hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at
+the other--his hall bedroom in Eighteenth Street--where he sat in his
+stocking feet trying to pluck "The Banks of the Wabash" out of a small
+zither. Four years he has practised this tune without arriving near
+enough to cast the longest trout line to the water's edge. On the
+dresser lay a blued-steel Colt's forty-five and a tight roll of tens and
+twenties large enough around to belong to the spring rattlesnake-story
+class. A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air fluttered nearby in the
+hall, unable to enter or to flee, scandalized by the stocking feet,
+aghast at the Colt's, yet powerless, with her metropolitan instincts,
+to remove herself beyond the magic influence of the yellow-hued roll.
+
+I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker
+or more candid in his conversation. Beside his expression the cry of
+Henry James for lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have
+seemed like a Chaldean cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession
+with pride, for he considered it an art. And I was curious enough to ask
+him whether he had known any women who followed it.
+
+"Ladies?" said Pogue, with Western chivalry. "Well, not to any great
+extent. They don't amount to much in special lines of graft, because
+they're all so busy in general lines. What? Why, they have to. Who's got
+the money in the world? The men. Did you ever know a man to give a woman
+a dollar without any consideration? A man will shell out his dust to
+another man free and easy and gratis. But if he drops a penny in one of
+the machines run by the Madam Eve's Daughters' Amalgamated Association
+and the pineapple chewing gum don't fall out when he pulls the lever you
+can hear him kick to the superintendent four blocks away. Man is the
+hardest proposition a woman has to go up against. He's the low-grade
+one, and she has to work overtime to make him pay. Two times out of
+five she's salted. She can't put in crushers and costly machinery. He'd
+notice 'em and be onto the game. They have to pan out what they get, and
+it hurts their tender hands. Some of 'em are natural sluice troughs and
+can carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones have to depend on
+signed letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo walk, cowhide whips,
+ability to cook, sentimental juries, conversational powers, silk
+underskirts, ancestry, rouge, anonymous letters, violet sachet powders,
+witnesses, revolvers, pneumatic forms, carbolic acid, moonlight, cold
+cream and the evening newspapers."
+
+"You are outrageous, Ferg," I said. "Surely there is none of this
+'graft' as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious matrimonial union!"
+
+"Well," said Pogue, "nothing that would justify you every time in
+calling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a
+vaudeville manager on a dead run. But it's this way: Suppose you're a
+Fifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and
+cappers.
+
+"You come home at night and bring a $9,000,000 diamond brooch to the
+lady who's staked you for a claim. You hand it over. She says, 'Oh,
+George!' and looks to see if it's backed. She comes up and kisses you.
+You've waited for it. You get it. All right. It's graft.
+
+"But I'm telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and she
+suggested corn in all of its phases. Her hair was as yellow as the silk;
+her form was as tall and graceful as a stalk in the low grounds during a
+wet summer; her eyes were as big and startling as bunions, and green was
+her favorite color.
+
+"On my last trip into the cool recesses of your sequestered city I met a
+human named Vaucross. He was worth--that is, he had a million. He told
+me he was in business on the street. 'A sidewalk merchant?' says I,
+sarcastic. 'Exactly,' says he, 'Senior partner of a paving concern.'
+
+"I kind of took to him. For this reason, I met him on Broadway one night
+when I was out of heart, luck, tobacco and place. He was all silk hat,
+diamonds and front. He was all front. If you had gone behind him you
+would have only looked yourself in the face. I looked like a cross
+between Count Tolstoy and a June lobster. I was out of luck. I had--but
+let me lay my eyes on that dealer again.
+
+"Vaucross stopped and talked to me a few minutes and then he took me to
+a high-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then some
+Beethoven, and Bordelaise sauce, and cussing in French, and frangipangi,
+and some hauteur and cigarettes. When I am flush I know them places.
+
+"I declare, I must have looked as bad as a magazine artist sitting there
+without any money and my hair all rumpled like I was booked to read a
+chapter from 'Elsie's School Days' at a Brooklyn Bohemian smoker. But
+Vaucross treated me like a bear hunter's guide. He wasn't afraid of
+hurting the waiter's feelings.
+
+"'Mr. Pogue,' he explains to me, 'I am using you.'
+
+"'Go on,' says I; 'I hope you don't wake up.'
+
+"And then he tells me, you know, the kind of man he was. He was a
+New Yorker. His whole ambition was to be noticed. He wanted to be
+conspicuous. He wanted people to point him out and bow to him, and tell
+others who he was. He said it had been the desire of his life always. He
+didn't have but a million, so he couldn't attract attention by spending
+money. He said he tried to get into public notice one time by planting
+a little public square on the east side with garlic for free use of
+the poor; but Carnegie heard of it, and covered it over at once with a
+library in the Gaelic language. Three times he had jumped in the way of
+automobiles; but the only result was five broken ribs and a notice in
+the papers that an unknown man, five feet ten, with four amalgam-filled
+teeth, supposed to be the last of the famous Red Leary gang had been run
+over.
+
+"'Ever try the reporters,' I asked him.
+
+"'Last month,' says Mr. Vaucross, 'my expenditure for lunches to
+reporters was $124.80.'
+
+"'Get anything out of that?' I asks.
+
+"'That reminds me,' says he; 'add $8.50 for pepsin. Yes, I got
+indigestion.'
+
+"'How am I supposed to push along your scramble for prominence?' I
+inquires. 'Contrast?'
+
+"'Something of that sort to-night,' says Vaucross. 'It grieves me; but
+I am forced to resort to eccentricity.' And here he drops his napkin in
+his soup and rises up and bows to a gent who is devastating a potato
+under a palm across the room.
+
+"'The Police Commissioner,' says my climber, gratified. 'Friend', says
+I, in a hurry, 'have ambitions but don't kick a rung out of your ladder.
+When you use me as a stepping stone to salute the police you spoil my
+appetite on the grounds that I may be degraded and incriminated. Be
+thoughtful.'
+
+"At the Quaker City squab en casserole the idea about Artemisia Blye
+comes to me.
+
+"'Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,' says I--'a column or
+two every day in all of 'em and your picture in most of 'em for a week.
+How much would it be worth to you?'
+
+"'Ten thousand dollars,' says Vaucross, warm in a minute. 'But no
+murder,' says he; 'and I won't wear pink pants at a cotillon.'
+
+"'I wouldn't ask you to,' says I. 'This is honorable, stylish and
+uneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and some other
+beans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.'
+
+"We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I
+telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple
+of photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth
+Presbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and $80.
+She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior and a
+valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage book
+and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.
+
+"The fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all d�collet�e
+and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to dinner in one of
+these New York feminine apartment houses where a man can't get in unless
+he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder cigarettes.
+
+"'She's a stunner,' says Vaucross when he saw her. 'They'll give her a
+two-column cut sure.'
+
+"This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business straight
+through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and display
+and emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to nothing as
+far as his ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a white tie
+and patent leather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large end of
+a cornucopia to purchase nutriment and heartsease for tall, willowy
+blondes in New York is as common a sight as blue turtles in delirium
+tremens. But he was to write her love letters--the worst kind of love
+letters, such as your wife publishes after you are dead--every day. At
+the end of the month he was to drop her, and she would bring suit for
+$100,000 for breach of promise.
+
+"Miss Artemisia was to get $10,000. If she won the suit that was all;
+and if she lost she was to get it anyhow. There was a signed contract to
+that effect.
+
+"Sometimes they had me out with 'em, but not often. I couldn't keep up
+to their style. She used to pull out his notes and criticize them like
+bills of lading.
+
+"'Say, you!' she'd say. 'What do you call this--letter to a Hardware
+Merchant from His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash? You
+Eastern duffers know as much about writing love letters as a Kansas
+grasshopper does about tugboats. "My dear Miss Blye!"--wouldn't that put
+pink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake? How long do
+you expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?
+You want to get down to business, and call me "Tweedlums Babe" and
+"Honeysuckle," and sign yourself "Mama's Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy" if
+you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs. Get
+sappy.'
+
+"After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His
+notes read like something or other in the original. I could see a jury
+sitting up, and women tearing one another's hats to hear 'em read. And I
+could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop
+Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever enjoyed. He
+seemed mighty pleased at the prospects.
+
+"They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn
+restaurant and watched 'em. A process-server walked in and handed
+Vaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at 'em; and he
+looked as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent
+cigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.
+
+"About two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood Vaucross
+and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging--yes, sir, clinging--to his
+arm. And they tells me they'd been out and got married. And they
+articulated some trivial cadences about love and such. And they laid
+down a bundle on the table and said 'Good night' and left.
+
+"And that's why I say," concluded Ferguson Pogue, "that a woman is too
+busy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft such as is
+given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great success
+in special lines."
+
+"What was in the bundle that they left?" I asked, with my usual
+curiosity.
+
+"Why," said Ferguson, "there was a scalper's railroad ticket as far as
+Kansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross's old pants."
+
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+THE CALL OF THE TAME
+
+
+When the inauguration was accomplished--the proceedings were made smooth
+by the presence of the Rough Riders--it is well known that a herd of
+those competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The
+newspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats
+and leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed
+with the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the
+wonderful plural "tenderfeet" in each of the scribe's stories. The
+Westerners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third
+story, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel
+corridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of Ye
+Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from his
+valet.
+
+Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy's Gentlemen of
+the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz.
+
+The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue's rush hour swept him away from the
+company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts
+filled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky
+deafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes
+confused his vision.
+
+The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier's first impulse
+was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the
+disturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with
+a grin into a doorway.
+
+The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West
+was not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their
+eyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the
+bright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar,
+pattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters
+on the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the
+out-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of
+the half-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the
+circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest
+sun of Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that
+unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they were
+being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity
+of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have not
+intruded upon him nearer than a day's ride--these brands of the West
+were set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat,
+gentle reader--just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail
+carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.
+
+Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan
+cattle, seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him
+a buffet upon his collar-bone that sent him reeling against a wall.
+
+The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who
+has suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But
+he looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration
+of love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its
+friends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its
+enemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the
+welcoming bullet demands.
+
+"God in the mountains!" cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg of
+his cull. "Can this be Longhorn Merritt?"
+
+The other man was--oh, look on Broadway any day for the
+pattern--business man--latest rolled-brim derby--good barber, business,
+digestion and tailor.
+
+"Greenbrier Nye!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten him.
+"My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to--oh, to be
+sure--the inaugural ceremonies--I remember you joined the Rough Riders.
+You must come and have luncheon with me, of course."
+
+Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the size,
+shape and color of a McClellan saddle.
+
+"Longy," he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic, "what
+have they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen. They done made
+you into an inmate of the city directory. You never made no such Johnny
+Branch execration of yourself as that out on the Gila. 'Come and have
+lunching with me!' You never defined grub by any such terms of reproach
+in them days."
+
+"I've been living in New York seven years," said Merritt. "It's been
+eight since we punched cows together in Old Man Garcia's outfit. Well,
+let's go to a caf�, anyhow. It sounds good to hear it called 'grub'
+again."
+
+They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by
+a natural law, to the bar.
+
+"Speak up," invited Greenbrier.
+
+"A dry Martini," said Merritt.
+
+"Oh, Lord!" cried Greenbrier; "and yet me and you once saw the same pink
+Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in Ca�on Diablo! A
+dry--but let that pass. Whiskey straight--and they're on you."
+
+Merritt smiled, and paid.
+
+They lunched in a small extension of the dining room that connected with
+the caf�. Merritt dexterously diverted his friend's choice, that hovered
+over ham and eggs, to a pur�e of celery, a salmon cutlet, a partridge
+pie and a desirable salad.
+
+"On the day," said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, "when I can't
+hold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I ain't seen in
+eight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o'clock on the
+third day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me forty times over a
+640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?"
+
+"Right, old man," laughed Merritt. "Waiter, bring an absinthe frapp�
+and--what's yours, Greenbrier?"
+
+"Whiskey straight," mourned Nye. "Out of the neck of a bottle you used
+to take it, Longy--straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping
+pony--Arizona redeye, not this ab--oh, what's the use? They're on you."
+
+Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass.
+
+"All right. I suppose you think I'm spoiled by the city. I'm as good a
+Westerner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can't make up my mind
+to go back out there. New York is comfortable--comfortable. I make a
+good living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in
+snowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months
+for me. I reckon I'll hang out here in the future. We'll take in the
+theatre to-night, Greenbrier, and after that we'll dine at--"
+
+"I'll tell you what you are, Merritt," said Greenbrier, laying one elbow
+in his salad and the other in his butter. "You are a concentrated,
+effete, unconditional, short-sleeved, gotch-eared Miss Sally Walker. God
+made you perpendicular and suitable to ride straddle and use cuss words
+in the original. Wherefore you have suffered his handiwork to elapse
+by removing yourself to New York and putting on little shoes tied with
+strings, and making faces when you talk. I've seen you rope and tie a
+steer in 42 1/2. If you was to see one now you'd write to the Police
+Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks that you inoculate
+your system with--these little essences of cowslip with acorns in 'em,
+and paregoric flip--they ain't anyways in assent with the cordiality of
+manhood. I hate to see you this way."
+
+"Well, Mr. Greenbrier," said Merritt, with apology in his tone, "in a
+way you are right. Sometimes I do feel like I was being raised on the
+bottle. But, I tell you, New York is comfortable--comfortable. There's
+something about it--the sights and the crowds, and the way it changes
+every day, and the very air of it that seems to tie a one-mile-long
+stake rope around a man's neck, with the other end fastened somewhere
+about Thirty-fourth Street. I don't know what it is."
+
+"God knows," said Greenbrier sadly, "and I know. The East has gobbled
+you up. You was venison, and now you're veal. You put me in mind of a
+japonica in a window. You've been signed, sealed and diskivered.
+Requiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty."
+
+"A green chartreuse here," said Merritt to the waiter.
+
+"Whiskey straight," sighed Greenbrier, "and they're on you, you renegade
+of the round-ups."
+
+"Guilty, with an application for mercy," said Merritt. "You don't know
+how it is, Greenbrier. It's so comfortable here that--"
+
+"Please loan me your smelling salts," pleaded Greenbrier. "If I hadn't
+seen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an empty gun
+in Phoenix--"
+
+Greenbrier's voice died away in pure grief.
+
+"Cigars!" he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion.
+
+"A pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine," said Merritt.
+
+"They're on you," chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal his
+contempt.
+
+At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column.
+
+That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o'er
+fair women and br--let it go, anyhow--brave men. The orchestra played
+charmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a
+waiter when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you
+contributed to it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity.
+
+Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old
+friend, and he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail.
+
+"I take the horehound tea," said Greenbrier, "for old times' sake. But
+I'd prefer whiskey straight. They're on you."
+
+"Right!" said Merritt. "Now, run your eye down that bill of fare and see
+if it seems to hitch on any of these items."
+
+"Lay me on my lava bed!" said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. "All these
+specimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What's this? Horse with the
+heaves? I pass. But look along! Here's truck for twenty round-ups all
+spelled out in different directions. Wait till I see."
+
+The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list.
+
+"This Medoc isn't bad," he suggested.
+
+"You're the doc," said Greenbrier. "I'd rather have whiskey straight.
+It's on you."
+
+Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took
+dishes away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd
+enjoying itself.
+
+"How was the range when you left the Gila?" asked Merritt.
+
+"Fine," said Greenbrier. "You see that lady in the red speckled silk at
+that table. Well, she could warm over her beans at my campfire. Yes, the
+range was good. She looks as nice as a white mustang I see once on Black
+River."
+
+When the coffee came, Greenbrier put one foot on the seat of the chair
+next to him.
+
+"You said it was a comfortable town, Longy," he said, meditatively.
+"Yes, it's a comfortable town. It's different from the plains in a blue
+norther. What did you call that mess in the crock with the handle,
+Longy? Oh, yes, squabs in a cash roll. They're worth the roll. That
+white mustang had just such a way of turning his head and shaking his
+mane--look at her, Longy. If I thought I could sell out my ranch at a
+fair price, I believe I'd--
+
+"Gyar--song!" he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed every knife
+and fork in the restaurant.
+
+The waiter dived toward the table.
+
+"Two more of them cocktail drinks," ordered Greenbrier.
+
+Merritt looked at him and smiled significantly.
+
+"They're on me," said Greenbrier, blowing a puff of smoke to the
+ceiling.
+
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+
+
+The poet Longfellow--or was it Confucius, the inventor of
+wisdom?--remarked:
+
+ "Life is real, life is earnest;
+  And things are not what they seem."
+
+As mathematics are--or is: thanks, old subscriber!--the only just rule
+by which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means,
+adjust our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the
+great goddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures--unassailable sums in
+addition--shall be set over against whatever opposing element there
+may be.
+
+A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would
+say: "Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus--that is, that
+life is real--then things (all of which life includes) are real.
+Anything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the
+proposition that 'things are not what they seem,' why--"
+
+But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we
+would conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued,
+satisfying, mysterious X.
+
+Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an
+old New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that bread
+is made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flour
+crop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no perceptible
+effect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the flour market.
+
+The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never
+had to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought a
+five-cent loaf of bread you laid down an additional two cents, which
+went to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity.
+
+A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000
+prof--er--rake-off.
+
+Mr. Kinsolving's son Dan was at college when the mathematical experiment
+in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found the
+old gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading "Little Dorrit" on the
+porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He had
+retired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from bread
+buyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the earth
+and lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay.
+
+Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village
+to see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired
+Kenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical,
+studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of oligarchies.
+Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning watch-making in his
+father's jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial, easy-tempered and
+tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two foregathered joyously,
+being opposites. And then Dan went back to college, and Kenwitz to his
+mainsprings--and to his private library in the rear of the jewelry shop.
+
+Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the
+accumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took a
+filial look at Septimus Kinsolving's elaborate tombstone in Greenwood
+and a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the family
+lawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire,
+hurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue.
+
+Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parent
+from a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches for
+outdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington
+Square. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity
+that was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more
+intense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic.
+
+"I know about it now," said Dan, finally. "I pumped it out of the
+eminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad's collections
+of bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that
+he squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of
+bread at little bakeries around the corner. You've studied economics,
+Dan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses,
+and the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those things
+before. Football and trying to be white to my fellow-man were about the
+extent of my college curriculum.
+
+"But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I've been
+thinking. I'd like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to give
+up too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income
+for a good many yards; but I'd like to make it square with 'em. Is there
+any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?"
+
+Kenwitz's big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face
+took on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan's arm with the grip of a
+friend and a judge.
+
+"You can't do it!" he said, emphatically. "One of the chief punishments
+of you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find that
+you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I admire
+your good intentions, Dan, but you can't do anything. Those people were
+robbed of their precious pennies. It's too late to remedy the evil. You
+can't pay them back"
+
+"Of course," said Dan, lighting his pipe, "we couldn't hunt up every one
+of the duffers and hand 'em back the right change. There's an awful lot
+of 'em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have--I never cared
+for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the Roquefort.
+But we might find a few of 'em and chuck some of dad's cash back where
+it came from. I'd feel better if I could. It seems tough for people to be
+held up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn't mind standing a rise
+in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and think, Ken. I want
+to pay back all of that money I can."
+
+"There are plenty of charities," said Kenwitz, mechanically.
+
+"Easy enough," said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. "I suppose I could give
+the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don't
+want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold Peter.
+It's the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken."
+
+The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.
+
+"Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of
+consumers during that corner in flour?" he asked.
+
+"I do not." said Dan, stoutly. "My lawyer tells me that I have two
+millions."
+
+"If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn't
+repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You cannot
+conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.
+Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a
+thousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how
+hopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance
+can it be done."
+
+"Back up, philosopher!" said Dan. "The penny has no sorrow that the
+dollar cannot heal."
+
+"Not in one instance," repeated Kenwitz. "I will give you one, and let
+us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.
+He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he
+had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,
+Boyne's business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital--all he had in
+the world."
+
+Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
+
+"I accept the instance," he cried. "Take me to Boyne. I will repay his
+thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery."
+
+"Write your check," said Kenwitz, without moving, "and then begin to
+write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one
+for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the
+building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to
+that much. Boyne died in an asylum."
+
+"Stick to the instance," said Dan. "I haven't noticed any insurance
+companies on my charity list."
+
+"Draw your next check for $100,000," went on Kenwitz. "Boyne's son fell
+into bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He was
+acquitted last week after a three years' legal battle, and the state
+draws upon taxpayers for that much expense."
+
+"Back to the bakery!" exclaimed Dan, impatiently. "The Government
+doesn't need to stand in the bread line."
+
+"The last item of the instance is--come and I will show you," said
+Kenwitz, rising.
+
+The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by
+nature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath
+that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch
+needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.
+
+He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,
+poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid brick
+tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked on a
+door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.
+
+In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She
+nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of
+sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color
+of an ancient Tuscan's shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz
+and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.
+
+Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in
+heart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last
+item of the Instance.
+
+"How many this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker. A mountain of
+coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
+
+"Nearly thirty dozen," said the young woman cheerfully. "I've made
+almost $4. I'm improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so
+much money." Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A
+little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
+
+Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
+
+"Miss Boyne," he said, "let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the
+man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do
+something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act."
+
+The smile left the young woman's face. She rose and pointed her
+forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in
+the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
+
+The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism
+and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the
+moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to
+be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him
+warmly.
+
+"I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely--"a thousand times
+obliged."
+
+"Mein Gott! you are crazy!" cried the watchmaker, dropping his
+spectacles for the first time in years.
+
+Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway
+with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the
+proprietor.
+
+A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
+
+"These loaves are ten cents," said the clerk.
+
+"I always get them at eight cents uptown," said the lady. "You need not
+fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home."
+
+The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.
+
+"Mr. Kenwitz!" cried the lady, heartily. "How do you do?"
+
+Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension
+on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
+
+"Why, Miss Boyne!" he began.
+
+"Mrs. Kinsolving," she corrected. "Dan and I were married a month ago."
+
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+THE THING'S THE PLAY
+
+
+Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free
+passes, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the
+popular vaudeville houses.
+
+One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much
+past forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a
+taste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I
+regarded the man.
+
+"There was a story about that chap a month or two ago," said the
+reporter. "They gave me the assignment. It was to run a column and was
+to be on the extremely light and joking order. The old man seems to like
+the funny touch I give to local happenings. Oh, yes, I'm working on
+a farce comedy now. Well, I went down to the house and got all the
+details; but I certainly fell down on that job. I went back and turned
+in a comic write-up of an east side funeral instead. Why? Oh, I couldn't
+seem to get hold of it with my funny hooks, somehow. Maybe you could
+make a one-act tragedy out of it for a curtain-raiser. I'll give you the
+details."
+
+After the performance my friend, the reporter, recited to me the facts
+over the W�rzburger.
+
+"I see no reason," said I, when he had concluded, "why that shouldn't
+make a rattling good funny story. Those three people couldn't have acted
+in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had been real actors in
+a real theatre. I'm really afraid that all the stage is a world, anyhow,
+and all the players men and women. 'The thing's the play,' is the way I
+quote Mr. Shakespeare."
+
+"Try it," said the reporter.
+
+"I will," said I; and I did, to show him how he could have made a
+humorous column of it for his paper.
+
+
+There stands a house near Abingdon Square. On the ground floor there has
+been for twenty-five years a little store where toys and notions and
+stationery are sold.
+
+One night twenty years ago there was a wedding in the rooms above the
+store. The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen was
+married to Frank Barry. John Delaney was best man. Helen was eighteen,
+and her picture had been printed in a morning paper next to the
+headlines of a "Wholesale Female Murderess" story from Butte, Mont. But
+after your eye and intelligence had rejected the connection, you seized
+your magnifying glass and read beneath the portrait her description as
+one of a series of Prominent Beauties and Belles of the lower west side.
+
+Frank Barry and John Delaney were "prominent" young beaux of the same
+side, and bosom friends, whom you expected to turn upon each other every
+time the curtain went up. One who pays his money for orchestra seats and
+fiction expects this. That is the first funny idea that has turned up in
+the story yet. Both had made a great race for Helen's hand. When Frank
+won, John shook his hand and congratulated him--honestly, he did.
+
+After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was
+getting married in a traveling dress. She and Frank were going to Old
+Point Comfort for a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering
+cave-dwellers were waiting with their hands full of old Congress gaiters
+and paper bags of hominy.
+
+Then there was a rattle of the fire-escape, and into her room jumps the
+mad and infatuated John Delaney, with a damp curl drooping upon his
+forehead, and made violent and reprehensible love to his lost one,
+entreating her to flee or fly with him to the Riviera, or the Bronx, or
+any old place where there are Italian skies and _dolce far niente_.
+
+It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him. With
+blazing and scornful eyes she fairly withered him by demanding whatever
+he meant by speaking to respectable people that way.
+
+In a few moments she had him going. The manliness that had possessed him
+departed. He bowed low, and said something about "irresistible impulse"
+and "forever carry in his heart the memory of"--and she suggested that
+he catch the first fire-escape going down.
+
+"I will away," said John Delaney, "to the furthermost parts of the
+earth. I cannot remain near you and know that you are another's. I will
+to Africa, and there amid other scenes strive to for--"
+
+"For goodness sake, get out," said Helen. "Somebody might come in."
+
+He knelt upon one knee, and she extended him one white hand that he
+might give it a farewell kiss.
+
+Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever
+vouchsafed you--to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the
+one you don't want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to
+you and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall
+forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to
+feel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky
+one, broken-hearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself
+as he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are well
+manicured--say, girls, it's galluptious--don't ever let it get by you.
+
+And then, of course--how did you guess it?--the door opened and in
+stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.
+
+The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen's hand, and out of the window
+and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.
+
+A little slow music, if you please--faint violin, just a breath in the
+clarinet and a touch of the 'cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot,
+with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing
+and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears
+them from his shoulders--once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and
+that--the stage manager will show you how--and throws her from him to
+the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he
+look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring
+groups of astonished guests.
+
+And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must
+stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray,
+rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which
+must precede the rising of the curtain again.
+
+Mrs. Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could
+have bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and
+general results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but
+she made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth balls,
+nor did she sell it to a magazine.
+
+One day a middle-aged money-making lawyer, who bought his legal cap and
+ink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him.
+
+"I'm really much obliged to you," said Helen, cheerfully, "but I married
+another man twenty years ago. He was more a goose than a man, but I
+think I love him yet. I have never seen him since about half an hour
+after the ceremony. Was it copying ink that you wanted or just writing
+fluid?"
+
+The lawyer bowed over the counter with old-time grace and left a
+respectful kiss on the back of her hand. Helen sighed. Parting salutes,
+however romantic, may be overdone. Here she was at thirty-eight,
+beautiful and admired; and all that she seemed to have got from her
+lovers were approaches and adieus. Worse still, in the last one she had
+lost a customer, too.
+
+Business languished, and she hung out a Room to Let card. Two large
+rooms on the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers
+came, and went regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode
+of neatness, comfort and taste.
+
+One day came Ramonti, the violinist, and engaged the front room above.
+The discord and clatter uptown offended his nice ear; so a friend had
+sent him to this oasis in the desert of noise.
+
+Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short,
+pointed, foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and
+his artist's temperament--revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic
+manner--was a welcome tenant in the old house near Abingdon Square.
+
+Helen lived on the floor above the store. The architecture of it was
+singular and quaint. The hall was large and almost square. Up one side
+of it, and then across the end of it ascended an open stairway to the
+floor above. This hall space she had furnished as a sitting room and
+office combined. There she kept her desk and wrote her business letters;
+and there she sat of evenings by a warm fire and a bright red light and
+sewed or read. Ramonti found the atmosphere so agreeable that he spent
+much time there, describing to Mrs. Barry the wonders of Paris, where he
+had studied with a particularly notorious and noisy fiddler.
+
+Next comes lodger No. 2, a handsome, melancholy man in the early 40's,
+with a brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes.
+He, too, found the society of Helen a desirable thing. With the eyes of
+Romeo and Othello's tongue, he charmed her with tales of distant climes
+and wooed her by respectful innuendo.
+
+From the first Helen felt a marvelous and compelling thrill in the
+presence of this man. His voice somehow took her swiftly back to the
+days of her youth's romance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to
+it, and it led her to an instinctive belief that he had been a factor
+in that romance. And then with a woman's reasoning (oh, yes, they do,
+sometimes) she leaped over common syllogisms and theory, and logic, and
+was sure that her husband had come back to her. For she saw in his eyes
+love, which no woman can mistake, and a thousand tons of regret and
+remorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously near to love requited,
+which is the _sine qua non_ in the house that Jack built.
+
+But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twenty
+years and then drops in again should not expect to find his slippers
+laid out too conveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar.
+There must be expiation, explanation, and possibly execration. A little
+purgatory, and then, maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be
+trusted with a harp and crown. And so she made no sign that she knew or
+suspected.
+
+And my friend, the reporter, could see nothing funny in this! Sent out
+on an assignment to write up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing
+story of--but I will not knock a brother--let us go on with the story.
+
+One evening Ramonti stopped in Helen's hall-office-reception-room and
+told his love with the tenderness and ardor of the enraptured artist.
+His words were a bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the heart
+of a man who is a dreamer and doer combined.
+
+"But before you give me an answer," he went on, before she could accuse
+him of suddenness, "I must tell you that 'Ramonti' is the only name I
+have to offer you. My manager gave me that. I do not know who I am or
+where I came from. My first recollection is of opening my eyes in a
+hospital. I was a young man, and I had been there for weeks. My life
+before that is a blank to me. They told me that I was found lying in the
+street with a wound on my head and was brought there in an ambulance.
+They thought I must have fallen and struck my head upon the stones.
+There was nothing to show who I was. I have never been able to remember.
+After I was discharged from the hospital, I took up the violin. I have
+had success. Mrs. Barry--I do not know your name except that--I love
+you; the first time I saw you I realized that you were the one woman in
+the world for me--and"--oh, a lot of stuff like that.
+
+Helen felt young again. First a wave of pride and a sweet little thrill
+of vanity went all over her; and then she looked Ramonti in the eyes,
+and a tremendous throb went through her heart. She hadn't expected that
+throb. It took her by surprise. The musician had become a big factor in
+her life, and she hadn't been aware of it.
+
+"Mr. Ramonti," she said sorrowfully (this was not on the stage,
+remember; it was in the old home near Abingdon Square), "I'm awfully
+sorry, but I'm a married woman."
+
+And then she told him the sad story of her life, as a heroine must do,
+sooner or later, either to a theatrical manager or to a reporter.
+
+Ramonti took her hand, bowed low and kissed it, and went up to his room.
+
+Helen sat down and looked mournfully at her hand. Well she might. Three
+suitors had kissed it, mounted their red roan steeds and ridden away.
+
+In an hour entered the mysterious stranger with the haunting eyes. Helen
+was in the willow rocker, knitting a useless thing in cotton-wool. He
+ricocheted from the stairs and stopped for a chat. Sitting across the
+table from her, he also poured out his narrative of love. And then he
+said: "Helen, do you not remember me? I think I have seen it in your
+eyes. Can you forgive the past and remember the love that has lasted
+for twenty years? I wronged you deeply--I was afraid to come back to
+you--but my love overpowered my reason. Can you, will you, forgive me?"
+
+Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a
+strong and trembling clasp.
+
+There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene
+like that and her emotions to portray.
+
+For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal
+love for her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory
+of her first choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure
+feeling. Honor and faith and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it. But
+the other half of her heart and soul was filled with something else--a
+later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against the new.
+
+And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,
+petitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the
+noblest. The daws may peck upon one's sleeve without injury, but whoever
+wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the neck.
+
+This music and the musician called her, and at her side honor and the
+old love held her back.
+
+"Forgive me," he pleaded.
+
+"Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you
+love," she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
+
+"How could I tell?" he begged. "I will conceal nothing from you. That
+night when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark
+street I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had
+struck a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and
+jealousy. I hid near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although you
+married him, Helen--"
+
+"_Who Are You?_" cried the woman, with wide-open eyes, snatching her
+hand away.
+
+"Don't you remember me, Helen--the one who has always loved you best? I
+am John Delaney. If you can forgive--"
+
+But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs
+toward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for
+his in each of his two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed,
+cried and sang: "Frank! Frank! Frank!"
+
+Three mortals thus juggling with years as though they were billiard
+balls, and my friend, the reporter, couldn't see anything funny in it!
+
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+
+
+My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She
+left her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she
+plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of
+woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I had
+no cold. Next came her kiss of parting--the level kiss of domesticity
+flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the extemporaneous,
+of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft touch of long
+malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf pin; and then, as I
+closed the door, I heard her morning slippers pattering back to her
+cooling tea.
+
+When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur.
+The attack came suddenly.
+
+For many weeks I had been toiling, almost night and day, at a famous
+railroad law case that I won triumphantly but a few days previously. In
+fact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for
+many years. Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician,
+had warned me.
+
+"If you don't slacken up, Bellford," he said, "you'll go suddenly to
+pieces. Either your nerves or your brain will give way. Tell me,
+does a week pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of
+aphasia--of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his
+identity blotted out--and all from that little brain clot made by
+overwork or worry?"
+
+"I always thought," said I, "that the clot in those instances was really
+to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters."
+
+Doctor Volney shook his head.
+
+"The disease exists," he said. "You need a change or a rest. Court-room,
+office and home--there is the only route you travel. For recreation
+you--read law books. Better take warning in time."
+
+"On Thursday nights," I said, defensively, "my wife and I play cribbage.
+On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. That law
+books are not a recreation remains yet to be established."
+
+That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I was
+feeling as well as I usually did--possibly in better spirits than usual.
+
+
+I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the
+incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and
+tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: "I must have a name
+of some sort." I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a
+paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly
+$3,000 in bills of large denomination. "I must be some one, of course,"
+I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.
+
+The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must
+have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed
+in the best good humor and spirits. One of them--a stout, spectacled
+gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes--took the
+vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper.
+In the intervals between his periods of reading, we conversed, as
+travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the
+conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and
+by my companion said:
+
+"You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this
+time. I'm glad they held the convention in New York; I've never been
+East before. My name's R. P. Bolder--Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove,
+Missouri."
+
+Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it.
+Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent.
+My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of
+drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper,
+where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.
+
+"My name," said I, glibly, "is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and
+my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas."
+
+"I knew you were a druggist," said my fellow traveler, affably. "I saw
+the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle
+rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention."
+
+"Are all these men druggists?" I asked, wonderingly.
+
+"They are. This car came through from the West. And they're your
+old-time druggists, too--none of your patent tablet-and-granule
+pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk.
+We percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain't
+above handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side
+line of confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I've got an idea
+to spring on this convention--new ideas is what they want. Now, you
+know the shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot.
+Tart. and Sod. et Pot. Tart.--one's poison, you know, and the other's
+harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do
+druggists mostly keep 'em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different
+shelves. That's wrong. I say keep 'em side by side, so when you want
+one you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you
+catch the idea?"
+
+"It seems to me a very good one," I said.
+
+"All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We'll
+make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream professors
+that think they're the only lozenges in the market look like hypodermic
+tablets."
+
+"If I can be of any aid," I said, warming, "the two bottles of--er--"
+
+"Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash."
+
+"Shall henceforth sit side by side," I concluded, firmly.
+
+"Now, there's another thing," said Mr. Bolder. "For an excipient in
+manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer--the magnesia carbonate or
+the pulverised glycerrhiza radix?"
+
+"The--er--magnesia," I said. It was easier to say than the other word.
+
+Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
+
+"Give me the glycerrhiza," said he. "Magnesia cakes."
+
+"Here's another one of these fake aphasia cases," he said, presently,
+handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. "I
+don't believe in 'em. I put nine out of ten of 'em down as frauds. A man
+gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time.
+He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost
+his memory--don't know his own name, and won't even recognize the
+strawberry mark on his wife's left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why can't
+they stay at home and forget?"
+
+I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:
+
+
+   "DENVER, June 12.--Elwyn C. Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is
+   mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all
+   efforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known
+   citizen of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and
+   lucrative law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the
+   most extensive private library in the State. On the day of his
+   disappearance, he drew quite a large sum of money from his bank. No
+   one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford
+   was a man of singularly quiet and domestic tastes, and seemed to
+   find his happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at all
+   exists to his strange disappearance, it may be found in the fact
+   that for some months he has been deeply absorbed in an important
+   law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z. Railroad Company. It
+   is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort
+   is being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man."
+
+
+"It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder," I said,
+after I had read the despatch. "This has the sound, to me, of a genuine
+case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected,
+choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of
+memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name,
+a history or a home."
+
+"Oh, gammon and jalap!" said Mr. Bolder. "It's larks they're after.
+There's too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they
+use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it's all over they
+look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: 'He
+hypnotized me.'"
+
+Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and
+philosophy.
+
+We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel,
+and I wrote my name "Edward Pinkhammer" in the register. As I did so
+I felt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy--a sense of
+unlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born into
+the world. The old fetters--whatever they had been--were stricken from
+my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an
+infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man's
+learning and experience.
+
+I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no
+baggage.
+
+"The Druggists' Convention," I said. "My trunk has somehow failed to
+arrive." I drew out a roll of money.
+
+"Ah!" said he, showing an auriferous tooth, "we have quite a number of
+the Western delegates stopping here." He struck a bell for the boy.
+
+I endeavored to give color to my r�le.
+
+"There is an important movement on foot among us Westerners," I said,
+"in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles
+containing the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of
+sodium and potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf."
+
+"Gentleman to three-fourteen," said the clerk, hastily. I was whisked
+away to my room.
+
+The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life
+of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve
+problems of the past.
+
+It was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up to
+my lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to him
+who is able to bear them. You must be either the city's guest or its
+victim.
+
+The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet
+counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having
+come upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat
+entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens,
+that transported one into strange and delightful lands full of
+frolicsome music, pretty girls and grotesque drolly extravagant parodies
+upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will, bound by
+no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird cabarets, at
+weirder _tables d'h�te_ to the sound of Hungarian music and the wild
+shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or, again, where the night
+life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic picture, and the
+millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they adorn,
+and the men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the
+spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that I have mentioned I
+learned one thing that I never knew before. And that is that the key to
+liberty is not in the hands of License, but Convention holds it. Comity
+has a toll-gate at which you must pay, or you may not enter the land
+of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming disorder, the parade, the
+abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail. Therefore,
+in Manhattan you must obey these unwritten laws, and then you will be
+freest of the free. If you decline to be bound by them, you put on
+shackles.
+
+Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly
+murmuring palm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate
+restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in
+steamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks
+and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there
+was always Broadway--glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable
+Broadway--growing upon one like an opium habit.
+
+One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a
+black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed
+around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.
+
+"Hello, Bellford!" he cried, loudly. "What the deuce are you doing in
+New York? Didn't know anything could drag you away from that old book
+den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,
+eh?"
+
+"You have made a mistake, sir," I said, coldly, releasing my hand from
+his grasp. "My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me."
+
+The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the
+clerk's desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about
+telegraph blanks.
+
+"You will give me my bill," I said to the clerk, "and have my baggage
+brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed
+by confidence men."
+
+I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on
+lower Fifth Avenue.
+
+There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be
+served almost _al fresco_ in a tropic array of screening flora. Quiet
+and luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to take
+luncheon or refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way to a
+table among the ferns when I felt my sleeve caught.
+
+"Mr. Bellford!" exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.
+
+I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone--a lady of about thirty,
+with exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been
+her very dear friend.
+
+"You were about to pass me," she said, accusingly. "Don't tell me you
+do not know me. Why should we not shake hands--at least once in fifteen
+years?"
+
+I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the
+table. I summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was
+philandering with an orange ice. I ordered a _cr�me de menthe_. Her hair
+was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you could not look
+away from her eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are conscious of
+sunset while you look into the profundities of a wood at twilight.
+
+"Are you sure you know me?" I asked.
+
+"No," she said, smiling. "I was never sure of that."
+
+"What would you think," I said, a little anxiously, "if I were to tell
+you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas?"
+
+"What would I think?" she repeated, with a merry glance. "Why, that you
+had not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I do wish
+you had. I would have liked to see Marian." Her voice lowered
+slightly--"You haven't changed much, Elwyn."
+
+I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
+
+"Yes, you have," she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in
+her latest tones; "I see it now. You haven't forgotten. You haven't
+forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could."
+
+I poked my straw anxiously in the _cr�me de menthe_.
+
+"I'm sure I beg your pardon," I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. "But
+that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I've forgotten everything."
+
+She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed
+to see in my face.
+
+"I've heard of you at times," she went on. "You're quite a big lawyer
+out West--Denver, isn't it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of
+you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You
+may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand
+dollars."
+
+She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
+
+"Would it be too late," I asked, somewhat timorously, "to offer you
+congratulations?"
+
+"Not if you dare do it," she answered, with such fine intrepidity that
+I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb
+nail.
+
+"Tell me one thing," she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly--"a
+thing I have wanted to know for many years--just from a woman's
+curiosity, of course--have you ever dared since that night to touch,
+smell or look at white roses--at white roses wet with rain and dew?"
+
+I took a sip of _cr�me de menthe_.
+
+"It would be useless, I suppose," I said, with a sigh, "for me to repeat
+that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory is
+completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it."
+
+The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained
+my words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She
+laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound--it was a laugh of
+happiness--yes, and of content--and of misery. I tried to look away from
+her.
+
+"You lie, Elwyn Bellford," she breathed, blissfully. "Oh, I know you
+lie!"
+
+I gazed dully into the ferns.
+
+"My name is Edward Pinkhammer," I said. "I came with the delegates to
+the Druggists' National Convention. There is a movement on foot for
+arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and
+tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little
+interest."
+
+A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her
+hand, and bowed.
+
+"I am deeply sorry," I said to her, "that I cannot remember. I could
+explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
+Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the--the roses and
+other things."
+
+"Good-by, Mr. Bellford," she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as
+she stepped into her carriage.
+
+I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet
+man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails
+with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
+
+ "Mr. Pinkhammer," he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his
+forefinger, "may I request you to step aside with me for a little
+conversation? There is a room here."
+
+"Certainly," I answered.
+
+He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman
+were there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually good-looking
+had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen worry and
+fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring and
+features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling dress;
+she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and pressed an
+unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started forward, but
+the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative motion of his
+hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of forty, a little
+gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful face.
+
+"Bellford, old man," he said, cordially, "I'm glad to see you again. Of
+course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you
+were overdoing it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in
+no time."
+
+I smiled ironically.
+
+"I have been 'Bellforded' so often," I said, "that it has lost its edge.
+Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to
+entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I
+never saw you before in my life?"
+
+Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She sprang
+past his detaining arm. "Elwyn!" she sobbed, and cast herself upon me,
+and clung tight. "Elwyn," she cried again, "don't break my heart. I am
+your wife--call my name once--just once. I could see you dead rather
+than this way."
+
+I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
+
+"Madam," I said, severely, "pardon me if I suggest that you accept a
+resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity," I went on, with an amused
+laugh, as the thought occurred to me, "that this Bellford and I could
+not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium
+and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the
+allusion," I concluded airily, "it may be necessary for you to keep an
+eye on the proceedings of the Druggists' National Convention."
+
+The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
+
+"What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?" she moaned.
+
+He led her to the door.
+
+"Go to your room for a while," I heard him say. "I will remain and talk
+with him. His mind? No, I think not--only a portion of the brain. Yes,
+I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him."
+
+The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still
+manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
+
+"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may," said
+the gentleman who remained.
+
+"Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take it
+comfortably; I am rather tired." I stretched myself upon a couch by a
+window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
+
+"Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly. "Your name is not
+Pinkhammer."
+
+"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly. "But a man must have a
+name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire
+the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self suddenly, the
+fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been
+Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer."
+
+"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford. You
+are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack
+of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of
+it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too
+bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the
+room is your wife."
+
+"She is what I would call a fine-looking woman," I said, after a
+judicial pause. "I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair."
+
+"She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two
+weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in
+New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from
+Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did
+not recognize him."
+
+"I think I remember the occasion," I said. "The fellow called me
+'Bellford,' if I am not mistaken. But don't you think it about time,
+now, for you to introduce yourself?"
+
+"I am Robert Volney--Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for
+twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford
+to trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man--try to
+remember!"
+
+"What's the use to try?" I asked, with a little frown. "You say you are
+a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it
+return slowly, or suddenly?"
+
+"Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it went."
+
+"Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?" I asked.
+
+"Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power, and will have
+done everything that science can do to cure you."
+
+"Very well," said I. "Then you will consider that I am your patient.
+Everything is in confidence now--professional confidence."
+
+"Of course," said Doctor Volney.
+
+I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the
+centre table--a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.
+I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the
+couch again.
+
+"It will be best, Bobby," I said, "to have this cure happen suddenly.
+I'm rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in.
+But, oh, Doc," I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin--"good
+old Doc--it was glorious!"
+
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+
+
+     The cities are full of pride,
+       Challenging each to each--
+     This from her mountainside,
+       That from her burthened beach.
+                               R. KIPLING.
+
+  Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,
+  Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States
+  that are "story cities"--New York, of course, New Orleans, and,
+  best of the lot, San Francisco.--FRANK NORRIS.
+
+
+East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.
+Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a
+State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less
+loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak
+of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into
+detail.
+
+Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half
+an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.
+But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness
+comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the
+Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation
+is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it
+is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town
+there can be no romance--what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and
+a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and
+McNally.
+
+
+  NASHVILLE--A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the
+  State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the
+  N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads.  This city is regarded
+  as the most important educational centre in the South.
+
+
+I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain
+for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the
+form of a recipe.
+
+Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;
+dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of
+honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.
+
+The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville
+drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup;
+but 'tis enough--'twill serve.
+
+I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for
+me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of
+Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and
+driven by something dark and emancipated.
+
+I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it
+the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).
+I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old
+"marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah."
+
+The hotel was one of the kind described as "renovated." That means
+$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass
+cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of
+Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management
+was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy,
+the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as
+Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There
+is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers _en
+brochette_.
+
+At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He
+pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't
+really reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown."
+
+Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long
+before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the
+streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.
+
+
+  It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted
+  by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.
+
+
+As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a
+company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with--no, I saw with
+relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan
+of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, "Kyar you
+anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned that I was
+merely a "fare" instead of a victim.
+
+I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those
+streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn't until they were
+"graded." On a few of the "main streets" I saw lights in stores here and
+there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon;
+saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of
+semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor.
+The streets other than "main" seemed to have enticed upon their borders
+houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights
+shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled
+orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little "doing."
+I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.
+
+
+  In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against
+  Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas.
+  The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a
+  terrible conflict.
+
+
+All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine
+marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the
+tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There
+were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the
+great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the
+crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a
+ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible
+battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.
+Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of
+Jefferson Brick! the tile floor--the beautiful tile floor! I could not
+avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my
+foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
+
+Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew
+him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat
+has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so
+well said almost everything:
+
+
+  Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,
+  And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
+
+
+Let us regard the word "British" as interchangeable _ad lib_. A rat
+is a rat.
+
+This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had
+forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage,
+red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.
+He possessed one single virtue--he was very smoothly shaven. The mark
+of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a
+stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have
+repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have
+been spared the addition of one murder.
+
+I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major
+Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive
+that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles;
+so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to
+apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he
+had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.
+
+I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by
+profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince
+Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug
+chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little
+lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another W�rzburger
+and wish that Longstreet had--but what's the use?
+
+Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort
+Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to
+hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam
+was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.
+Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family
+matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and
+profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in
+the land of Nod.
+
+By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure
+by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that
+I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he
+crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another
+serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of him
+brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained my
+release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and
+showed a handful of silver money.
+
+When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: "If that
+man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint,
+we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any
+known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the
+time. But we don't seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him
+out legally."
+
+"Why, no," said I, after some reflection; "I don't see my way clear
+to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as
+asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town," I continued,
+"seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or
+excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?"
+
+"Well, sir," said the clerk, "there will be a show here next Thursday.
+It is--I'll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room
+with the ice water. Good night."
+
+After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about
+ten o'clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued,
+spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the
+Ladies' Exchange.
+
+"A quiet place," I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling
+of the occupant of the room beneath mine. "Nothing of the life here that
+gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a good,
+ordinary, humdrum, business town."
+
+
+  Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing
+  centres of the country.  It is the fifth boot and shoe market
+  in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing
+  city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods,
+  grocery, and drug business.
+
+
+I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the
+digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was
+traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a
+Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal
+connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea
+Adair.
+
+Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had
+sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors
+swear approvingly over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had
+commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or her
+output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten
+or twenty.
+
+At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken livers _en brochette_
+(try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle,
+which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner I came
+upon Uncle C�sar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids,
+with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second
+afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat
+that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his ankles and had
+once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and sun and age had so
+variegated it that Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale
+monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it has to do with the
+story--the story that is so long in coming, because you can hardly
+expect anything to happen in Nashville.
+
+Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it
+had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled
+magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead
+had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving "black mammy")
+new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine
+was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a
+substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking
+devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing
+frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all
+its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone
+remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the
+buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There
+was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many
+mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of
+yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine.
+
+This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have
+started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals
+hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a
+feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling
+tones:
+
+"Step right in, suh; ain't a speck of dust in it--jus' got back from a
+funeral, suh."
+
+I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra
+cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was
+little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked
+in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.
+
+"I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street," I said, and was about to step
+into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of
+the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of
+sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly
+returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: "What are you gwine there
+for, boss?"
+
+"What is it to you?" I asked, a little sharply.
+
+"Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome kind of part of town
+and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is
+clean--jes' got back from a funeral, suh."
+
+A mile and a half it must have been to our journey's end. I could hear
+nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick
+paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with
+coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms.
+All I could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim
+houses.
+
+
+  The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets,
+  of which 137 miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost
+  $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.
+
+
+Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards
+back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees
+and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid
+the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose
+that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when
+you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former
+grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside.
+
+When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came
+to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter,
+feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.
+
+"It's two dollars, suh," he said.
+
+"How's that?" I asked. "I plainly heard you call out at the hotel:
+'Fifty cents to any part of the town.'"
+
+"It's two dollars, suh," he repeated obstinately. "It's a long ways from
+the hotel."
+
+"It is within the city limits and well within them." I argued. "Don't
+think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills
+over there?" I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them,
+myself, for the drizzle); "well, I was born and raised on their other
+side. You old fool nigger, can't you tell people from other people when
+you see 'em?"
+
+The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. "Is you from the South, suh?
+I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin' sharp
+in the toes for a Southern gen'l'man to wear."
+
+"Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?" said I inexorably.
+
+His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned,
+remained ten seconds, and vanished.
+
+"Boss," he said, "fifty cents is right; but I _needs_ two dollars, suh;
+I'm _obleeged_ to have two dollars. I ain't _demandin'_ it now, suh;
+after I know whar you's from; I'm jus' sayin' that I _has_ to have two
+dollars to-night, and business is mighty po'."
+
+Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been
+luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn,
+ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.
+
+"You confounded old rascal," I said, reaching down to my pocket, "you
+ought to be turned over to the police."
+
+For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; _he knew_. HE KNEW.
+
+I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that
+one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was
+missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A
+strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its
+negotiability.
+
+Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted
+the rope and opened a creaky gate.
+
+The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in
+twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled
+it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that
+hugged it close--the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still
+drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and
+cold.
+
+Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the
+cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the
+cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a
+queen's, received me.
+
+The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in
+it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a
+cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two
+or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon
+drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of
+Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.
+
+Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated
+to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the
+sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid
+originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at
+home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from inference and
+by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists
+made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers, trying,
+unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the
+half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne
+and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly
+everybody nowadays knows too much--oh, so much too much--of real life.
+
+I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a
+dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to
+the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas
+in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like
+a harpsichord's, and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the
+presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower
+the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy after
+I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three
+o'clock of the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the business
+proposition.
+
+"Your town," I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the
+time for smooth generalities), "seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A
+home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever
+happen."
+
+
+  It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with
+  the West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity
+  of more than 2,000 barrels.
+
+
+Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.
+
+"I have never thought of it that way," she said, with a kind of sincere
+intensity that seemed to belong to her. "Isn't it in the still, quiet
+places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the
+earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one's window
+and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the
+everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world--I mean
+the building of the Tower of Babel--result in finally? A page and a half
+of Esperanto in the _North American Review_."
+
+"Of course," said I platitudinously, "human nature is the same
+everywhere; but there is more color--er--more drama and movement
+and--er--romance in some cities than in others."
+
+"On the surface," said Azalea Adair. "I have traveled many times around
+the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings--print and dreams. I
+have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring
+with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in
+public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets
+because his wife was going out with her face covered--with rice powder.
+In San Francisco's Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped
+slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would
+never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had
+reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville
+the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates
+and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The
+boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have
+seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh,
+yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud
+and lumber yards."
+
+Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair
+breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back
+in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and
+ten years lifted from her shoulders.
+
+"You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said, "and a sugar
+cake."
+
+She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl
+about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in
+mouth and bulging eyes.
+
+Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill,
+a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two
+pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It
+was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro--there was no doubt
+about it.
+
+"Go up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy," she said, handing the
+girl the dollar bill, "and get a quarter of a pound of tea--the kind he
+always sends me--and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The
+supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted," she explained to
+me.
+
+Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet
+had died away on the back porch, a wild shriek--I was sure it was
+hers--filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry
+man's voice mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible
+words.
+
+Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two
+minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man's voice; then something
+like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.
+
+"This is a roomy house," she said, "and I have a tenant for part of it.
+I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible
+to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr. Baker
+will be able to supply me."
+
+I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired
+concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on
+my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair's name. But
+to-morrow would do.
+
+That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this
+uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but
+in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an
+accomplice--after the fact, if that is the correct legal term--to a
+murder.
+
+As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the
+polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of
+his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his
+ritual: "Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean--jus' got back from a
+funeral. Fifty cents to any--"
+
+And then he knew me and grinned broadly. "'Scuse me, boss; you is de
+gen'l'man what rid out with me dis mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh."
+
+"I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three," said I,
+"and if you will be here, I'll let you drive me. So you know Miss
+Adair?" I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.
+
+"I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh," he replied.
+
+"I judge that she is pretty poor," I said. "She hasn't much money to
+speak of, has she?"
+
+For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King
+Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack
+driver.
+
+"She ain't gwine to starve, suh," he said slowly. "She has reso'ces,
+suh; she has reso'ces."
+
+"I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip," said I.
+
+"Dat is puffeckly correct, suh," he answered humbly. "I jus' _had_ to
+have dat two dollars dis mawnin', boss."
+
+I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: "A.
+Adair holds out for eight cents a word."
+
+The answer that came back was: "Give it to her quick you duffer."
+
+Just before dinner "Major" Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the
+greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so
+instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was
+standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the
+white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks,
+hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable,
+roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks
+attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.
+
+With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a
+pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the
+dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the
+middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar
+bill again. It could have been no other.
+
+I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary,
+eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that
+just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar
+bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective
+story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: "Seems as if a
+lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver's Trust. Pays dividends
+promptly, too. Wonder if--" Then I fell asleep.
+
+King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over
+the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I
+was ready.
+
+Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked
+on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per
+word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without
+much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa
+and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored
+Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him,
+he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the
+value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired
+and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight
+cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of
+mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old
+Negro.
+
+"Uncle C�sar," he said calmly, "Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to
+give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port
+wine. And hurry back. Don't drive--run. I want you to get back sometime
+this week."
+
+It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the
+speeding powers of the land-pirate's steeds. After Uncle C�sar was
+gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me
+over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he
+had decided that I might do.
+
+"It is only a case of insufficient nutrition," he said. "In other words,
+the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many
+devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept
+nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle C�sar, who was once owned by
+her family."
+
+"Mrs. Caswell!" said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract
+and saw that she had signed it "Azalea Adair Caswell."
+
+"I thought she was Miss Adair," I said.
+
+"Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir," said the doctor. "It
+is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant
+contributes toward her support."
+
+When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea
+Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that
+were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to
+her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart.
+Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere,
+and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power
+and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on
+future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.
+
+"By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had
+royalty for a coachman. Old C�sar's grandfather was a king in Congo.
+C�sar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed."
+
+As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle C�sar's voice inside: "Did
+he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?"
+
+"Yes, C�sar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in
+and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the
+responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary
+formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle C�sar drove me back
+to the hotel.
+
+Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The
+rest must be only bare statements of facts.
+
+At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle C�sar was at his
+corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster
+and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to
+anywhere in the city--hack's puffickly clean, suh--jus' got back from a
+funeral--"
+
+And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His
+coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings
+were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button--the button of
+yellow horn--was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle C�sar!
+
+About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of
+a drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I
+wedged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs
+was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A
+doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was
+that it was conspicuous by its absence.
+
+The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by
+curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had
+been engaged in terrific battle--the details showed that. Loafer and
+reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had
+lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not
+be opened. The gentle citizens who had know him stood about and searched
+their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were possible, to
+speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought: "When 'Cas'
+was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in school."
+
+While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of "the man that was"
+which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped
+something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little
+later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last
+struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it
+in a death grip.
+
+At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the
+possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major
+Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners:
+
+"In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these
+no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon
+which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found
+the money was not on his person."
+
+I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing
+the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow
+horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends
+of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the
+slow, muddy waters below.
+
+_I wonder what's doing in Buffalo!_
+
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+
+
+If you are a philosopher you can do this thing: you can go to the top
+of a high building, look down upon your fellow-men 300 feet below, and
+despise them as insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on
+summer ponds, they crawl and circle and hustle about idiotically without
+aim or purpose. They do not even move with the admirable intelligence
+of ants, for ants always know when they are going home. The ant is of
+a lowly station, but he will often reach home and get his slippers on
+while you are left at your elevated station.
+
+Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a creeping,
+contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires, bootblacks, beauties,
+hod-carriers and politicians become little black specks dodging bigger
+black specks in streets no wider than your thumb.
+
+From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an
+unintelligible mass of distorted buildings and impossible perspectives;
+the revered ocean is a duck pond; the earth itself a lost golf ball. All
+the minutiae of life are gone. The philosopher gazes into the infinite
+heavens above him, and allows his soul to expand to the influence of
+his new view. He feels that he is the heir to Eternity and the child of
+Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his immortal heritage,
+and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind shall traverse
+those mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet. The tiny world
+beneath his feet upon which this towering structure of steel rests as a
+speck of dust upon a Himalayan mountain--it is but one of a countless
+number of such whirling atoms. What are the ambitions, the achievements,
+the paltry conquests and loves of those restless black insects below
+compared with the serene and awful immensity of the universe that lies
+above and around their insignificant city?
+
+It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They
+have been expressly compiled from the philosophies of the world and set
+down with the proper interrogation point at the end of them to represent
+the invariable musings of deep thinkers on high places. And when the
+philosopher takes the elevator down his mind is broader, his heart is at
+peace, and his conception of the cosmogony of creation is as wide as the
+buckle of Orion's summer belt.
+
+But if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an Eighth
+Avenue candy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet
+by eight, and earned $6 per week, and ate ten-cent lunches and were
+nineteen years old, and got up at 6.30 and worked till 9, and never had
+studied philosophy, maybe things wouldn't look that way to you from the
+top of a skyscraper.
+
+Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who
+kept the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a tool-box
+of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow's nest against a corner
+of a down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit, candies,
+newspapers, song books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season. When stern
+winter shook his congealed locks and Joe had to move himself and the
+fruit inside, there was exactly room in the store for the proprietor,
+his wares, a stove the size of a vinegar cruet, and one customer.
+
+Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues
+and fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and
+wanted Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her.
+
+"I got money saved up, Daisy," was his love song; "and you know how bad
+I want you. That store of mine ain't very big, but--"
+
+"Oh, ain't it?" would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one. "Why,
+I heard Wanamaker's was trying to get you to sublet part of your floor
+space to them for next year."
+
+Daisy passed Joe's corner every morning and evening.
+
+"Hello, Two-by-Four!" was her usual greeting. "Seems to me your store
+looks emptier. You must have sold a pack of chewing gum."
+
+"Ain't much room in here, sure," Joe would answer, with his slow grin,
+"except for you, Daise. Me and the store are waitin' for you whenever
+you'll take us. Don't you think you might before long?"
+
+"Store!"--a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy's uptilted nose--"sardine
+box! Waitin' for me, you say? Gee! you'd have to throw out about a
+hundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of it, Joe."
+
+"I wouldn't mind an even swap like that," said Joe, complimentary.
+
+Daisy's existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways
+between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall
+bedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were
+so near to one another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of
+noise. She could light the gas with one hand and close the door with the
+other without taking her eyes off the reflection of her brown pompadour
+in the mirror. She had Joe's picture in a gilt frame on the dresser, and
+sometimes--but her next thought would always be of Joe's funny little
+store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great building, and
+away would go her sentiment in a breeze of laughter.
+
+Daisy's other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board
+in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a
+philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like
+continental labels on a Passaic (N. J.) suit-case. Knowledge he had
+kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as
+for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without
+so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the
+proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the
+shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails
+required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the
+population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of Mr.
+H. McKay Twombly's second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel,
+the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office
+messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, Pa., and the number
+of bones in the foreleg of a cat.
+
+The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were
+the sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk
+that he would set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And
+again he used them as breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse.
+Firing at you a volley of figures concerning the weight of a lineal
+foot of bar-iron 5 x 2 3/4 inches, and the average annual rainfall at
+Fort Snelling, Minn., he would transfix with his fork the best piece of
+chicken on the dish while you were trying to rally sufficiently to ask
+him weakly why does a hen cross the road.
+
+Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good looks,
+of a hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon kind, it
+seems that Joe, of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival worthy of his
+steel. But Joe carried no steel. There wouldn't have been room in his
+store to draw it if he had.
+
+One Saturday afternoon, about four o'clock, Daisy and Mr. Dabster
+stopped before Joe's booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and--well, Daisy
+was a woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until Joe
+had seen it. A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible object
+of the call. Joe supplied it through the open side of his store. He did
+not pale or falter at sight of the hat.
+
+"Mr. Dabster's going to take me on top of the building to observe the
+view," said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. "I never was
+on a skyscraper. I guess it must be awfully nice and funny up there."
+
+"H'm!" said Joe.
+
+"The panorama," said Mr. Dabster, "exposed to the gaze from the top of
+a lofty building is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy has
+a decided pleasure in store for her."
+
+"It's windy up there, too, as well as here," said Joe. "Are you dressed
+warm enough, Daise?"
+
+"Sure thing! I'm all lined," said Daisy, smiling slyly at his clouded
+brow. "You look just like a mummy in a case, Joe. Ain't you just put in
+an invoice of a pint of peanuts or another apple? Your stock looks awful
+over-stocked."
+
+Daisy giggled at her favorite joke; and Joe had to smile with her.
+
+"Your quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.--er--er," remarked Dabster,
+"in comparison with the size of this building. I understand the area
+of its side to be about 340 by 100 feet. That would make you occupy
+a proportionate space as if half of Beloochistan were placed upon a
+territory as large as the United States east of the Rocky Mountains,
+with the Province of Ontario and Belgium added."
+
+"Is that so, sport?" said Joe, genially. "You are Weisenheimer on
+figures, all right. How many square pounds of baled hay do you think
+a jackass could eat if he stopped brayin' long enough to keep still a
+minute and five eighths?"
+
+A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to
+the top floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and out
+upon the roof. Dabster led her to the parapet so she could look down at
+the black dots moving in the street below.
+
+"What are they?" she asked, trembling. She had never been on a height
+like this before.
+
+And then Dabster must needs play the philosopher on the tower, and
+conduct her soul forth to meet the immensity of space.
+
+"Bipeds," he said, solemnly. "See what they become even at the small
+elevation of 340 feet--mere crawling insects going to and fro at
+random."
+
+"Oh, they ain't anything of the kind," exclaimed Daisy,
+suddenly--"they're folks! I saw an automobile. Oh, gee! are we that
+high up?"
+
+"Walk over this way," said Dabster.
+
+He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far
+below, starred here and there, early as it was, by the first beacon
+lights of the winter afternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south
+and east vanishing mysteriously into the sky.
+
+"I don't like it," declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes. "Say we go
+down."
+
+But the philosopher was not to be denied his opportunity. He would let
+her behold the grandeur of his mind, the half-nelson he had on the
+infinite, and the memory he had for statistics. And then she would
+nevermore be content to buy chewing gum at the smallest store in New
+York. And so he began to prate of the smallness of human affairs, and
+how that even so slight a removal from earth made man and his works look
+like one tenth part of a dollar thrice computed. And that one should
+consider the sidereal system and the maxims of Epictetus and be
+comforted.
+
+"You don't carry me with you," said Daisy. "Say, I think it's awful to
+be up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them we saw might have
+been Joe. Why, Jiminy! we might as well be in New Jersey! Say, I'm
+afraid up here!"
+
+The philosopher smiled fatuously.
+
+"The earth," said he, "is itself only as a grain of wheat in space. Look
+up there."
+
+Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short day was spent and the stars
+were coming out above.
+
+"Yonder star," said Dabster, "is Venus, the evening star. She is
+66,000,000 miles from the sun."
+
+"Fudge!" said Daisy, with a brief flash of spirit, "where do you think
+I come from--Brooklyn? Susie Price, in our store--her brother sent her
+a ticket to go to San Francisco--that's only three thousand miles."
+
+The philosopher smiled indulgently.
+
+"Our world," he said, "is 91,000,000 miles from the sun. There are
+eighteen stars of the first magnitude that are 211,000 times further
+from us than the sun is. If one of them should be extinguished it would
+be three years before we would see its light go out. There are six
+thousand stars of the sixth magnitude. It takes thirty-six years for the
+light of one of them to reach the earth. With an eighteen-foot telescope
+we can see 43,000,000 stars, including those of the thirteenth
+magnitude, whose light takes 2,700 years to reach us. Each of these
+stars--"
+
+"You're lyin'," cried Daisy, angrily. "You're tryin' to scare me. And
+you have; I want to go down!"
+
+She stamped her foot.
+
+"Arcturus--" began the philosopher, soothingly, but he was interrupted
+by a demonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was
+endeavoring to portray with his memory instead of his heart. For to the
+heart-expounder of nature the stars were set in the firmament expressly
+to give soft light to lovers wandering happily beneath them; and if you
+stand tiptoe some September night with your sweetheart on your arm you
+can almost touch them with your hand. Three years for their light to
+reach us, indeed!
+
+Out of the west leaped a meteor, lighting the roof of the skyscraper
+almost to midday. Its fiery parabola was limned against the sky toward
+the east. It hissed as it went, and Daisy screamed.
+
+"Take me down," she cried, vehemently, "you--you mental arithmetic!"
+
+Dabster got her to the elevator, and inside of it. She was wild-eyed,
+and she shuddered when the express made its debilitating drop.
+
+Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her.
+She vanished; and he stood, bewildered, without figures or statistics
+to aid him.
+
+Joe had a lull in trade, and by squirming among his stock succeeded in
+lighting a cigarette and getting one cold foot against the attenuated
+stove.
+
+The door was burst open, and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit
+and candies, tumbled into his arms.
+
+"Oh, Joe, I've been up on the skyscraper. Ain't it cozy and warm and
+homelike in here! I'm ready for you, Joe, whenever you want me."
+
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+
+
+Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al
+Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
+
+Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue--that street that the city seems
+to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue--born and bred in the
+Bowery--staggers northward full of good resolutions.
+
+Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly
+in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit
+mate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring,
+polyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and
+here the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling
+the tread of marching hosts--Hooray! But now come the silent and
+terrible mountains--buildings square as forts, high as the clouds,
+shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day.
+On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and book
+shops, where you see copies of "Littell's Living Age" and G. W. M.
+Reynold's novels in the windows. And next--poor Fourth Avenue!--the
+street glides into a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted
+to "Antiques."
+
+Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and
+menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and
+helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and
+the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully
+in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with
+Jack-o'-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound
+citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown
+that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the fighting
+dead. What street could live inclosed by these mortuary relics, and trod
+by these spectral citizens in whose sunken hearts scarce one good whoop
+or tra-la-la remained?
+
+Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the
+Little Rialto--not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There
+need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; 'tis but the suicide of a
+street. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the
+tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
+
+Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the modest
+restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its
+crumbling red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges,
+tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus--its papier-m�ch� lobster
+and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce--if you care to
+sit at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the
+yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance--to sit
+there with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle
+from which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed
+charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the "Nobleman
+in India."
+
+Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a
+Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of
+the dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become
+a reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a
+restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave
+him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house
+bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other gave him
+the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg,
+the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave--the Caliph--the Prince
+of Bohemia--going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious,
+the inexplicable, the recondite.
+
+One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth
+upon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and
+the artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his
+short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward toward the more
+central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an
+assortment of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out of
+doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its face
+value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and coffee;
+others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of full
+meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in effect,
+meal tickets good for a week.
+
+Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph's
+heart--it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of
+Harun Al Rashid's. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put
+less warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars than had
+Quigg's beef stew among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of
+Manhattan.
+
+Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of
+distress that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd
+that whooped and fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and the
+crosstown street that he was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld
+a young man of an exceedingly melancholy and preoccupied demeanor
+engaged in the pastime of casting silver money from his pockets in the
+middle of the street. With each motion of the generous one's hand the
+crowd huddled upon the falling largesse with yells of joy. Traffic was
+suspended. A policeman in the centre of the mob stooped often to the
+ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
+
+The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after
+knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his
+way swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm. "Come with me at
+once," he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had
+learned to fear.
+
+"Pinched," remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionless
+eyes. "Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me
+gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?"
+
+Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed
+Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
+
+There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph's
+mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to
+know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving
+him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and
+stores.
+
+"I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn't
+I?" asked the young man.
+
+"You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to
+scramble after," said the Margrave.
+
+"That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw
+chicken feed to-- Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,
+roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!"
+
+"Young sir," said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, "though I do
+not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know
+humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist
+eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his
+bounty--through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure
+and distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated
+misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You may
+be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler, the
+Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among his
+people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so
+much of their distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I seek
+for romance and adventure in city streets--not in ruined castles or in
+crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those that
+take place in men's hearts when acted upon by the furious and diverse
+forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this evening
+I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper than the
+wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance the
+certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat--I invite your
+confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise. Will
+you not trust me?"
+
+"Gee, how you talk!" exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration
+supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. "You've got the
+Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that
+old Turk you speak of. I read 'The Arabian Nights' when I was a kid. He
+was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say,
+you might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon
+giants all night without ever touching me. My case won't yield to that
+kind of treatment."
+
+"If I could hear your story," said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious
+smile.
+
+"I'll spiel it in about nine words," said the young man, with a deep
+sigh, "but I don't think you can help me any. Unless you're a peach at
+guessing it's back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum."
+
+THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER'S RIDDLE
+
+"I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street.
+I've worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's enough to marry
+on, ain't it? Well, I'm not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is
+one of these funny Dutchmen--you know the kind--always getting off bum
+jokes. He's got about a million riddles and things that he faked from
+Rogers Brothers' great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and
+Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it?
+Well, jobs ain't to be picked off every Anheuser bush-- And then there's
+Laura.
+
+"What? The old man's daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About
+nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of
+the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of
+straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness
+blacking--think of that!
+
+"Me? well, it's either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill
+is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?--well, you saw me plating
+the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-night. That was on
+account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of
+what I wouldst.
+
+"How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: 'Boys,
+one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles
+antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide--is
+not that--hein?' And he hands us a riddle--a conundrum, some calls
+it--and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till to-morrow
+morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us
+guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o' Wednesday night to
+his daughter's birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us
+goes, for she's naturally aching for a husband, and it's either me or
+Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry
+somebody that'll carry on the business after he's stitched his last pair
+of traces.
+
+"The riddle? Why, it was this: 'What kind of a hen lays the longest?
+Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain't it like a
+Dutchman to risk a man's happiness on a fool proposition like that?
+Now, what's the use? What I don't know about hens would fill several
+incubators. You say you're giving imitations of the old Arab guy that
+gave away--libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy
+that'll solve this hen query, or not?"
+
+When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the
+park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave
+and impressive tones:
+
+"I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in
+search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered
+a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have
+overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their
+habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and
+cross-breedings, their span of life, their--"
+
+"Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!" interrupted the young man,
+flippantly. "Riddles--especially old Hildebrant's riddles--don't have
+to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and
+Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can't strike just
+the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well,
+Your Majesty, I'm glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time
+away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of
+his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I'll say good
+night. Peace fo' yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah."
+
+The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
+
+"I cannot express my regret," he said, sadly. "Never before have I
+found myself unable to assist in some way. 'What kind of a hen lays the
+longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called
+the Plymouth Rock that--"
+
+"Cut it out," said the young man. "The Caliph trade is a mighty serious
+one. I don't suppose you'd even see anything funny in a preacher's
+defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs."
+
+From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth
+a card and handed it to the young man.
+
+"Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow," he said. "The time may come
+when it might be of use to you."
+
+"Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name is
+Simmons."
+
+   *     *     *     *     *     *
+
+Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall altogether
+pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray
+if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser's heart would
+follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of
+Hildebrant, harness maker.
+
+Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw
+leather martingale.
+
+Bill Watson came in first.
+
+"Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the
+joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
+
+"Er--why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so,
+Mr. Hildebrant--the one that lives the longest-- Is that right?"
+
+"Nein!" said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. "You haf not
+guessed der answer."
+
+Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
+
+In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco--pale, melancholy,
+hopeless.
+
+"Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays
+der longest?'"
+
+Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this
+mountain of pernicious humor--curse him and die? Why should-- But there
+was Laura.
+
+Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood.
+His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's card. He drew
+it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling
+fly. There was written on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: "Good for one
+roast chicken to bearer."
+
+Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
+
+"A dead one!" said he.
+
+"Goot!" roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. "Dot is
+right! You gome at mine house at 8 o'clock to der party."
+
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+
+
+There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted;
+and newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young
+journalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic
+view of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced
+to very questionable sources--facts and philosophy. We will begin
+with--whichever you choose to call it.
+
+Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope
+under a bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish
+sorrows overwhelm them are we put to our wits' end. We exhaust our
+paltry store of consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep. Then
+we grovel in the dust of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we call
+out of the rat-trap. As for the children, no one understands them except
+old maids, hunchbacks, and shepherd dogs.
+
+Now comes the facts in the case of the Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion,
+and the Twenty-fifth of December.
+
+On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her
+rag-doll. There were many servants in the Millionaire's palace on the
+Hudson, and these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding
+the lost treasure. The child was a girl of five, and one of those
+perverse little beasts that often wound the sensibilities of wealthy
+parents by fixing their affections upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy
+instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and pony phaetons.
+
+The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the
+Millionaire, to whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as Bay
+State Gas; and to the Lady, the Child's mother, who was all form--that
+is, nearly all, as you shall see.
+
+The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed,
+spindling, and corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire
+smiled and tapped his coffers confidently. The pick of the output of
+the French and German toymakers was rushed by special delivery to the
+mansion; but Rachel refused to be comforted. She was weeping for her
+rag child, and was for a high protective tariff against all foreign
+foolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside manners and
+stop-watches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely about
+peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their
+stop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or
+place. Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon
+as possible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at
+therapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this
+time cablegrams were coming from Santa Claus saying that he would soon
+be here and enjoining us to show a true Christian spirit and let up on
+the pool-rooms and tontine policies and platoon systems long enough to
+give him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing
+itself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawn-brokers had doubled
+their gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red
+sleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you
+waited on one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows of
+the stores, they who had 'em were getting their furs. You hardly knew
+which was the best bet in balls--three, high, moth, or snow. It was no
+time at which to lose the rag-doll or your heart.
+
+If Doctor Watson's investigating friend had been called in to solve this
+mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the Millionaire's
+wall a copy of "The Vampire." That would have quickly suggested, by
+induction, "A rag and a bone and a hank of hair." "Flip," a Scotch
+terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child's heart, frisked through the
+halls. The hank of hair! Aha! X, the unfound quantity, represented the
+rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones they--Done! It were
+an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip's forefeet. Look, Watson!
+Earth--dried earth between the toes. Of course, the dog--but Sherlock
+was not there. Therefore it devolves. But topography and architecture
+must intervene.
+
+The Millionaire's palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a
+lawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man's face two days after a shave.
+At one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce
+trimmed to a leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had
+ravished the rag-doll from the nursery, dragged it to a corner of
+the lawn, dug a hole, and buried it after the manner of careless
+undertakers. There you have the mystery solved, and no checks to write
+for the hypodermical wizard or fi'-pun notes to toss to the sergeant.
+Then let's get down to the heart of the thing, tiresome readers--the
+Christmas heart of the thing.
+
+Fuzzy was drunk--not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or
+I might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes
+a gentleman down on his luck.
+
+Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the
+park bench, the kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary
+beds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly
+garnered largesse of great cities--these formed the chapters of his
+history.
+
+Fuzzy walked toward the river, down the street that bounded one side of
+the Millionaire's house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost
+rag-doll, protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputian murder mystery,
+from its untimely grave in a corner of the fence. He dragged forth the
+maltreated infant, tucked it under his arm, and went on his way crooning
+a road song of his brethren that no doll that has been brought up to the
+sheltered life should hear. Well for Betsy that she had no ears. And
+well that she had no eyes save unseeing circles of black; for the faces
+of Fuzzy and the Scotch terrier were those of brothers, and the heart of
+no rag-doll could withstand twice to become the prey of such fearsome
+monsters.
+
+Though you may not know it, Grogan's saloon stands near the river and
+near the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled. In Grogan's,
+Christmas cheer was already rampant.
+
+Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast of
+Saturn he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup.
+
+He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously,
+seasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as
+one entertaining his lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught
+the farce of it, and roared. The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many
+of us carry rag-dolls.
+
+"One for the lady?" suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another
+contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat.
+
+He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a
+success. Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.
+
+In a group near the stove sat "Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and
+"One-ear" Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring
+district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a
+newspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and
+blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed "One Hundred
+Dollars Reward." To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed,
+or stolen from the Millionaire's mansion. It seemed that grief still
+ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the
+terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to
+distract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking,
+mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The
+advertisement was a last resort.
+
+Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his
+one-sided parabolic way.
+
+The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his
+arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates
+elsewhere.
+
+"Say, 'Bo," said Black Riley to him, "where did you cop out dat doll?"
+
+"This doll?" asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure
+that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by
+the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country
+home in Newport. This doll--"
+
+"Cheese the funny business," said Riley. "You swiped it or picked it up
+at de house on de hill where--but never mind dat. You want to take fifty
+cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother's kid at home might be
+wantin' to play wid it. Hey--what?"
+
+He produced the coin.
+
+Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to
+the office of Sarah Bernhardt's manager and propose to him that she be
+released from a night's performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum
+and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy's laugh.
+
+Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler
+does. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine
+from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel
+unaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three inches
+of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy
+linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small,
+circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed
+the quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the
+moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without
+abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black
+Riley temporized.
+
+"Wot'll you take for it, den?" he asked.
+
+"Money," said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, "cannot buy her."
+
+He was intoxicated with the artist's first sweet cup of attainment.
+To set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic
+converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of
+plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in
+his honor--could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will
+perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament.
+
+Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other
+caf�s to conquer.
+
+Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were
+beginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet.
+Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the
+hour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted
+red. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the
+Saturnalians.
+
+"Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and "One-ear" Mike held a hasty converse
+outside Grogan's. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings, not
+fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare than
+the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have eaten
+the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already
+doomed.
+
+They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan's Casino.
+They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy could
+read--and more.
+
+"Boys," said he, "you are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week to
+think it over."
+
+The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
+
+The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless,
+and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the
+morrow.
+
+"A cool hundred," said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
+
+"Boys," said he, "you are true friends. I'll go up and claim the reward.
+The show business is not what it used to be."
+
+Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot
+of the rise on which stood the Millionaire's house. There Fuzzy turned
+upon them acrimoniously.
+
+"You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds," he roared. "Go away."
+
+They went away--a little way.
+
+In "Pigeon" McCarthy's pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight
+inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.
+One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a
+slung-shot, being a conventional thug. "One-ear" Mike relied upon a
+pair of brass knucks--an heirloom in the family.
+
+"Why fetch and carry," said Black Riley, "when some one will do it for
+ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey--what?"
+
+"We can chuck him in the river," said "Pigeon" McCarthy, "with a stone
+tied to his feet."
+
+"Youse guys make me tired," said "One-ear" Mike sadly. "Ain't progress
+ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on 'im, and
+drop 'im on the Drive--well?"
+
+Fuzzy entered the Millionaire's gate and zigzagged toward the softly
+glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate
+and lingered--one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They
+fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.
+
+Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic
+instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he
+wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.
+
+The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces
+shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his passport,
+his card of admission, his surety of welcome--the lost rag-doll of the
+daughter of the house dangling under his arm.
+
+Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen
+lights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child.
+The doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling
+to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of
+childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious
+being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy
+wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic
+smile and blattering small talk that is supposed to charm the budding
+intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging
+her Betsy close.
+
+There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and
+worshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy's hand ten
+ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to
+James, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with
+the other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial
+regions.
+
+James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far
+as the front door.
+
+When the money touched fuzzy's dingy palm his first instinct was to take
+to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that blunder
+of etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It--and, oh, what an
+elysium it opened to the gaze of his mind's eye! He had tumbled to the
+foot of the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged, cold,
+drifting; and he held in his hand the key to a paradise of the mud-honey
+that he craved. The fairy doll had waved a wand with her rag-stuffed
+hand; and now wherever he might go the enchanted palaces with shining
+foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glassware would be open to
+him.
+
+He followed James to the door.
+
+He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for
+him to pass into the vestibule.
+
+Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his
+two pals casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably
+fatal weapons that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.
+
+Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire's door and bethought himself. Like
+little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green thoughts
+and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite drunk,
+mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths and
+festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall
+gay--where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known
+polished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and--and some one
+was singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before.
+Some one singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas--Fuzzy
+though he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that.
+
+And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of
+some impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white,
+transient, forgotten ghost--the spirit of _noblesse oblige_. Upon a
+gentleman certain things devolve.
+
+James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled
+walk to the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and "One-ear" Mike saw,
+and carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate.
+
+With a more imperious gesture than James's master had ever used or could
+ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a gentleman
+certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season.
+
+"It is cust--customary," he said to James, the flustered, "when a
+gentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the season
+with the lady of the house. You und'stand? I shall not move shtep till
+I pass compl'ments season with lady the house. Und'stand?"
+
+There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it
+through the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He was
+simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.
+
+A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy
+in the hall. James explained somewhere to some one.
+
+Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.
+
+The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than
+any picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a
+doll. Fuzzy didn't understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.
+
+A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped
+sterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to
+Fuzzy.
+
+As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities dropped
+from him for one brief moment. He straightened himself; and Time, so
+disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate Fuzzy.
+
+Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most
+opulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan's whisky. What
+had the Millionaire's mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia
+hall, where the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl, drinking
+the ancient toast of the House? And why should the patter of the cab
+horses' hoofs on the frozen street be in any wise related to the sound
+of the saddled hunters stamping under the shelter of the west veranda?
+And what had Fuzzy to do with any of it?
+
+The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile
+fade away like a false dawn. Her eyes turned serious. She saw something
+beneath the rags and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not
+understand. But it did not matter.
+
+Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly.
+
+"P-pardon, lady," he said, "but couldn't leave without exchangin'
+comp'ments sheason with lady th' house. 'Gainst princ'ples gen'leman do
+sho."
+
+And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the
+House when men wore lace ruffles and powder.
+
+"The blessings of another year--"
+
+Fuzzy's memory failed him. The Lady prompted:
+
+"--Be upon this hearth."
+
+"--The guest--" stammered Fuzzy.
+
+"--And upon her who--" continued the Lady, with a leading smile.
+
+"Oh, cut it out," said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly. "I can't remember. Drink
+hearty."
+
+Fuzzy had shot his arrow. They drank. The Lady smiled again the smile of
+her caste. James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front door.
+The harp music still softly drifted through the house.
+
+Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate.
+
+"I wonder," said the Lady to herself, musing, "who--but there were so
+many who came. I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing to them
+after they have fallen so low."
+
+Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door. The Lady called: "James!"
+
+James stalked back obsequiously, leaving Fuzzy waiting unsteadily, with
+his brief spark of the divine fire gone.
+
+Outside, Black Riley stamped his cold feet and got a firmer grip on his
+section of gas-pipe.
+
+"You will conduct this gentleman," said the lady, "Downstairs. Then tell
+Louis to get out the Mercedes and take him to whatever place he wishes
+to go."
+
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+
+
+The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces,
+bazaars, khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers
+disguises, seeking diversion and victims for their unbridled generosity.
+You can scarcely find a poor beggar whom they are willing to let enjoy
+his spoils unsuccored, nor a wrecked unfortunate upon whom they will not
+reshower the means of fresh misfortune. You will hardly find anywhere a
+hungry one who has not had the opportunity to tighten his belt in gift
+libraries, nor a poor pundit who has not blushed at the holiday basket
+of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly through his door by the
+eleemosynary press.
+
+So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed
+calenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber's Sixth Brother, hoping
+to escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans.
+
+Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories
+of those who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of the
+Faithful. Until dawn you might sit on the enchanted rug and listen to
+such stories as are told of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent the
+Forty Thieves to soak up the oil plant of Ali Baba; of the good Caliph
+Kar-Neg-Ghe, who gave away palaces; of the Seven Voyages of Sailbad, the
+Sinner, who frequented wooden excursion steamers among the islands; of
+the Fisherman and the Bottle; of the Barmecides' Boarding house; of
+Aladdin's rise to wealth by means of his Wonderful Gas-meter.
+
+But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too
+valuable to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of
+narrative languishes. And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy
+poor and the resigned unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap
+upon them strange mercies and mysterious benefits, too often comes the
+report from Arabian headquarters that the captive refused "to talk."
+
+This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of
+their philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the
+shortcomings of this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called
+
+THE STORY OF THE CALIPH WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water
+at his $1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its
+imbibition, for immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak
+soundly with his fist and shouted to the empty dining room:
+
+"By the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If
+I can get that squared, it'll do the trick."
+
+Thus, by the commonest artifice of the trade, having gained your
+interest, the action of the story will now be suspended, leaving you
+grumpily to consider a sort of dull biography beginning fifteen years
+before.
+
+When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania
+coal mine. I don't know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems
+to be standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have
+his picture taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But,
+instead of dying of overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents
+and brothers at the mercy of the union strikers' reserve fund, he
+hitched up his galluses, put a dollar or two in a side proposition now
+and then, and at forty-five was worth $20,000,000.
+
+There now! it's over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I've seen
+biographies that--but let us dissemble.
+
+I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at
+the seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble
+origin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth,
+capitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh,
+caliph; eighth, _x_. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher
+mathematics.
+
+At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a
+czar was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil,
+railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched
+Jacob's hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully
+cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage
+of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private
+secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot
+fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the
+mantle of the late H. A. Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob
+slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand, and
+became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.
+
+When a man's income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends
+him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul's
+salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be
+forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his
+wealth. The trust magnate "estimates" it. The rich malefactor hands you
+a cigar and denies that he has bought the P. D. & Q. The caliph merely
+smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a
+record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a "Where-to-Dine-Well"
+tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being
+that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher
+than did her future _divorc�_. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar
+quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in
+his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human--Count
+Tolstoi, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.
+
+Don't lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort
+of moral essay for intellectual readers.
+
+There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.
+
+When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels
+in the Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send
+a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the
+Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed
+warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is neither
+here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his favor of
+the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double line, but
+still mighty close to the matter under the caption of "Oddities of the
+Day's News" in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read that one "Jasper
+Spargyous" had "donated $100,000 to the U. B. A. of G." A camel may have
+a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him
+whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he
+have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem to have been inserted in
+the eye of a needle by that effort of that rich man to enter the K. of
+H. The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, S. Peter,
+secretary and gatekeeper.
+
+Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and
+presented it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain
+a scientific course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate
+lavatory instead, which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever
+discovered.
+
+The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C
+degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added
+the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.
+
+While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw
+two professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor
+acoustics, undesignedly reached his ear.
+
+"There goes the latest _chevalier d'industrie_," said one of them, "to
+buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree to-morrow."
+
+"_In foro conscienti�_," said the other. "Let's 'eave 'arf a brick at
+'im."
+
+Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for
+him. There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that he
+had bought. That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs Act.
+
+Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale.
+
+"If I could see folks made happier," he said to himself--"If I could see
+'em myself and hear 'em express their gratitude for what I done for 'em
+it would make me feel better. This donatin' funds to institutions and
+societies is about as satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot
+machine."
+
+So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to the
+homes of the poorest.
+
+"The very thing!" said Jacob. "I will charter two river steamboats, pack
+them full of these unfortunate children and--say ten thousand dolls and
+drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a delightful
+outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to blow the
+taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than I can work
+it off my mind."
+
+Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense
+person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a
+"Drop Letters Here" sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him
+in a space between a barber's pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came
+out of the post-office slit--smooth, husky words with gloves on 'em, but
+sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.
+
+"Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O'Grady's
+district you're buttin' into--see? Mike's got de stomach-ache privilege
+for every kid in dis neighborhood--see? And if dere's any picnics or red
+balloons to be dealt out here, Mike's money pays for 'em--see? Don't
+you butt in, or something'll be handed to you. Youse d---- settlers and
+reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have
+got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students
+and professors rough-housing de soda-water stands and dem rubber-neck
+coaches fillin' de streets, de folks down here are 'fraid to go out of
+de houses. Now, you leave 'em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows
+how to handle 'em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser
+now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit' Mike O'Grady for de Santa Claus
+belt in dis district?"
+
+Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph
+Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side.
+To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized
+charity, presented the Y. M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000
+collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers
+in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth
+for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring
+peace to the caliph's heart. He tried to get a personal note into his
+benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got
+well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with
+respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out
+an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the
+star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of
+his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to
+write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while
+his capital still kept piling up, and his _optikos needleorum
+camelibus_--or rich man's disease--was unrelieved.
+
+In Caliph Spraggins's $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who
+used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in
+Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two
+fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back
+from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors
+in the restaurant languages and those �tudes and things.
+
+Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist's delineation of her charms
+on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized
+description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful,
+brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a
+perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain
+food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too
+much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth
+that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the
+slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep
+this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.
+
+Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the
+grocer's young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged
+in conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the
+ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse
+should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid
+eggs out of the wagon.
+
+Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer's young man
+yourself. But you wouldn't have given him your heart, because you are
+saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid
+liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I
+know about it. So I am glad the grocer's young man was for Celia, and
+not for you.
+
+The grocer's young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy
+in his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the
+new frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the
+back of his head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his
+sunburned face looked like one that smiled a good deal when he was not
+preaching the doctrine of everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon
+horses. He slung imported A1 fancy groceries about as though they were
+only the stuff he delivered at boarding-houses; and when he picked up
+his whip, your mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the
+buttonless foils.
+
+Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the house.
+The grocer's wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days Celia
+watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time to
+admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing around
+the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories. Then she
+consulted Annette.
+
+To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a
+paragraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novels
+which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of
+the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia's side-kicker and
+chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn't know it, you may hazard a bean or
+two.
+
+"Oh, canary-bird seed!" exclaimed Annette. "Ain't it a corkin'
+situation? You a heiress, and fallin' in love with him on sight! He's a
+sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain't susceptible like
+the common run of grocer's assistants. He never pays no attention to
+me."
+
+"He will to me," said Celia.
+
+"Riches--" began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine
+sting.
+
+"Oh, you're not so beautiful," said Celia, with her wide, disarming
+smile. "Neither am I; but he sha'n't know that there's any money mixed
+up with my looks, such as they are. That's fair. Now, I want you to lend
+me one of your caps and an apron, Annette."
+
+"Oh, marshmallows!" cried Annette. "I see. Ain't it lovely? It's just
+like 'Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker's Wrongs.' I'll
+bet he'll turn out to be a count."
+
+There was a long hallway (or "passageway," as they call it in the land
+of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the
+house. The grocer's young man went through this to deliver his goods.
+One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow
+complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid's cap and apron. But
+as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy
+tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most
+expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of the
+maids.
+
+But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling
+"Fisher's Hornpipe" so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the
+world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for
+shame.
+
+The grocer's young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on
+his collar button behind.
+
+"That's out o' sight, Kid," said he.
+
+"My name is Celia, if you please," said the whistler, dazzling him with
+a three-inch smile.
+
+"That's all right. I'm Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you work
+in?"
+
+"I'm the--the second parlor maid."
+
+"Do you know the 'Falling Waters'?"
+
+"No," said Celia, "we don't know anybody. We got rich too quick--that
+is, Mr. Spraggins did."
+
+"I'll make you acquainted," said Thomas McLeod. "It's a strathspey--the
+first cousin to a hornpipe."
+
+If Celia's whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas McLeod's
+surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could actually
+whistle _bass_.
+
+When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and ride
+with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of the
+Charon line.
+
+"I'll be around to-morrow at 10:15," said Thomas, "with some spinach and
+a case of carbonic."
+
+"I'll practice that what-you-may-call-it," said Celia. "I can whistle a
+fine second."
+
+The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general
+literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements
+of iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman's Auxiliary of
+the Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a
+description of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon
+the province of the X-ray or of park policemen.
+
+A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the
+latticed "passage."
+
+"Sixteen a week isn't much," said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his
+shoulder blades.
+
+Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march.
+Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for
+a dozen handkerchiefs.
+
+"Maybe I'll get a raise next month," said Thomas. "I'll be around
+to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap."
+
+"All right," said Celia. "Annette's married cousin pays only $20 a month
+for a flat in the Bronx."
+
+Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt
+Henrietta's invincible pride of caste and pa's mightiness as a Colossus
+of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her
+grocer's young man might go whistle for a living.
+
+Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with
+"The Devil's Dream," whistled keenly between his teeth.
+
+"Raised to eighteen a week yesterday," he said. "Been pricing flats
+around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and
+unpinning that cap, old girl."
+
+"Oh, Tommy!" said Celia, with her broadest smile. "Won't that be enough?
+I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess we could
+call it a flat pudding if we wanted to."
+
+"And tell no lie," said Thomas.
+
+"And I can sweep and polish and dust--of course, a parlor maid learns
+that. And we could whistle duets of evenings."
+
+"The old man said he'd raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan couldn't
+think of any harder name to call a Republican than a 'postponer,'" said
+the grocer's young man.
+
+"I can sew," said Celia; "and I know that you must make the gas
+company's man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and I
+know how to put up quince jam and window curtains."
+
+"Bully! you're all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off on
+eighteen."
+
+As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved discovery
+by running swiftly to the gate.
+
+"And, oh, Tommy, I forgot," she called, softly. "I believe I could make
+your neckties."
+
+"Forget it," said Thomas decisively.
+
+"And another thing," she continued. "Sliced cucumbers at night will
+drive away cockroaches."
+
+"And sleep, too, you bet," said Mr. McLeod. "Yes, I believe if I have a
+delivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I'll look in at a
+furniture store I know over there."
+
+It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck
+the sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about
+ten thousand dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the
+reflection that some stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into
+wells, move around in circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light
+on Jacob's words.
+
+The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor
+coal-digger (ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and
+bought a small tract of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise
+corn. Not a nubbin. Jacob, whose nose was a divining-rod, told him there
+was a vein of coal beneath. He bought the land from the miner for $125
+and sold it a month afterward for $10,000. Luckily the miner had enough
+left of his sale money to drink himself into a black coat opening in the
+back, as soon as he heard the news.
+
+And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the
+sudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money
+to the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe might
+be his.
+
+And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand
+words and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle
+cracked.
+
+Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any
+existed, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
+
+Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going
+to be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold
+back your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so
+people can stop reading there if they want to.
+
+After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand
+dollars--I mean miles--they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his
+confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there
+were no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one
+morning in one of their offices.
+
+Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked straight
+at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap over the top
+of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
+
+There was a slight flaw in Jacob's system of restitution. He did not
+consider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he
+represented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who had
+sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
+
+"Well, sir," said Thomas, "this sounds to me like an illustrated
+post-card from South Boston with 'We're having a good time here' written
+on it. I don't know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars money, or do
+I have to save so many coupons to get it?"
+
+Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
+
+That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully
+into his pocket.
+
+"Grandfather's best thanks," he said, "to the party who sends it."
+
+Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure
+time, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas,
+the better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so
+frank and wholesome.
+
+"I would like to have you visit my house," he said. "I might help you in
+investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have a
+daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are
+not many young men I would care to have call on her."
+
+"I'm obliged," said Thomas. "I'm not much at making calls. It's
+generally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I'm engaged to a
+girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She's a
+parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won't be working
+there much longer, though. Say, don't forget to give your friend my
+grandfather's best regards. You'll excuse me now; my wagon's outside
+with a lot of green stuff that's got to be delivered. See you again,
+sir."
+
+At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the
+Spraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back,
+he took out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them
+carelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the
+cook.
+
+"I told you he was a count," she said, after relating. "He never would
+carry on with me."
+
+"But you say he showed money," said the cook.
+
+"Hundreds of thousands," said Annette. "Carried around loose in his
+pockets. And he never would look at me."
+
+"It was paid to me to-day," Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. "It
+came from my grandfather's estate. Say, Cele, what's the use of waiting
+now? I'm going to quit the job to-night. Why can't we get married next
+week?"
+
+"Tommy," said Celia. "I'm no parlor maid. I've been fooling you. I'm
+Miss Spraggins--Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I'll be worth forty
+million dollars some day."
+
+Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time since
+we have known him.
+
+"I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me
+next week. But you _can_ whistle."
+
+"No," said Celia, "I'll not be marrying you next week. My father would
+never let me marry a grocer's clerk. But I'll marry you to-night, Tommy,
+if you say so."
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make
+of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized
+fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage
+and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had
+bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her say what a kind,
+thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
+
+There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,
+glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy
+and histrionics.
+
+"Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just
+this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be
+married. I couldn't stop her, sir. They went in a cab."
+
+"What young man?" roared old Jacob.
+
+"A millionaire, if you please, sir--a rich nobleman in disguise. He
+carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only
+to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me."
+
+Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been
+delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
+
+"Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the
+corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run
+it down."
+
+There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes
+half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly
+crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it.
+
+"What t'ell you doin'?" yelled the cabman.
+
+"Pa!" shrieked Celia.
+
+"Grandfather's remorseful friend's agent!" said Thomas. "Wonder what's
+on his conscience now."
+
+"A thousand thunders," said Gaston, or Mike. "I have no other match."
+
+"Young man," said old Jacob, severely, "how about that parlor maid you
+were engaged to?"
+
+
+A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his
+private secretary.
+
+"The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000
+toward the conversion of the Koreans," said the secretary.
+
+"Pass 'em up," said Jacob.
+
+"The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
+$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due."
+
+"Tell 'em it's been cut out."
+
+"The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
+buy alcohol to preserve specimens."
+
+"Waste basket."
+
+"The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants
+$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course."
+
+"Tell 'em to see an undertaker."
+
+"Cut 'em all out," went on Jacob. "I've quit being a good thing. I need
+every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors
+of every company that I'm interested in and recommend a 10 per cent. cut
+in salaries. And say--I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of
+the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about
+waste. I've got no money to throw away. And say--we've got vinegar
+pretty well in hand, haven't we?'
+
+"The Globe Spice & Seasons Company," said secretary, "controls the
+market at present."
+
+"Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches."
+
+Suddenly Jacob Spraggins's plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He
+walked over to the secretary's desk and showed a small red mark on his
+thick forefinger.
+
+"Bit it," he said, "darned if he didn't, and he ain't had the tooth
+three weeks--Jaky McLeod, my Celia's kid. He'll be worth a hundred
+millions by the time he's twenty-one if I can pile it up for him."
+
+As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
+
+"Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I'll be back
+in an hour and sign the letters."
+
+
+The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the
+end of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded
+all his former favorites and companions of his "Arabian Nights" rambles.
+Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only death warrant
+the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a tradesman's bill.
+
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+
+
+HABIT--a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent
+repetition.
+
+
+The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that
+one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters
+of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we
+strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate
+Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving
+Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us
+of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart--and they
+said something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew
+or--er--yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the
+inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,
+we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable
+vade mecum--the unabridged dictionary.
+
+Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle's. Hinkle's is one of the big
+downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the "financial
+district." Each day from 12 o'clock to 2 Hinkle's was full of hungry
+customers--messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
+stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending--and also people with
+money.
+
+The cashiership at Hinkle's was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted
+and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched
+(as good a word as "dined") many more. It might be said that Hinkle's
+breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted
+to a horde.
+
+Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a
+strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at
+the bottom you thrust your waiter's check and the money, while your
+heart went pit-a-pat.
+
+For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of
+a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could--Next!--lost
+your chance--please don't shove. She could keep cool and collected while
+she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
+indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better
+than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper
+an egg with one of Hinkle's casters.
+
+There is an old and dignified allusion to the "fierce light that beats
+upon a throne." The light that beats upon the young lady cashier's cage
+is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang.
+
+Every male patron of Hinkle's, from the A. D. T. boys up to the
+curbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks
+they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid's art. Between the meshes
+of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows,
+invitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that
+was wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.
+
+There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young
+lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she
+is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin,
+leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a
+Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the cheery
+word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and
+you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the brass-bound
+inaccessibility multiplies her charms--anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted
+angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready,
+alert--Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your
+circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
+
+The young men who broke bread at Hinkle's never settled with the cashier
+without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went
+to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets
+and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms,
+generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem
+flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss
+Merriam more regularly than he ate.
+
+During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam's conversation, while she took
+money for checks, would run something like this:
+
+"Good morning, Mr. Haskins--sir?--it's natural, thank you--don't be
+quite so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny--ten, fifteen, twenty--chase along
+now or they'll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon--count
+it again, please--Oh, don't mention it . . . Vaudeville?--thanks;
+not on your moving picture--I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on
+Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons . . . 'Scuse me, I thought that
+was a quarter . . . Twenty-five and seventy-five's a dollar--got
+that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you
+addressing?--say--you'll get all that's coming to you in a
+minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett--you're always fooling--no--?
+Well, maybe I'll marry you some day--three, four and sixty-five
+is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
+please . . . Ten cents?--'scuse me; the check calls for seventy--well,
+maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that
+way, Mr. Saunders?--some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de
+Merody does suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike
+along there, buddy; don't take this for a Coney Island ticket
+booth . . . Huh?--why, Macy's--don't it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn't too
+cool--these light-weight fabrics is all the go this season . . . Come
+again, please--that's the third time you've tried to--what?--forget
+it--that lead quarter is an old friend of mine . . . Sixty-five?--must
+have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth
+Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De Forest--swell?--oh, my!--who
+is she? . . . What's the matter with it?--why, it ain't
+money--what?--Columbian half?--well, this ain't South
+America . . . Yes, I like the mixed best--Friday?--awfully
+sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday--Thursday,
+then . . . Thanks--that's sixteen times I've been told that this
+morning--I guess I must be beautiful . . . Cut that out, please--who
+do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr. Westbrook--do you really think
+so?--the idea!--one--eighty and twenty's a dollar--thank you ever so
+much, but I don't ever go automobile riding with gentlemen--your
+aunt?--well, that's different--perhaps . . . Please don't get
+fresh--your check was fifteen cents, I believe--kindly step aside and
+let . . . Hello, Ben--coming around Thursday evening?--there's a
+gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
+and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . ."
+
+About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo--whose other
+name is Fortune--suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
+while he was walking past Hinkle's, on his way to a street car. A
+wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is--move up,
+please; there are others.
+
+A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the
+spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle's restaurant.
+When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a
+beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing
+his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frapp�
+out of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed
+with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered
+consciousness.
+
+To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker
+McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward
+Miss Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with
+interest--not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.
+The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple
+were childless--they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.
+
+To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts
+of the good old couple. They came to Hinkle's again and again; they
+invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East
+Seventies. Miss Merriam's winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
+impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
+Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
+matron, n�e Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
+of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
+smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of the
+fatuity of parents.
+
+A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she
+stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
+
+"They're going to adopt me," she told the bereft restaurateur. "They're
+funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
+Say, Hinkle, there isn't any use of talking--I'm on the � la carte to
+wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
+Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I've been cashiering
+so long I feel funny doing anything else. I'll miss joshing the fellows
+awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and. But I can't let
+this chance slide. And they're awfully good, Hinkle; I know I'll have a
+swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for the week. Cut out
+the half if it hurts you, Hinkle."
+
+And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced the
+transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to
+the skin. Nerve--but just here will you oblige by perusing again the
+quotation with which this story begins?
+
+The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their
+adopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
+Miss--er--McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle's.
+To give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle's
+did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.
+
+Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
+Seventy---- Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without
+debts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember
+the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the
+W----f-A----a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie
+on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that--you did not?
+Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.
+
+At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer--er--McRamsey was
+exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
+her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity bazaar
+the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a finish. An
+earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be lower, but his
+outstanding accounts are also lower.
+
+Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
+sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
+proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
+the slums a Christmas din----Say! did you ever wonder where they get the
+other 364?
+
+Miss McRamsey--beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
+radiant--fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
+a little arched opening, fenced her in.
+
+Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring--admiring
+greatly, and faced the open wicket.
+
+"You look chawming, you know--'pon my word you do--my deah," he said,
+beguilingly.
+
+Miss McRamsey whirled around.
+
+"Cut that joshing out," she said, coolly and briskly. "Who do you think
+you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!--"
+
+Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
+certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond
+and puzzled whisker.
+
+"Miss McRamsey has fainted," some one explained.
+
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+
+
+Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the _Minerva
+Magazine_, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his
+favorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office
+when his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette. Which
+is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street,
+safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and
+meandered along the walks of budding Madison Square.
+
+The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a
+pastoral; the color motif was green--the presiding shade at the creation
+of man and vegetation.
+
+The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a
+poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had
+breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree
+buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the
+garnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above
+was of that pale aquamarine tint that ballroom poets rhyme with "true"
+and "Sue" and "coo." The one natural and frank color visible was the
+ostensible green of the newly painted benches--a shade between the color
+of a pickled cucumber and that of a last year's fast-black cravenette
+raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape
+appeared a masterpiece.
+
+And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle
+concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of
+the editor's mind.
+
+Editor Westbrook's spirit was contented and serene. The April number of
+the _Minerva_ had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the
+month--a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty
+copies more if he had 'em. The owners of the magazine had raised his
+(the editor's) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a
+recently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning
+papers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers'
+banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a
+splendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he
+left his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic
+interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When
+he had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly
+hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic
+medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards
+of the convalescent city.
+
+While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches
+(already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood)
+he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be
+panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his
+captor was--Dawe--Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel
+scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
+
+While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight
+biography of Dawe is offered.
+
+He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances.
+At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had
+some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near
+Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners
+together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became "dearest" friends.
+Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself,
+ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park
+neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's
+trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble
+mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live
+by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many
+to Westbrook. The _Minerva_ printed one or two of them; the rest were
+returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter
+with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons
+for considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear
+conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was
+mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food
+that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to
+her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they sat
+down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp.
+Dawe commented.
+
+"It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe. "It may not be art, but I do
+wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella
+Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry."
+
+As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor
+Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor
+had seen Dawe in several months.
+
+"Why, Shack, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the
+form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance.
+
+"Sit down for a minute," said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. "This is my
+office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down--you won't
+be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take
+you for a swell porch-climber. They won't know you are only an editor."
+
+"Smoke, Shack?" said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the
+virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield.
+
+Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl
+pecks at a chocolate cream.
+
+"I have just--" began the editor.
+
+"Oh, I know; don't finish," said Dawe. "Give me a match. You have just
+ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and
+invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that
+couldn't read the 'Keep off the Grass' signs."
+
+"How goes the writing?" asked the editor.
+
+"Look at me," said Dawe, "for your answer. Now don't put on that
+embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don't get a job
+as a wine agent or a cab driver. I'm in the fight to a finish. I know I
+can write good fiction and I'll force you fellows to admit it yet. I'll
+make you change the spelling of 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm
+done with you."
+
+Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly
+sorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression--the
+copyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable
+contributor.
+
+"Have you read the last story I sent you--'The Alarum of the Soul'?"
+asked Dawe.
+
+"Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had
+some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it
+goes back to you. I regret--"
+
+"Never mind the regrets," said Dawe, grimly. "There's neither salve nor
+sting in 'em any more. What I want to know is _why_. Come now; out with
+the good points first."
+
+"The story," said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh, "is
+written around an almost original plot. Characterization--the best you
+have done. Construction--almost as good, except for a few weak joints
+which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good
+story, except--"
+
+"I can write English, can't I?" interrupted Dawe.
+
+"I have always told you," said the editor, "that you had a style."
+
+"Then the trouble is--"
+
+"Same old thing," said Editor Westbrook. "You work up to your climax
+like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don't
+know what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what you
+do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison
+with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its
+impossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth.
+But you spoil every d�nouement by those flat, drab, obliterating strokes
+of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would rise to
+the literary pinnacle of your dramatic senses, and paint them in the
+high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer bulky,
+self-addressed envelopes at your door."
+
+"Oh, fiddles and footlights!" cried Dawe, derisively. "You've got that
+old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black
+mustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother
+kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: 'May high heaven
+witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless
+villain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another's
+vengeance!'"
+
+Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious complacency.
+
+"I think," said he, "that in real life the woman would express herself
+in those words or in very similar ones."
+
+"Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere but on the stage," said Dawe
+hotly. "I'll tell you what she'd say in real life. She'd say: 'What!
+Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after
+another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station.
+Why wasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake,
+get out of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat--the brown one
+with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she's usually shy of
+strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm upset!'
+
+"That's the way she'd talk," continued Dawe. "People in real life don't
+fly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can't
+do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same
+vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas
+a little more, that's all."
+
+"Shack," said Editor Westbrook impressively, "did you ever pick up the
+mangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street
+car, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted
+mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and
+despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?"
+
+"I never did," said Dawe. "Did you?"
+
+"Well, no," said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. "But I can well
+imagine what she would say."
+
+"So can I," said Dawe.
+
+And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the
+oracle and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an
+unarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and
+heroines of the _Minerva Magazine_, contrary to the theories of the
+editor thereof.
+
+"My dear Shack," said he, "if I know anything of life I know that every
+sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an
+apposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of
+feeling. How much of this inevitable accord between expression and
+feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of
+art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of the
+lioness that has been deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far above
+her customary whine and purr as the kingly and transcendent utterances
+of Lear are above the level of his senile vaporings. But it is also true
+that all men and women have what may be called a sub-conscious dramatic
+sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep and powerful emotion--a
+sense unconsciously acquired from literature and the stage that prompts
+them to express those emotions in language befitting their importance
+and histrionic value."
+
+"And in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius,
+where did the stage and literature get the stunt?" asked Dawe.
+
+"From life," answered the editor, triumphantly.
+
+The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but
+dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately his
+dissent.
+
+On a bench nearby a frowzy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that
+his moral support was due a downtrodden brother.
+
+"Punch him one, Jack," he called hoarsely to Dawe. "W'at's he come
+makin' a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen'lemen that comes in
+the square to set and think?"
+
+Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure.
+
+"Tell me," asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, "what especial faults in
+'The Alarum of the Soul' caused you to throw it down?"
+
+"When Gabriel Murray," said Westbrook, "goes to his telephone and is
+told that his fianc�e has been shot by a burglar, he says--I do not
+recall the exact words, but--"
+
+"I do," said Dawe. "He says: 'Damn Central; she always cuts me off.'
+(And then to his friend) 'Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a
+big hole? It's kind of hard luck, ain't it? Could you get me a drink
+from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.'"
+
+"And again," continued the editor, without pausing for argument, "when
+Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has
+fled with the manicure girl, her words are--let me see--"
+
+"She says," interposed the author: "'Well, what do you think of that!'"
+
+"Absurdly inappropriate words," said Westbrook, "presenting an
+anti-climax--plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they
+mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms
+when confronted by sudden tragedy."
+
+"Wrong," said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. "I say no man
+or woman ever spouts 'high-falutin' talk when they go up against a real
+climax. They talk naturally and a little worse."
+
+The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside
+information.
+
+"Say, Westbrook," said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, "would you have
+accepted 'The Alarum of the Soul' if you had believed that the actions
+and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story
+that we discussed?"
+
+"It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way," said the
+editor. "But I have explained to you that I do not."
+
+"If I could prove to you that I am right?"
+
+"I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't time to argue any further
+just now."
+
+"I don't want to argue," said Dawe. "I want to demonstrate to you from
+life itself that my view is the correct one."
+
+"How could you do that?" asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
+
+"Listen," said the writer, seriously. "I have thought of a way. It is
+important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as
+correct by the magazines. I've fought for it for three years, and I'm
+down to my last dollar, with two months' rent due."
+
+"I have applied the opposite of your theory," said the editor, "in
+selecting the fiction for the _Minerva Magazine_. The circulation has
+gone up from ninety thousand to--"
+
+"Four hundred thousand," said Dawe. "Whereas it should have been boosted
+to a million."
+
+"You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory."
+
+"I will. If you'll give me about half an hour of your time I'll prove to
+you that I am right. I'll prove it by Louise."
+
+"Your wife!" exclaimed Westbrook. "How?"
+
+"Well, not exactly by her, but _with_ her," said Dawe. "Now, you know
+how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I'm the only
+genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor's signature.
+She's been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I've been cast for
+the neglected genius part."
+
+"Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion," agreed the
+editor. "I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once
+were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring
+Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we'll have one of those informal
+chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much."
+
+"Later," said Dawe. "When I get another shirt. And now I'll tell you my
+scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast--if you can call
+tea and oatmeal breakfast--Louise told me she was going to visit her
+aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three o'clock.
+She is always on time to a minute. It is now--"
+
+Dawe glanced toward the editor's watch pocket.
+
+"Twenty-seven minutes to three," said Westbrook, scanning his
+time-piece.
+
+"We have just enough time," said Dawe. "We will go to my flat at once. I
+will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where she
+will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room
+concealed by the porti�res. In that note I'll say that I have fled from
+her forever with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic
+soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and
+hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one--yours
+or mine."
+
+"Oh, never!" exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. "That would be
+inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe's feelings
+played upon in such a manner."
+
+"Brace up," said the writer. "I guess I think as much of her as you do.
+It's for her benefit as well as mine. I've got to get a market for my
+stories in some way. It won't hurt Louise. She's healthy and sound. Her
+heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It'll last for only a
+minute, and then I'll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to
+me to give me the chance, Westbrook."
+
+Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in
+the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all
+of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place.
+Pity 'tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go
+around.
+
+The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and
+then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood.
+Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat
+of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside
+the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone
+gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the
+vanished quality. _Sic transit gloria urbis_.
+
+A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again
+eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow
+flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated fa�ade. To the fifth
+story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door
+of one of the front flats.
+
+When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how
+meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
+
+"Get a chair, if you can find one," said Dawe, "while I hunt up pen and
+ink. Hello, what's this? Here's a note from Louise. She must have left
+it there when she went out this morning."
+
+He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.
+He began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having
+begun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words
+that Editor Westbrook heard:
+
+
+   "Dear Shackleford:
+
+    "By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and
+   still a-going. I've got a place in the chorus of the Occidental
+   Opera Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o'clock. I
+   didn't want to starve to death, and so I decided to make my own
+   living. I'm not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She
+   said she was tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg
+   and dictionary, and she's not coming back, either. We've been
+   practising the songs and dances for two months on the quiet. I hope
+   you will be successful, and get along all right! Good-bye.
+
+   "Louise."
+
+
+Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and
+cried out in a deep, vibrating voice:
+
+_"My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,
+then let Thy Heaven's fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting
+by-words of traitors and fiends!"_
+
+Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand
+fumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted between his pale lips:
+
+_"Say, Shack, ain't that a hell of a note? Wouldn't that knock you off
+your perch, Shack? Ain't it hell, now, Shack--ain't it?"_
+
+
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+PAST ONE AT ROONEY'S
+
+
+Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet and
+Montagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If
+you but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have
+work cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a
+dozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but in
+the domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the
+niceties of deportment to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch of
+elbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house and
+kin.
+
+So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted
+into Dutch Mike's for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of
+Montagus making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest
+parliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his
+thirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where the
+mirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy's movements that his
+indifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that the
+finger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at Dutch
+Mike's that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio,
+companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the Mulberry
+Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P's and Q's so
+solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and the other
+on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom to seek
+safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival associations
+congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
+
+But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry
+Docks. We must to Rooney's, where, on the most blighted dead branch of
+the tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
+
+Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first
+overstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were
+immediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like
+swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane deck.
+But McManus's simile must be the torpedo. He glided in under the guns
+and slipped a scant three inches of knife blade between the ribs of the
+Mulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a devotee to strategy,
+had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch of the
+electrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire alone.
+Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying for the
+watch instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian shindy.
+
+The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by three
+distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the ethics of
+the gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no Capulet to be
+seen.
+
+"Raus mit der interrogatories," said Buck Malone to the officer. "Sure I
+know who done it. I always manages to get a bird's eye view of any guy
+that comes up an' makes a show case for a hardware store out of me. No.
+I'm not telling you his name. I'll settle with um meself. Wow--ouch!
+Easy, boys! Yes, I'll attend to his case meself. I'm not making any
+complaint."
+
+At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Side
+dock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick Cleary
+drifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. "He'll maybe
+not croak," said Brick; "and he won't tell, of course. But Dutch Mike
+did. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up. It's
+unhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan's in Europe for a week's end with
+Kings. He'll be back on the _Kaiser Williams_ next Friday. You'll have
+to duck out of sight till then. Tim'll fix it up all right for us when
+he comes back."
+
+This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney's one night and
+there looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the first
+time in his precarious career.
+
+Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princes
+and hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe for
+Cork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the high
+rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing the
+slow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_.
+
+It was on Thursday evening that Cork's seclusion became intolerable to
+him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool touch
+of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the hollow
+of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and repartee
+along and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the district where
+he was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere, for news was
+scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the failure of the
+police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back,
+the big white finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then.
+But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would be
+small danger in a little excursion that night among the crass pleasures
+that represented life to him.
+
+At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street looking
+up at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent lights against
+a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the place
+as a tough "hang-out"; with its frequenters and its locality he was
+unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all such
+resorts, he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over the
+caf�.
+
+Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled
+with Rooney's guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human
+pianola with drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furious
+unprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak a
+song--songs full of "Mr. Johnsons" and "babes" and "coons"--historical
+word guaranties of the genuineness of African melodies composed by red
+waistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the cotton fields and rice
+swamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.
+
+For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives,
+seats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He
+has Wellington's nose, Dante's chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois,
+the smile of Talleyrand, Corbett's foot work, and the poise of an
+eleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assisted
+by a lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who
+goes among the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now,
+what is there about Rooney's to inspire all this pother? It is more
+respectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens and
+bundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and a
+chat. Even by gaslight the diversions are melancholy i' the mouth--drink
+and rag-time, and an occasional surprise when the waiter swabs the suds
+from under your sticky glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! The
+soul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed doublet
+to a kindred home under Rooney's visible plaid waistcoat. Rooney's is
+twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has removed the embargo. Rooney
+has spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of public opinion, and any
+Elizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as another. Attend to
+the revelation of the secret. In Rooney's ladies may smoke!
+
+McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer
+that he ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his
+brick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and
+heaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his innermost
+soul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his taste. The sham
+gaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious,
+joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving the
+hour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presence
+of well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney's removal of the
+restrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked
+lemon peel, flat beer, and _peau d'Espagne_--all these were manna to
+Cork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet's high
+rear room.
+
+A girl, alone, entered Rooney's, glanced around with leisurely
+swiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested upon
+him for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres all men
+whom she for the first time confronts. In that space of time she will
+decide upon one of two things--either to scream for the police, or that
+she may marry him later on.
+
+Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn red
+morocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed lace
+handkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a small
+beer from the immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of cigarettes
+and lighted one with slightly exaggerated ease of manner. Then she
+looked again in the eyes of Cork McManus and smiled.
+
+Instantly the doom of each was sealed.
+
+The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for a
+woman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among
+that humble portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or
+coats-of-arms or Shaw's plays. Love at first sight has occurred a time
+or two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be found
+among unsophisticated creatures such as the dove, the blue-tailed
+dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk. Poets, subscribers to all
+fiction magazines, and schatchens, take notice.
+
+With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each of
+them the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which is
+the worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as love.
+
+"Have another beer?" suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was
+considered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and
+references.
+
+"No, thanks," said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her
+conventional words carefully. "I--merely dropped in for--a slight
+refreshment." The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require
+explanation. "My aunt is a Russian lady," she concluded, "and we often
+have a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home."
+
+"Cheese it!" said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. "Your fingers are
+as yellow as mine."
+
+"Say," said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,
+"what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?
+What?"
+
+She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and
+bright. Under her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, her
+crinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in a
+thick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still lingered in
+her chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.
+She looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.
+Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below her
+black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk underskirt.
+
+"Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't mean
+anything. Sure, it's no harm to smoke, Maudy."
+
+"Rooney's," said the girl, softened at once by his amends, "is the only
+place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain't a nice habit, but
+aunty lets us at home. And my name ain't Maudy, if you please; it's Ruby
+Delamere."
+
+"That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine's
+McManus--Cor--er--Eddie McManus."
+
+"Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize."
+
+Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl's
+ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
+
+"I know it's late," she said, reaching for her bag; "but you know how
+you want a smoke when you want one. Ain't Rooney's all right? I never
+saw anything wrong here. This is twice I've been in. I work in a
+bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been working
+overtime three nights a week. They won't let you smoke there, of course.
+I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain't it all right in
+here? If it ain't, I won't come any more."
+
+"It's a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere," said Cork.
+"I'm not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don't want to
+have your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday School
+teacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home."
+
+"But I don't know you," said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. "I don't
+accept the company of gentlemen I ain't acquainted with. My aunt never
+would allow that."
+
+"Why," said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, "I'm the latest thing in
+suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin' a
+lady. You bet you'll find me all right, Ruby. And I'll give you a tip as
+to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the Wall
+Street push. Morgan's cab horse casts a shoe every time the old man
+sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I'm in trainin' down the
+Street. The old man's goin' to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in my
+stockin' my next birthday. But it all sounds like a lemon to me. What I
+like is golf and yachtin' and--er--well, say a corkin' fast ten-round
+bout between welter-weights with walkin' gloves."
+
+"I guess you can walk to the door with me," said the girl hesitatingly,
+but with a certain pleased flutter. "Still I never heard anything extra
+good about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights,
+either. Ain't you got any other recommendations?"
+
+"I think you're the swellest looker I've had my lamps on in little old
+New York," said Cork impressively.
+
+"That'll be about enough of that, now. Ain't you the kidder!" She
+modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished
+look at her cavalier. "We'll drink our beer before we go, ha?"
+
+A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in
+spirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended
+fogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.
+Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney's liquids and
+Rooney's gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine.
+
+One o'clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and
+locking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows
+carefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front
+door, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforth
+whoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar to
+Rooney's hawk's eye--the countenance of a true sport.
+
+Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their
+elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,
+scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.
+Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney's had become
+renovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,
+but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The flattest
+glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punch
+struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial company
+became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of one
+in such places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had,
+drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.
+It is the law.
+
+"Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent
+chest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you workin' in the
+bookbindery and livin' at home--and just happenin' in here--and--and
+all that spiel you gave me?"
+
+"Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you think?
+Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask 'em. I handed
+it to you on the level."
+
+"On the dead level?" said Cork. "That's the way I want it; because--"
+
+"Because what?"
+
+"I throw up my hands," said Cork. "You've got me goin'. You're the girl
+I've been lookin' for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?"
+
+"Would you like me to--Eddie?"
+
+"Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about--about yourself, you
+know. When a fellow had a girl--a steady girl--she's got to be all
+right, you know. She's got to be straight goods."
+
+"You'll find I'll be straight goods, Eddie."
+
+"Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can't blame me
+for wantin' to find out. You don't see many girls smokin' cigarettes in
+places like Rooney's after midnight that are like you."
+
+The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," she
+said meekly. "I didn't know how bad it looked. But I won't do it any
+more. And I'll go straight home every night and stay there. And I'll
+give up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie--I'll cut 'em out from this
+minute on."
+
+Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.
+"A lady can smoke," he decided, slowly, "at times and places. Why?
+Because it's bein' a lady that helps her pull it off."
+
+"I'm going to quit. There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flicked
+the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
+
+"At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you of
+evenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a
+puff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock--see?"
+
+"Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searched his hard but frank
+features eagerly with anxious eyes.
+
+"On the dead level."
+
+"When are you coming to see me--where I live?"
+
+"Thursday--day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?"
+
+"Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with me
+to-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now. And don't
+you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you will,
+though."
+
+"On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-dolls to
+me. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the dead level, I do."
+
+Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.
+The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a
+policeman's foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney
+jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric
+lights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except
+for the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of
+crashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring
+panic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring,
+could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table
+to table.
+
+"All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise!
+Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm. We'll
+take care of you all."
+
+Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers. "Are
+you afraid, Eddie?" she whispered. "Are you afraid you'll get a free
+ride?"
+
+"Nothin' doin' in the teeth-chatterin' line," said Cork. "I guess
+Rooney's been slow with his envelope. Don't you worry, girly; I'll look
+out for you all right."
+
+Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the police
+looking everywhere for Buck Malone's assailant, and with Corrigan still
+on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would mean
+an ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high rear room
+of the true Capulet reading the pink extras.
+
+Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the police
+in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their voices
+came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of himself at
+the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the extreme rear
+of the room and lighted a dim gas jet.
+
+"This way, everybody!" he called sharply. "In a hurry; but no noise,
+please!"
+
+The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney's lieutenant swung
+open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder
+already placed for the escape.
+
+"Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less talking,
+please! Don't crowd! There's no danger."
+
+Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.
+Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
+
+"Before we go out," she whispered in his ear--"before anything happens,
+tell me again, Eddie, do you l--do you really like me?"
+
+"On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm, "when it
+comes to you, I'm all in."
+
+When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last
+of the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they
+bore the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an
+adjoining low building over the roof of which their only route to
+safety.
+
+"We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will stand
+the cops off, anyhow."
+
+They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
+
+A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. One
+of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the electric
+light. The other man was a cop of the old r�gime--a big cop, a thick
+cop, a fuming, abrupt cop--not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair at
+the table and sneered familiarly at the girl.
+
+"What are youse doin' in here?" he asked.
+
+"Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly.
+
+"Had any drinks?"
+
+"Not later than one o'clock."
+
+"Get out--quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he countermanded.
+
+He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Your
+name's McManus."
+
+"Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson."
+
+"Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a knife
+into a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago."
+
+"Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
+officer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's."
+
+"Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be looked
+over. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted his fingers
+under Cork's collar. "Come on!" he ordered roughly.
+
+Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered.
+Her quick eye danced from one man's face to the other as they spoke or
+moved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking--Corrigan on the briny; and
+Ruby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station
+would recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck!
+
+But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms
+extended against the cop. His hold on Cork's collar was loosened and he
+stumbled back two or three paces.
+
+"Don't go so fast, Maguire!" she cried in shrill fury. "Keep your hands
+off my man! You know me, and you know I'm givin' you good advice. Don't
+you touch him again! He's not the guy you are lookin' for--I'll stand
+for that."
+
+"See here, Fanny," said the Cop, red and angry, "I'll take you, too, if
+you don't look out! How do you know this ain't the man I want? What are
+you doing in here with him?"
+
+"How do I know?" said the girl, flaming red and white by turns. "Because
+I've known him a year. He's mine. Oughtn't I to know? And what am I
+doin' here with him? That's easy."
+
+She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted
+draperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the
+table toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened
+itself with little leisurely jerks.
+
+"Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin' the
+usual dividends, Maguire," she said to the officer. "You had your usual
+five-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten."
+
+"A lie!" said the cop, turning purple. "You go on my beat again and I'll
+arrest you every time I see you."
+
+"No, you won't," said the girl. "And I'll tell you why. Witnesses saw me
+give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I've been getting fixed
+for you."
+
+Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: "Come on,
+Fanny; let's have some chop suey before we go home."
+
+"Clear out, quick, both of you, or I'll--"
+
+The cop's bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
+
+At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the
+money without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her
+hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered
+Rooney's that night--she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion
+and sullen wonder.
+
+"I guess I might as well say good-bye here," she said dully. "You won't
+want to see me again, of course. Will you--shake hands--Mr. McManus."
+
+"I mightn't have got wise if you hadn't give the snap away," said Cork.
+"Why did you do it?"
+
+"You'd have been pinched if I hadn't. That's why. Ain't that reason
+enough?" Then she began to cry. "Honest, Eddie, I was goin' to be the
+best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was
+ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from
+everybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I'd
+make you believe I was good, and I was goin' to be good. When you asked
+to come to my house and see me, why, I'd have died rather than do
+anything wrong after that. But what's the use of talking about it? I'll
+say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus."
+
+Cork was pulling at his ear. "I knifed Malone," said he. "I was the one
+the cop wanted."
+
+"Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make any
+difference about that."
+
+"That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don't do nothin' but hang out
+with a tough gang on the East Side."
+
+"That was all right, too," repeated the girl. "It didn't make any
+difference."
+
+Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. "I could get a
+job at O'Brien's," he said aloud, but to himself.
+
+"Good-by," said the girl.
+
+"Come on," said Cork, taking her arm. "I know a place."
+
+Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house
+facing a little park.
+
+"What house is this?" she asked, drawing back. "Why are you going in
+there?"
+
+A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at
+one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps.
+"Read that," said he.
+
+She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a
+scream. "No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won't let you do that--not
+now! Let me go! You shan't do that! You can't--you mus'n't! Not after
+you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!"
+
+Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork's
+right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
+
+Another cop--how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the
+wing!--came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are you
+doing with that girl?" he called gruffly.
+
+"She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork. "It's a straight deal."
+
+"Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with true
+detective cunning.
+
+"Correct," said Cork. "On the dead level, we're goin' to get married."
+
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+THE VENTURERS
+
+
+Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the _Non Sequitur_
+Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation
+car "_Raison d'�tre_" for one moment. It is for no longer than to
+consider a brief essay on the subject--let us call it: "What's Around
+the Corner."
+
+_Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est_--men who wear rubbers and pay
+poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more
+continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and
+the poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be
+paralleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.
+
+Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the
+dictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a
+prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk
+in the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and
+alluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance is
+the beautiful countenance--perfect because vague and dream-born--that we
+see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and
+toast.
+
+The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and wayside
+groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the
+difference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit
+was the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it
+happened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is
+disturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and
+city-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children
+and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the flickering
+gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of two modern
+followers of Chance.
+
+
+"Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?" asked
+Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate
+the interior of the Powhatan Club.
+
+"Doubtless," said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.
+
+Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long
+before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the
+air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted
+and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go
+away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,
+must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one
+else. (I had written that "somebody"; but an A. D. T. boy who once took
+a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the
+compound word. This is a vice versa case.)
+
+Forster's favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower of
+Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition
+and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied him
+full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares and
+many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life.
+But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew what was to be found
+at the end of every street. He knew from experience and logic almost
+precisely to what end each digression from routine must lead. He found a
+depressing monotony in all the variations that the music of his sphere
+had grafted upon the tune of life. He had not learned that, although the
+world was made round, the circle has been squared, and that it's true
+interest is to be in "What's Around the Corner."
+
+Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax
+either his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He
+would have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no
+hope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the
+Greater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan
+chair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,
+uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.
+
+At the end of an hour's stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,
+smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old
+hotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that
+he must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of his
+favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the service and
+so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger that must be
+appeased by the "dead perfection" of the place's cuisine. Even the music
+there seemed to be always playing _da capo_.
+
+Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,
+restaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all
+countries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorous
+American. Something might happen there out of the routine--he might come
+upon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a question
+without an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life's
+salt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business suit
+that would not be questioned even where the waiters served the spaghetti
+in their shirt sleeves.
+
+So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because
+the more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the
+thirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored
+carefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five
+figures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but--
+
+Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really
+regarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of
+thirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one waiting
+for a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So his
+proximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of the
+nature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker after
+"What's Around the Corner," instead of manifesting resentment he only
+turned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other's grin of amusement.
+
+"All in?" asked the intruder, drawing nearer.
+
+"Seems so," said Forster. "Now, I thought there was a dollar in--"
+
+"Oh, I know," said the other man, with a laugh. "But there wasn't. I've
+just been through the same process myself, as I was coming around the
+corner. I found in an upper vest pocket--I don't know how they got
+there--exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly two
+pennies will buy!"
+
+"You haven't dined, then?" asked Forster.
+
+"I have not. But I would like to. Now, I'll make you a proposition.
+You look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and
+respectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny
+of a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine
+together. We will choose from the menu like millionaires--or, if you
+prefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly
+for once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to
+see which of us will stand the brunt of the house's displeasure and
+vengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same station
+of life--before our money took wings."
+
+"You're on," said Forster, joyfully.
+
+Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious country
+of Chance--anyhow, it promised something better than the stale
+infestivity of a table d'h�te.
+
+The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.
+Ives chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster.
+
+"Match for which of us gives the order," he said.
+
+Forster lost.
+
+Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with the
+absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born. Forster,
+listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.
+
+"I am a man," said Ives, during the oysters, "Who has made a lifetime
+search after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the ordinary
+adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like a gambler
+who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake. What I want
+is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion.
+It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its blindest
+manifestations. The world has come to run so much by rote and
+gravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance in
+which you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expect
+at its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who always
+complained bitterly when any one came in to ask information. 'He wanted
+to _know_, you know!' was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks. Well,
+I don't want to know, I don't want to reason, I don't want to guess--I
+want to bet my hand without seeing it."
+
+"I understand," said Forster delightedly. "I've often wanted the way I
+feel put into words. You've done it. I want to take chances on what's
+coming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course."
+
+"Agreed," said Ives. "I'm glad you catch my idea. It will increase the
+animosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, we
+will pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true venturer--one
+who does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.
+But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficult
+it is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee. In
+the Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from
+doors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle of
+a wall and 'get away with it.' Nowadays, if you speak disrespectfully to
+a policeman, all that is left to the most romantic fancy is to
+conjecture in what particular police station he will land you."
+
+"I know--I know," said Forster, nodding approval.
+
+"I returned to New York to-day," continued Ives, "from a three years'
+ramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad than they are
+at home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The only
+thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I've tried shooting big
+game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many yards;
+and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I enjoy it
+about as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a sum in
+long division on the blackboard."
+
+"I know--I know," said Forster.
+
+"There might be something in aeroplanes," went on Ives, reflectively.
+"I've tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried affair
+of wind and ballast."
+
+"Women," suggested Forster, with a smile.
+
+"Three months ago," said Ives. "I was pottering around in one of the
+bazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but with
+a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some amber and
+pearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an attendant--a big
+Nubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant drew nearer to me
+by degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand. I looked at it
+when I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in pencil: 'The arched
+gate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.' Does that appear to
+you to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?"
+
+"I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the
+property of an old Turk--a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Of
+course I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The same
+Nubian attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside and
+sat on a bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had quite
+an extended chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who was
+writing up the Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said she
+noticed the New York cut of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered if
+I couldn't work something into the metropolitan papers about it."
+
+"I see," said Forster. "I see."
+
+"I've canoed through Canada," said Ives, "down many rapids and over many
+falls. But I didn't seem to get what I wanted out of it because I knew
+there were only two possible outcomes--I would either go to the bottom
+or arrive at the sea level. I've played all games at cards; but the
+mathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the percentages.
+I've made acquaintances on trains, I've answered advertisements, I've
+rung strange door-bells, I've taken every chance that presented itself;
+but there has always been the conventional ending--the logical
+conclusion to the premise."
+
+"I know," repeated Forster. "I've felt it all. But I've had few
+chances to take my chance at chances. Is there any life so devoid of
+impossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad of
+opportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousand
+fails to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways and
+street cars disappointed one as seldom."
+
+"The sun has risen," said Ives, "on the Arabian nights. There are
+no more caliphs. The fisherman's vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,
+warranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours.
+Life moves by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no more
+opportunities such as Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster had.
+The only certain thing is that there is nothing uncertain."
+
+"Well," said Forster, "my experience has been the limited one of a city
+man. I haven't seen the world as you have; but it seems that we view
+it with the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even this
+little venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There may
+be at least one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner is
+presented. Perhaps, after all, the pilgrims who traveled without scrip
+or purse found a keener taste to life than did the knights of the Round
+Table who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur's certified checks
+in the lining of their helmets. And now, if you've finished your coffee,
+suppose we match one of your insufficient coins for the impending blow
+of Fate. What have I up?"
+
+"Heads," called Ives.
+
+"Heads it is," said Forster, lifting his hand. "I lose. We forgot to
+agree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when the
+waiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I will
+hold the fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hat
+and be off. I thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives,
+and wish we might have others."
+
+"If my memory is not at fault," said Ives, laughing, "the nearest police
+station is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too, let me
+assure you."
+
+Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotive
+effort that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism,
+glided to the table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser's
+cup. Forster took it up and added the figures with deliberate care. Ives
+leaned back comfortably in his chair.
+
+"Excuse me," said Forster; "but I thought you were going to ring Grimes
+about that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten about
+it?"
+
+"Oh," said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, "I can do that later
+on. Get me a glass of water, waiter."
+
+"Want to be in at the death, do you?" asked Forster.
+
+"I hope you don't object," said Ives, pleadingly. "Never in my life have
+I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling it out
+of a dinner."
+
+"All right," said Forster, calmly. "You are entitled to see a Christian
+die in the arena as your _pousse-caf�_."
+
+Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged
+air of an inexorable collector.
+
+Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his
+pocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and
+took it away.
+
+"The fact is," said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, "I doubt
+whether I'm what they call a 'game sport,' which means the same as a
+'soldier of Fortune.' I'll have to make a confession. I've been dining
+at this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I always
+sign my checks." And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice: "It
+was first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you knew I
+had no money, and that you might be scooped in, too."
+
+"I guess I'll confess, too," said Ives, with a grin. "I own the hotel.
+I don't run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor
+for my use when I happen to stray into town."
+
+He called a waiter and said: "Is Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? All
+right. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms made
+ready and aired."
+
+"Another venture cut short by the inevitable," said Forster. "Is there
+a conundrum without an answer in the next number? But let's hold to our
+subject just for a minute or two, if you will. It isn't often that I
+meet a man who understands the flaws I pick in existence. I am engaged
+to be married a month from to-day."
+
+"I reserve comment," said Ives.
+
+"Right; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond of
+the lady; but I can't decide whether to show up at the church or
+make a sneak for Alaska. It's the same idea, you know, that we were
+discussing--it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.
+Everybody knows the routine--you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea
+after breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress for
+dinner--theatre twice a week--bills--moping around most evenings trying
+to make conversation--a little quarrel occasionally--maybe sometimes a
+big one, and a separation--or else a settling down into a middle-aged
+contentment, which is worst of all."
+
+"I know," said Ives, nodding wisely.
+
+"It's the dead certainty of the thing," went on Forster, "that keeps me
+in doubt. There'll nevermore be anything around the corner."
+
+"Nothing after the 'Little Church,'" said Ives. "I know."
+
+"Understand," said Forster, "that I am in no doubt as to my feelings
+toward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there
+is something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out
+against any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I
+know that I want it. I'm talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I'm sure
+of what I mean."
+
+"I understand you," said Ives, with a slow smile. "Well, I think I will
+be going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one evening
+soon, Mr. Forster, I'd be glad."
+
+"Thursday?" suggested Forster.
+
+"At seven, if it's convenient," answered Ives.
+
+"Seven goes," assented Forster.
+
+At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in one
+of the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the reception
+room of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of Fortune, Chance
+and Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistler
+etchings, the steel engravings by Oh-what's-his-name?, the still-life
+paintings of the grapes and garden truck with the watermelon seeds
+spilled on the table as natural as life, and the Greuze head. It was
+a household. There was even brass andirons. On a table was an album,
+half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on the corners of the
+lids. A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, with a warning click at five
+minutes to nine. Ives looked at it curiously, remembering a time-piece
+in his grandmother's home that gave such a warning.
+
+And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was
+twenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this
+much--youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet
+eyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with
+the sweet cordiality of an old friendship.
+
+"You can't think what a pleasure it is," she said, "to have you drop in
+once every three years or so."
+
+For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the
+conversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library. When
+that part of it was over, Mary said:
+
+"And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?"
+
+"What I wanted?" said Ives.
+
+"Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn't play
+marbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water
+where you didn't know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. And
+when you grew up you were just the same. We've often talked about your
+peculiar ways."
+
+"I suppose I am an incorrigible," said Ives. "I am opposed to the
+doctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation, taxation,
+and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me something like
+a serial story would be if they printed above each instalment a synopsis
+of _succeeding_ chapters."
+
+Mary laughed merrily.
+
+"Bob Ames told us once," she said, "of a funny thing you did. It was
+when you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a town
+where you hadn't intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up a
+sign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it."
+
+"I remember," said Ives. "That 'next station' has been the thing I've
+always tried to get away from."
+
+"I know it," said Mary. "And you've been very foolish. I hope you didn't
+find what you wanted not to find, or get off at the station where there
+wasn't any, or whatever it was you expected wouldn't happen to you
+during the three years you've been away."
+
+"There was something I wanted before I went away," said Ives.
+
+Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweet
+smile.
+
+"There was," she said. "You wanted me. And you could have had me, as you
+very well know."
+
+Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There
+had been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years
+before. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind then.
+The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the everlasting
+hills. No change would ever come there except the inevitable ones
+wrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album would occupy that
+corner of that table, those pictures would hang on the walls, those
+chairs be found in their same places every morn and noon and night while
+the household hung together. The brass andirons were monuments to order
+and stability. Here and there were relics of a hundred years ago which
+were still living mementos and would be for many years to come. One
+going from and coming back to that house would never need to forecast or
+doubt. He would find what he left, and leave what he found. The veiled
+lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outer
+door.
+
+And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet
+and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass
+his life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he
+would never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her,
+and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the
+house itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was the
+knowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thus
+his thoughts ran.
+
+"I am going to be married soon," said Mary.
+
+On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive's hotel.
+
+"Old man," said he, "we'll have to put that dinner off for a year or so;
+I'm going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk we
+had the other night, and it decided me. I'm going to knock around the
+world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both you and
+me--the terrible dread of knowing what's going to happen. I've done one
+thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it's best for both
+of us. I've written to the lady to whom I was engaged and explained
+everything--told her plainly why I was leaving--that the monotony of
+matrimony would never do for me. Don't you think I was right?"
+
+"It is not for me to say," answered Ives. "Go ahead and shoot elephants
+if you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We've
+got to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,
+Forster, I've found the way. I've found out the biggest hazard in the
+world--a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end
+in the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge
+until the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know--not
+until his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage without
+a rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch,
+every day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found
+the VENTURE. Don't bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster.
+I married her yesterday at noon."
+
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+THE DUEL
+
+
+The gods, lying beside their nectar on 'Lympus and peeping over the edge
+of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would seem
+that to their vision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills
+without special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits
+of ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when
+coupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only
+solace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of
+villages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to
+many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among
+the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story
+addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet
+on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment
+while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I
+love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.
+
+New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus
+beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine's. They
+came here in various ways and for many reasons--Hendrik Hudson, the art
+schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers' convention, the
+Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates,
+brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight
+trains--all these have had a hand in making up the population.
+
+But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan
+has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his
+adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no
+rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.
+
+Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the
+ferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has
+conquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket
+or only the price of a week's lodging.
+
+The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn
+the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You
+cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against--lover or enemy--bosom
+friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only
+by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the
+subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse,
+Beethoven, chloral and John L. in his best days.
+
+In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long
+as you please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and
+be a citizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and
+without rebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but
+Knickerbocker's, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings,
+comparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair's residence in
+Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in
+New York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern Troy,
+concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism. And this
+dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant figures of
+William and Jack.
+
+They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They
+came to dig their fortunes out of the big city.
+
+Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander on
+the nose and the other an upper-cut with his left, just to let them know
+that the fight was on.
+
+William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and
+ambitious; so they countered and clinched. I think they were from
+Nebraska or possibly Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for
+success and scraps and scads, and they tackled the city like two
+Lochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at the City Hall.
+
+Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man
+blew in like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped into
+the chair that was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and had
+ordered as far as cheese before the artist had time to do more than nod.
+After the nod a humorous smile came into his eyes.
+
+"Billy," he said, "you're done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has
+taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand. You
+are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen to-day that you couldn't
+be picked out from them if it weren't for your laundry marks."
+
+"Camembert," finished William. "What's that? Oh, you've still
+got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old
+Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It's giving me mine.
+And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world--only
+slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell
+myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon,
+and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from
+the East. But I'd never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the
+rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard this
+fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife made me
+go. Give me May Irwin or E. S. Willard any time."
+
+"Poor Billy," said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. "You
+remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this
+great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it
+get the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had
+always been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man. You
+have changed from a maverick into a butterick."
+
+"Don't see exactly what you are driving at," said William. "I don't wear
+an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress
+occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a
+pattern--well, ain't the pattern all right? When you're in Rome you've
+got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged
+metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad
+schedule I've got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are
+asterisk stops--which means you wave a red flag and get on every other
+Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There's
+something or somebody doing all the time. I'm clearing $8,000 a year
+selling automatic pumps, and I'm living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I
+was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent's
+sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May
+play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke
+everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board
+sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There's
+only one thing in it that I don't care for, and that's a ferryboat."
+
+The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. "This
+town," said he, "is a leech. It drains the blood of the country. Whoever
+comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the figure of the
+leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence,
+the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute. Hand to hand
+every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You've lost, Billy. It
+shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or--the
+color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very vastness and
+power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the
+lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It
+has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its chariot wheels.
+It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars. Give me the
+domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or one ruled by
+an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest ingredients.
+Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its pre-eminence,
+it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is the
+narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country.
+I would go back there to-morrow if I could."
+
+"Don't you like this _filet mignon_?" said William. "Shucks, now, what's
+the use to knock the town! It's the greatest ever. I couldn't sell
+one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O'Keefe's saloon, in
+Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara Bernhardt
+in 'Andrew Mack' yet?"
+
+"The town's got you, Billy," said Jack.
+
+"All right," said William. "I'm going to buy a cottage on Lake
+Ronkonkoma next summer."
+
+At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it. He caught his
+breath at what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times.
+
+Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The
+irregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep
+gulches and winding streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long,
+desert ca�ons. Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel,
+enchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city. But into this background
+were cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares
+through which glowed many colored lights. And out of the violet and
+purple depths ascended like the city's soul sounds and odors and
+thrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaiety
+unrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man can know.
+There below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from
+the four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich,
+despoil, elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it came
+up to him and went into his blood.
+
+There was a knock on his door. A telegram had come for him. It came from
+the West, and these were its words:
+
+  "Come back and the answer will be yes.
+
+                                   "DOLLY."
+
+He kept the boy waiting ten minutes, and then wrote the reply:
+"Impossible to leave here at present." Then he sat at the window again
+and let the city put its cup of mandragora to his lips again.
+
+After all it isn't a story; but I wanted to know which one of the heroes
+won the battle against the city. So I went to a very learned friend and
+laid the case before him. What he said was: "Please don't bother me; I
+have Christmas presents to buy."
+
+So there it rests; and you will have to decide for yourself.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+"WHAT YOU WANT"
+
+
+Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as
+Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour
+that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets,
+bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled
+with the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old
+friend, the late Mr. H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred
+years nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but they
+were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you could
+have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor,
+the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and Forty
+Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the
+old Arabian gang easily.
+
+But let us revenue to our lamb chops.
+
+Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks and
+bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph you
+must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.
+Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a
+Turkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and personal
+affairs, the police court'll get you.
+
+Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money
+and everything. That's what makes a caliph--you must get to despise
+everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want something
+that you can't pay for.
+
+"I'll take a little trot around town all by myself," thought old Tom,
+"and try if I can stir up anything new. Let's see--it seems I've read
+about a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to go
+about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he hadn't
+been introduced to. That don't listen like a bad idea. I certainly have
+got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I do know. That
+old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran upon 'em and give
+'em gold--sequins, I think it was--and make 'em marry or got 'em good
+Government jobs. Now, I'd like something of that sort. My money is as
+good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every month where I got
+it. Yes, I guess I'll do a little Cardiff business to-night, and see how
+it goes."
+
+Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and
+walked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,
+who holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all the
+enchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks away
+looked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.
+
+James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments
+on Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door
+open, and where they clean your hat while you wait--two days. James
+stood all day at an electric machine that turned hats around faster than
+the best brands of champagne ever could have done. Overlooking your mild
+impertinence in feeling a curiosity about the personal appearance of a
+stranger, I will give you a modified description of him. Weight, 118;
+complexion, hair and brain, light; height, five feet six; age, about
+twenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of greenish-blue serge; pockets
+containing two keys and sixty-three cents in change.
+
+But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a General
+Alarm that James was either lost or a dead one.
+
+_Allons!_
+
+James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremely
+susceptible to impositions being put upon or below them. All day long
+they burned and smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience.
+But he was earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support
+his feet whether his feet would support him or not.
+
+James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as you
+and I have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts and
+motor-cars and to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe at
+evenfall and watch a badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into their
+common prairie home one by one.
+
+James Turner's idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go
+directly to his boarding-house when his day's work was done. After his
+supper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples and
+infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall room.
+Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of his
+burning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark
+Russell's sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied to
+his smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never palled
+upon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his sole
+intellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James Turner
+taking his ease.
+
+When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of
+his way home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the
+sidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume
+of Clark Russell at half price.
+
+While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down
+miscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His
+discerning eye, made keen by twenty years' experience in the manufacture
+of laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly the poor
+and discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous mood. He
+descended the two shallow stone steps that led from the sidewalk, and
+addressed without hesitation the object of his designed munificence. His
+first words were no worse than salutatory and tentative.
+
+James Turner looked up coldly, with "Sartor Resartus" in one hand and
+"A Mad Marriage" in the other.
+
+"Beat it," said he. "I don't want to buy any coat hangers or town lots
+in Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with your Teddy bear."
+
+"Young man," said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat cleaner,
+"I observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is one of
+the finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth mentioning,
+but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West, where we imagine
+nothing but facts. Maybe I couldn't understand the poetry and allusions
+in them books you are picking over, but I like to see somebody else seem
+to know what they mean. I'm worth about $40,000,000, and I'm getting
+richer every day. I made the height of it manufacturing Aunt Patty's
+Silver Soap. I invented the art of making it. I experimented for three
+years before I got just the right quantity of chloride of sodium
+solution and caustic potash mixture to curdle properly. And after I had
+taken some $9,000,000 out of the soap business I made the rest in corn
+and wheat futures. Now, you seem to have the literary and scholarly
+turn of character; and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay for your
+education at the finest college in the world. I'll pay the expense of
+your rummaging over Europe and the art galleries, and finally set you up
+in a good business. You needn't make it soap if you have any objections.
+I see by your clothes and frazzled necktie that you are mighty poor; and
+you can't afford to turn down the offer. Well, when do you want to
+begin?"
+
+The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is an
+eye expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment suspended
+as high as Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of challenge,
+curiosity, defiance, cynicism, and, strange as you may think it, of a
+childlike yearning for friendliness and fellowship that must be hidden
+when one walks among the "stranger bands." For in New Bagdad one, in
+order to survive, must suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks, rides,
+walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair, house, booth, seat, path or room.
+
+"Say, Mike," said James Turner, "what's your line, anyway--shoe laces?
+I'm not buying anything. You better put an egg in your shoe and beat it
+before incidents occur to you. You can't work off any fountain pens,
+gold spectacles you found on the street, or trust company certificate
+house clearings on me. Say, do I look like I'd climbed down one of them
+missing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What's vitiating you, anyhow?"
+
+"Son," said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, "as I said, I'm
+worth $40,000,000. I don't want to have it all put in my coffin when I
+die. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over these
+here volumes of literature, and I thought I'd keep you. I've give the
+missionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing
+but a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of young
+man I'd like to take up and see what money could make of him."
+
+Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old
+Book Shop. And James Turner's smarting and aching feet did not tend to
+improve his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit
+equal to any caliph's.
+
+"Say, you old faker," he said, angrily, "be on your way. I don't know
+what your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill.
+Well, I don't carry that much around with me. But I do carry a pretty
+fair left-handed punch that you'll get if you don't move on."
+
+"You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup," said the caliph.
+
+Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the
+collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two
+bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A copy came up,
+took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house.
+"Fighting and disorderly conduct," said the cop to the sergeant.
+
+"Three hundred dollars bail," said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly
+and inquiringly.
+
+"Sixty-three cents," said James Turner with a harsh laugh.
+
+The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change
+amounting to four dollars.
+
+"I am worth," he said, "forty million dollars, but--"
+
+"Lock 'em up," ordered the sergeant.
+
+In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. "Maybe
+he's got the money, and maybe he ain't. But if he has or he ain't, what
+does he want to go 'round butting into other folks's business for? When
+a man knows what he wants, and can get it, it's the same as $40,000,000
+to him."
+
+Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.
+
+He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself
+out luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars
+of the cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his
+cot gave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a
+paper-covered volume by Clark Russell called "A Sailor's Sweetheart."
+He gave a great sigh of contentment.
+
+Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:
+
+"Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seems
+to have been the goods after all. He 'phoned to his friends, and he's
+out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman car
+pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him."
+
+"Tell him I ain't in," said James Turner.
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRICTLY BUSINESS***
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Strictly Business, by O. Henry
+
+
+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: Strictly Business
+       More Stories of the Four Million
+
+
+Author: O. Henry
+
+
+
+Release Date: April, 2000  [eBook #2141]
+Most recently updated: September 21, 2011
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRICTLY BUSINESS***
+
+
+E-text prepared by anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteers
+and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
+
+
+
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+More Stories of the Four Million
+
+by
+
+O. HENRY
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+I.     STRICTLY BUSINESS
+II.    THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+III.   BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+IV.    THE DAY RESURGENT
+V.     THE FIFTH WHEEL
+VI.    THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+VII.   THE ROBE OF PEACE
+VIII.  THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+IX.    THE CALL OF THE TAME
+X.     THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+XI.    THE THING'S THE PLAY
+XII.   A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+XIII.  A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+XIV.   PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+XV.    A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+XVI.   COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+XVII.  A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+XIX.   PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+XX.    PAST ONE AT RODNEY'S
+XXI.   THE VENTURERS
+XXII.  THE DUEL
+XXIII. "WHAT YOU WANT"
+
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+
+I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You've been
+touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and
+the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the
+long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your
+ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like
+this:
+
+Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better
+than your own (madam) if they weren't padded. Chorus girls are
+inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back
+to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses
+reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their
+step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew's real name is Boyle O'Kelley. The
+ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first
+sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.
+Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.
+
+All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne
+and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures
+have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.
+
+Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the
+profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the
+players with an eye full of patronizing superiority--and we go home and
+practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking
+glasses.
+
+Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It
+seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians
+and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk, students and
+ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and
+conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a
+manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of
+the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.
+
+Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true
+one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little
+story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only
+the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of
+Keetor's old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of
+gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch--and where I
+last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time
+to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.
+
+The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had
+been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years
+with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes
+with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a
+buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the
+bass-viol player in more than one house--than which no performer ever
+received more satisfactory evidence of good work.
+
+The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful
+performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order to
+give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest Broadway
+corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a matinee
+offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime of a
+minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with that
+most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles--the audible contact of the
+palm of one hand against the palm of the other.
+
+One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known
+vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got
+his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.
+
+A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed
+into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the
+audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, "All
+the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself," sat with his face as long and
+his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his
+grandmother to wind into a ball.
+
+But when H came on, "The Mustard" suddenly sat up straight. H was the
+happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs
+and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;
+but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to
+the old man's account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and
+ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed you
+ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old log
+school-house besides cipherin' and nouns, especially "When the Teach-er
+Kept Me in." Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings,
+she reappeared in considerably less than a "trice" as a fluffy
+"Parisienne"--so near does Art bring the old red mill to the Moulin
+Rouge. And then--
+
+But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else. He
+thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short order
+stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of "Helen
+Grimes" in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the tray
+of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor,
+grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play
+tucked away somewhere. They tuck 'em in trays of trunks, trunks of
+trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults,
+handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call. They
+belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.
+
+But Bob Hart's sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called
+it "Mice Will Play." He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever since he
+wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of "Helen
+Grimes." And here was "Helen" herself, with all the innocent abandon,
+the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that his
+critical taste demanded.
+
+After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and got
+Cherry's address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty old
+house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.
+
+By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with her
+hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have
+been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon's daughter, in the
+great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.
+
+"I know your act, Mr. Hart," she said after she had looked over his card
+carefully. "What did you wish to see me about?"
+
+"I saw you work last night," said Hart. "I've written a sketch that I've
+been saving up. It's for two; and I think you can do the other part. I
+thought I'd see you about it."
+
+"Come in the parlor," said Miss Cherry. "I've been wishing for something
+of the sort. I think I'd like to act instead of doing turns."
+
+Bob Hart drew his cherished "Mice Will Play" from his pocket, and read
+it to her.
+
+"Read it again, please," said Miss Cherry.
+
+And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by
+introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the
+dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the
+pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen
+Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to
+all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on
+the sketch's weaker points. That was her woman's intuition that he had
+lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the judgment,
+experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that "Mice Will
+Play" would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of the
+circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings of her
+smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of
+a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.
+
+"Mr. Hart," said she, "I believe your sketch is going to win out. That
+Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a
+handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the
+Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers' Bazaar. And I've seen you
+work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is
+business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?"
+
+"Two hundred," answered Hart.
+
+"I get one hundred for mine," said Cherry. "That's about the natural
+discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every
+week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all
+right. I love it; but there's something else I love better--that's a
+little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six ducks
+wandering around the yard.
+
+"Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me
+to play the opposite part in your sketch, I'll do it. And I believe we
+can make it go. And there's something else I want to say: There's no
+nonsense in my make-up; I'm _on the level_, and I'm on the stage for
+what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I'm
+going to save my money to keep me when I'm past doing my stunts. No Old
+Ladies' Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.
+
+"If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
+nonsense cut out of it, I'm in on it. I know something about vaudeville
+teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want
+you to know that I'm on the stage for what I can cart away from it every
+pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where
+the cashier has licked the flap. It's kind of a hobby of mine to want to
+cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to
+know just how I am. I don't know what an all-night restaurant looks
+like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance
+in my life, and I've got money in five savings banks."
+
+"Miss Cherry," said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, "you're in
+on your own terms. I've got 'strictly business' pasted in my hat and
+stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a
+five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking
+clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to
+the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side
+porch, reading Stanley's 'Explorations into Africa.' And nobody else
+around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?"
+
+"Not any," said Cherry. "What I'm going to do with my money is to bank
+it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I've been
+earning, I've figured out that in ten years I'd have an income of about
+$50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest some of
+the principal in a little business--say, trimming hats or a beauty
+parlor, and make more."
+
+"Well," said Hart, "You've got the proper idea all right, all right,
+anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who
+couldn't fix themselves for the wet days to come if they'd save their
+money instead of blowing it. I'm glad you've got the correct business
+idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch
+will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped
+up."
+
+The subsequent history of "Mice Will Play" is the history of all
+successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,
+remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and
+business, changed the lines, restored 'em, added more, cut 'em out,
+renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger
+for the pistol, restored the pistol--put the sketch through all the
+known processes of condensation and improvement.
+
+They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely
+used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would
+occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded
+revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of
+the sketch.
+
+Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a
+real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen
+Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and
+daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private
+secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,
+"Arapahoe" Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch
+that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,
+L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow
+Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving
+you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case
+may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should
+want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in 'em.
+
+Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of
+play, whether we admit it or not--something along in between "Bluebeard,
+Jr.," and "Cymbeline" played in the Russian.
+
+There were only two parts and a half in "Mice Will Play." Hart and
+Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always
+played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a
+panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn
+down the gas fire in the grate by the manager's orders.
+
+There was another girl in the sketch--a Fifth Avenue society
+swelless--who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine
+when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost
+his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic
+state--Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan--of the
+Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.
+
+And now for the thriller. Old "Arapahoe" Grimes dies of angina pectoris
+one night--so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the
+footlights--while only his secretary was present. And that same day he
+was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just
+received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts
+for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.
+Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his
+(alleged) croak.
+
+"Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed--" you sabe, don't
+you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue
+Girl--who doesn't come on the stage--and can we blame her, with the
+vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be buttoned
+in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?
+
+But, wait. Here's the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,
+is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine
+is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop
+$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like
+the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to make
+any perfect lady mad. So, then!
+
+They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk
+heads (didn't the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the
+denouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a
+play unless it be when the prologue ends.
+
+Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?
+The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra hadn't
+left their seats; and no man could get past "Old Jimmy," the stage
+door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as a
+guarantee of eligibility.
+
+Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine:
+"Robber and thief--and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this
+should be your fate!"
+
+With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.
+
+"But I will be merciful," goes on Helen. "You shall live--that will be
+your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to the
+death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the mantel. I will
+send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have pierced
+your craven heart."
+
+And she does it. And there's no fake blank cartridges or assistants
+pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet--the actual bullet--goes
+through the face of the photograph--and then strikes the hidden spring
+of the sliding panel in the wall--and lo! the panel slides, and there is
+the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.
+It's great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a
+target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the
+sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,
+covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the
+same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same spot,
+and she had to shoot steady and true every time.
+
+Of course old "Arapahoe" had tucked the funds away there in the secret
+place; and, of course, Jack hadn't taken anything except his salary
+(which really might have come under the head of "obtaining money under";
+but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York girl
+was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and,
+necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson--and there you are.
+
+After Hart and Cherry had gotten "Mice Will Play" flawless, they had a
+try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house
+wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a
+theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,
+being dressed for it, swam in tears.
+
+After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed
+fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was what
+it panned out.
+
+That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good night
+at her boarding-house door.
+
+"Mr. Hart," said she thoughtfully, "come inside just a few minutes.
+We've got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to do
+is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can."
+
+"Right," said Bob. "It's business with me. You've got your scheme for
+banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap
+cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net
+receipts will engage my attention."
+
+"Come inside just a few minutes," repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.
+"I've got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a
+lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine--and
+all on business principles."
+
+
+"Mice Will Play" had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten
+weeks--rather neat for a vaudeville sketch--and then it started on the
+circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid
+drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.
+
+Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor's New York houses, said of Hart &
+Cherry:
+
+"As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.
+It's a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard
+workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,
+straight home after their act, and each of 'em as gentlemanlike as a
+lady. I don't expect to handle any attractions that give me less trouble
+or more respect for the profession."
+
+And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of the
+story:
+
+At the end of its second season "Mice Will Play" came back to New York
+for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never
+any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his
+bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank
+books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment
+plan to hold them.
+
+I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can't believe it,
+that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
+ambitions--just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
+grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious
+to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
+allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they
+often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.
+
+But, listen.
+
+At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
+Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When
+she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the
+bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk,
+went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck. Not expecting to get
+it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic
+manner.
+
+The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy
+in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great
+enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the
+curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and more
+or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The next turn
+went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.
+
+The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
+waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The doctor
+examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.
+
+"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been
+two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
+far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,
+you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any
+one of the girls' Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the
+parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse
+me; I've got a serious case outside to look after."
+
+After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay
+came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn
+man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple
+sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played. Vincente
+had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their
+peripatetic friend.
+
+"Bob," said Vincente in his serious way, "I'm glad it's no worse. The
+little lady is wild about you."
+
+"Who?" asked Hart.
+
+"Cherry," said the juggler. "We didn't know how bad you were hurt; and
+we kept her away. It's taking the manager and three girls to hold her."
+
+"It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She
+wasn't feeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no
+hard feelings. She's strictly business. The doctor says I'll be on the
+job again in three days. Don't let her worry."
+
+"Man," said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,
+"are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry's crying her
+heart out for you--calling 'Bob, Bob,' every second, with them holding
+her hands and keeping her from coming to you."
+
+"What's the matter with her?" asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. "The
+sketch'll go on again in three days. I'm not hurt bad, the doctor says.
+She won't lose out half a week's salary. I know it was an accident.
+What's the matter with her?"
+
+"You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool," said Vincente. "The girl
+loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What's the matter with
+_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you."
+
+"Loves me?" asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which he
+lay. "Cherry loves me? Why, it's impossible."
+
+"I wish you could see her and hear her," said Griggs.
+
+"But, man," said Bob Hart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's
+impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing."
+
+"No human being," said the Tramp Juggler, "could mistake it. She's wild
+for love of you. How have you been so blind?"
+
+"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's _too late_. It's
+too late, I tell you, Sam; _it's too late_. It can't be. You must be
+wrong. It's _impossible_. There's some mistake.
+
+"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you she's
+fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare to raise
+the curtain. Wake up, man."
+
+"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell you
+it's too late? It's too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married
+two years!_"
+
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+
+
+A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
+you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
+Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not
+gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his
+bottle of testing acid.
+
+Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George
+the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
+quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you
+can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I walks."
+
+Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets
+where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical
+warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is "El
+Refugio," a cafe and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from
+the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of
+Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the
+cloaked and sombreroed senores, who are scattered like burning lava by
+the political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to
+lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist
+filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at
+long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.
+
+In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the
+palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the story
+thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the Gallic
+chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a fish--bluefish,
+shad or pompano from the Gulf--baked after the Spanish method. Tomatoes
+give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon
+it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and
+mystery, and--but its crowning glory deserves a new sentence. Around
+it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity--but never in it--hovers an
+ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that only the
+Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not say that
+garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than as if the
+spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that lingers in the
+parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life, "by hopeless
+fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And then, when Conchito, the
+waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and a carafe of wine that
+has never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio--ah, Dios!
+
+One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen. Perrico
+Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The General
+was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist
+and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache of
+a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas
+congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.
+
+Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire
+his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that
+neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that
+read, "Hotel Espanol." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se
+habla Espanol." The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
+
+In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had
+blond--oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,
+and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with
+his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables
+sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of
+a bunch.
+
+"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, pleasantly.
+
+"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly. "I speak the
+Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
+here. How is that?"
+
+"Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam. "I'm sure I
+can't."
+
+At the Hotel Espanol General Falcon engaged rooms and established
+himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders
+of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the
+wonderful golden hair of Mme. O'Brien. "It is here," said the General
+to himself, no doubt in his own language, "that one shall find the most
+beautiful senoras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among
+our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to
+think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion."
+
+At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became
+involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset
+him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an
+inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He
+scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle
+of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. "Valgame Dios! What
+devil's city is this?"
+
+As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded
+snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was
+"Bully" McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm
+and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of
+the asphalt was "Spider" Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.
+
+In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the
+quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.
+
+"G'wan!" he commanded harshly. "I saw it first." McGuire slunk away,
+awed by superior intelligence.
+
+"Pardon me," said Mr. Kelley, to the General, "but you got balled up in
+the shuffle, didn't you? Let me assist you." He picked up the General's
+hat and brushed the dust from it.
+
+The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered
+and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a
+caballero with a most disinterested heart.
+
+"I have a desire," said the General, "to return to the hotel of O'Brien,
+in which I am stop. Caramba! senor, there is a loudness and rapidness of
+going and coming in the city of this Nueva York."
+
+Mr. Kelley's politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to
+brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel
+Espanol they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the
+street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to
+whom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a "Dago
+joint." All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of
+"Dagoes" and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
+thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.
+
+An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in
+the conspirator's corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were between
+them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his mission
+to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase arms--2,000
+stands of Winchester rifles--for the Colombian revolutionists. He
+had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York
+correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were
+shouting their political secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was
+as loud as the General. He pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine;
+he roared to his friend that his errand was a secret one, and not to be
+hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley himself was stirred to
+sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General's hand across the table.
+
+"Monseer," he said, earnestly, "I don't know where this country of yours
+is, but I'm for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United States,
+though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us Columbia, too,
+sometimes. It's a lucky thing for you that you butted into me to-night.
+I'm the only man in New York that can get this gun deal through for you.
+The Secretary of War of the United States is me best friend. He's in the
+city now, and I'll see him for you to-morrow. In the meantime, monseer,
+you keep them drafts tight in your inside pocket. I'll call for you
+to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that ain't the District of
+Columbia you're talking about, is it?" concluded Mr. Kelley, with a
+sudden qualm. "You can't capture that with no 2,000 guns--it's been
+tried with more."
+
+"No, no, no!" exclaimed the General. "It is the Republic of Colombia--it
+is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.
+Yes."
+
+"All right," said Mr. Kelley, reassured. "Now suppose we trek along home
+and go by-by. I'll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date with
+him. It's a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky himself
+can't do it."
+
+They parted at the door of the Hotel Espanol. The General rolled his
+eyes at the moon and sighed.
+
+"It is a great country, your Nueva York," he said. "Truly the cars in
+the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly
+makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Senor Kelley--the senoras with hair
+of much goldness, and admirable fatness--they are magnificas! Muy
+magnificas!"
+
+Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary's cafe,
+far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.
+
+"Is that Jimmy Dunn?" asked Kelley.
+
+"Yes," came the answer.
+
+"You're a liar," sang back Kelley, joyfully. "You're the Secretary of
+War. Wait there till I come up. I've got the finest thing down here in
+the way of a fish you ever baited for. It's a Colorado-maduro, with a
+gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and a
+statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I'll be up on the next car."
+
+Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence
+line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout
+drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but
+the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing in
+New York. It was the ambition of "Spider" Kelley to elevate himself into
+Jimmy's class.
+
+These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary's. Kelley
+explained.
+
+"He's as easy as a gumshoe. He's from the Island of Colombia, where
+there's a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they've sent him
+up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He showed
+me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank here. 'S
+truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn't have it in
+thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now, we've
+got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us."
+
+They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; "Bring him to
+No. ---- Broadway, at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."
+
+In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Espanol for the General. He found
+the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs. O'Brien.
+
+"The Secretary of War is waitin' for us," said Kelley.
+
+The General tore himself away with an effort.
+
+"Ay, senor," he said, with a sigh, "duty makes a call. But, senor, the
+senoras of your Estados Unidos--how beauties! For exemplification, take
+you la Madame O'Brien--que magnifica! She is one goddess--one Juno--what
+you call one ox-eyed Juno."
+
+Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the fire
+of their own imagination.
+
+"Sure!" he said with a grin; "but you mean a peroxide Juno, don't you?"
+
+Mrs. O'Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye
+rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except
+in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.
+
+When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway
+address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then
+admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,
+with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to the
+Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known by his
+old friend, Mr. Kelley.
+
+"Ah--Colombia!" said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to
+understand; "I'm afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.
+The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the
+established government, while I--" the secretary gave the General a
+mysterious but encouraging smile. "You, of course, know, General Falcon,
+that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed requiring
+all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this country to pass
+through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be
+glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley. But it must be in
+absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard
+favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will
+have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now in the
+warehouse."
+
+The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T. on
+his cap stepped promptly into the room.
+
+"Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory," said the Secretary.
+
+The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied
+it closely.
+
+"I find," he said, "that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is
+shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the
+Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule
+is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.
+My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of
+arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer's price. And you will
+forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the
+Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!"
+
+As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his
+esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War was
+extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases and
+filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse rented
+for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to the
+Hotel Espanol, Mrs. O'Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from his
+lapel, and said:
+
+"Say, senor, I don't want to 'butt in,' but what does that monkey-faced,
+cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?"
+
+"Sangre de mi vida!" exclaimed the General. "Impossible it is that you
+speak of my good friend, Senor Kelley."
+
+"Come into the summer garden," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I want to have a talk
+with you."
+
+Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.
+
+"And you say," said the General, "that for the sum of $18,000 can be
+purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with
+this garden so lovely--so resembling unto the patios of my cara
+Colombia?"
+
+"And dirt cheap at that," sighed the lady.
+
+"Ah, Dios!" breathed General Falcon. "What to me is war and politics?
+This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to
+continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of
+mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel
+Espanol and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on
+guns."
+
+Mrs. O'Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the
+Colombian patriot.
+
+"Oh, senor," she sighed, happily, "ain't you terrible!"
+
+Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to
+the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented
+warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his
+friend Kelley to fetch the victim.
+
+Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Espanol. He found the
+General behind the desk adding up accounts.
+
+"I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day buy
+the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General
+Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O'Brien."
+
+Mr. Kelley almost strangled.
+
+"Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered, "you're
+a swindler--that's what you are! You've bought a boarding house with
+money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is."
+
+"Ah," said the General, footing up a column, "that is what you call
+politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best that
+one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to keep
+hotels and be with that Juno--that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of the
+gold it is that she have!"
+
+Mr. Kelley choked again.
+
+"Ah, Senor Kelley!" said the General, feelingly and finally, "is it that
+you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O'Brien she
+make?"
+
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+
+
+Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says
+to me once in Little Rock: "If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get
+too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the
+West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in
+chunks of roe--you can't count 'em!"
+
+Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of the
+Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I
+knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver's advice.
+
+I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And
+I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of
+haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his
+nails with a silk handkerchief.
+
+"Paresis or superannuated?" I asks him.
+
+"Hello, Billy," says Silver; "I'm glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me
+that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I've been
+saving New York for dessert. I know it's a low-down trick to take things
+from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and fro and
+think ever and anon. I'd hate for my mother to know I was skinning these
+weak-minded ones. She raised me better."
+
+"Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
+does skin grafting?" I asks.
+
+"Well, no," says Silver; "you needn't back Epidermis to win to-day.
+I've only been here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the members of
+Willie Manhattan's Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to
+contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well
+send their photos to the _Evening Daily_.
+
+"I've been studying the town," says Silver, "and reading the papers
+every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an
+O'Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when
+you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my
+room and I'll tell you. We'll work the town together, Billy, for the
+sake of old times."
+
+Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects
+lying about.
+
+"There's more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,"
+says Silver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They'll
+bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are
+in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn't
+a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller,
+Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's celebrated painting of the young Saint John!
+
+"You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's gold
+mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
+hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy
+it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,
+and then I took it off the market. I don't want people to give me their
+money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction
+to keep my pride from being hurt. I want 'em to guess the missing letter
+in Chic--go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of
+money.
+
+"Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit
+it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor
+on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I was Admiral
+Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but
+I didn't know my uncle's first name. It shows, though, what an easy town
+it is. As for burglars, they won't go in a house now unless there's a
+hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on 'em. They're
+slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess,
+taking the town from end to end, it's a plain case of assault and
+Battery."
+
+"Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattan
+correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only
+been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me that it's ours with a
+cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I'd be
+a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or more in
+their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms.
+They don't look easy to me."
+
+"You've got it, Billy," says Silver. "All emigrants have it. New York's
+bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You'll
+be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because
+they don't send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide
+sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears
+the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper's wife, and
+Bella, the Buncosteerer's bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than a
+blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I'll break
+the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of
+twenties."
+
+"I hope you are right, Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had
+been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of farmers
+is never so short out there but what you can get a few of 'em to sign
+a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200 at
+the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of
+self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured
+enough to tackle this game."
+
+"Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown
+correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River
+ain't a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway
+who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their lives!
+A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous enough here
+inside of three months to incur either Jerome's clemency or Lawson's
+displeasure."
+
+"Hyperbole aside," says I, "do you know of any immediate system of
+buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the
+Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould's doorsteps?"
+
+"Dozens of 'em," says Silver. "How much capital have you got, Billy?"
+
+"A thousand," I told him.
+
+"I've got $1,200," says he. "We'll pool and do a big piece of business.
+There's so many ways we can make a million that I don't know how to
+begin."
+
+The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and
+stirred with a kind of silent joy.
+
+"We're to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon," says he. "A man I know in
+the hotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He says he likes
+to meet people from the West."
+
+"That sounds nice and plausible," says I. "I'd like to know Mr. Morgan."
+
+"It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few
+finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with
+strangers."
+
+The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o'clock Klein brought his
+Wall Street friend to see us in Silver's room. "Mr. Morgan" looked some
+like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left
+foot, and he walked with a cane.
+
+"Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud," says Klein. "It sounds superfluous," says
+he, "to mention the name of the greatest financial--"
+
+"Cut it out, Klein," says Mr. Morgan. "I'm glad to know you gents; I
+take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you're from Little Rock.
+I think I've a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of you
+guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I--"
+
+"Now, Pierpont," cuts in Klein, "you forget!"
+
+"Excuse me, gents!" says Morgan; "since I've had the gout so bad I
+sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never
+knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He
+lived in Seattle, New Mexico."
+
+Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane
+and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.
+
+"They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?"
+asks Klein, smiling.
+
+"Stocks! No!" roars Mr. Morgan. "It's that picture I sent an agent to
+Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it
+ain't to be found in all Italy. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for that
+picture--yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I
+cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to--"
+
+"Why, Mr. Morgan," says klein; "I thought you owned all of the De Vinchy
+paintings."
+
+"What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?" asks Silver. "It must be as big
+as the side of the Flatiron Building."
+
+"I'm afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver," says Morgan.
+"The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called 'Love's Idle Hour.' It
+represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank of a
+purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to this
+country. My collection will never be complete without that picture.
+Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours."
+
+Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked
+about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said what
+a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I said I
+thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a stroll
+after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue
+to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his
+admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while he buys 'em.
+
+After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me
+and waves his hands.
+
+"Did you see it?" says he. "Did you see it, Billy?"
+
+"What?" I asks.
+
+"Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It's hanging in that pawnshop,
+behind the desk. I didn't say anything because Klein was there. It's the
+article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can make
+them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any skirts, and
+they're doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with the blues.
+What did Mr. Morgan say he'd give for it? Oh, don't make me tell you.
+They can't know what it is in that pawnshop."
+
+When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing
+there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a drink.
+We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains.
+
+"That's a violent specimen of a chromo you've got up there," remarked
+Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse over the girl
+with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for it
+cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in hurrying
+it off the nail?"
+
+The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.
+
+"That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian
+gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called 'Love's Idle Hour,' and
+it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired, and it
+became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is worn a
+great deal now."
+
+At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and
+walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started
+for Morgan's office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two hours
+Silver comes back.
+
+"Did you see Mr. Morgan?" I asks. "How much did he pay you for it?"
+
+Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.
+
+"I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan," he says, "because Mr. Morgan's been
+in Europe for a month. But what's worrying me, Billy, is this: The
+department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for
+$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone--that's what I can't
+understand."
+
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+THE DAY RESURGENT
+
+
+I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes
+to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions
+of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.
+
+First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have
+free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper number
+of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the well-known
+model, will pose for it in the "Lethergogallagher," or whatever it was
+that Trilby called it.
+
+Second--the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.
+This is magazine-covery, but reliable.
+
+Third--Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.
+
+Fourth--Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy
+and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.
+
+Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the
+higher criticism has hard-boiled them.
+
+The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of
+all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception.
+It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back
+still further to the first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a
+new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_.
+
+Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth
+the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a
+holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in
+the footsteps of Danny McCree.
+
+Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the
+calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30
+Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his
+face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard,
+smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap,
+and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder
+between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in
+Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front
+room of the flat Danny's father sat by an open window smoking his pipe,
+with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still
+clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years
+before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without
+permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that
+they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to
+you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the
+headlines?
+
+"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.
+
+"Scramble mine," said Danny.
+
+After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of
+the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur--frock coat, striped
+trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest,
+and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein's
+(between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit stand) Saturday night sale.
+
+"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man McCree,
+a little wistfully. "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it's fine
+spring weather. I can feel it in the air."
+
+"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest
+tones. "Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my
+team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
+you've just eat, I'd like to know? Answer me that!"
+
+"All right, lad," said the old man. "I'm not complainin'. While me two
+eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a Sunday out.
+There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the windy. I have me
+tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your mother
+had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the hippopotamus--but
+let that be."
+
+"Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?" asked Danny
+of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. "Have you been taking
+him to the Zoo? And for what?"
+
+"I have not," said Mrs. McCree. "He sets by the windy all day. 'Tis
+little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I'm thinkin'
+they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without
+stoppin' for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there's lard burnin'
+in the fryin' pan. There is not. He says I do not understand. 'Tis weary
+days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny. There was
+no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes. 'Tis a fine
+day, son. Injoy yeself ag'inst the morning. There will be cold supper at
+six."
+
+"Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of Mike, the
+janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.
+
+"I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis the
+only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that
+I've not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or
+else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,
+then?"
+
+"It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny. "Likely there's
+nothing in it."
+
+Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into
+the heart of the district where Easter--modern Easter, in new, bright
+raiment--leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the
+blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving
+parterres of living flowers--so it seemed when your eye looked upon the
+Easter girl.
+
+Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the
+background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The
+windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent
+creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
+
+Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked
+Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
+
+"Why, Corrigan," he asked, "is Easter? I know it comes the first time
+you're full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March--but why?
+Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it
+out of politics?"
+
+"'Tis an annual celebration," said Corrigan, with the judicial air of
+the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, "peculiar to New York. It extends
+up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and
+Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion 'tis not political."
+
+"Thanks," said Danny. "And say--did you ever hear a man complain of
+hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean."
+
+"Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and there
+was wood alcohol in that."
+
+Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously
+a Sunday and a festival day was his.
+
+The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often
+that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made
+garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the
+griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the
+Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,
+attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,
+and took his pleasure sadly.
+
+The family entrance of Dugan's cafe was feasible; so Danny yielded to
+the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,
+linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the
+mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.
+
+"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"
+
+"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. "Is that a new one?
+All right. Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess. I give it up.
+What's the answer--two apples or a yard and a half?"
+
+From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in
+him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong
+diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.
+
+A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They
+pumped hands on the corner.
+
+"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's wrong?
+Come away with me to church and be cheerful."
+
+"What's doing at church?" asked Danny.
+
+"Why, it's Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin'
+you might come around to go."
+
+"What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily. "Nobody
+seems to know."
+
+"Nobody as blind as you," said Katy with spirit. "You haven't even
+looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it's when all the girls put on new
+spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?"
+
+"I will," said Danny. "If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought to
+be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain't a beauty. The
+green roses are great."
+
+At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke
+rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;
+but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his
+theme--resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of
+the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a
+wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth
+pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.
+
+After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique in
+her sky-blue eyes.
+
+"Are you coming along to the house?" she asked. "But don't mind me. I'll
+get there all right. You seem to be studyin' a lot about something. All
+right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr. McCree?"
+
+"I'll be around Wednesday night as usual," said Danny, turning and
+crossing the street.
+
+Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny
+stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,
+at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep
+in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening
+that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender
+than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and
+deeper-rooted than the love of woman--for had he not turned away from
+green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny
+did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his
+dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow
+the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.
+
+Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.
+
+"Hippopotamus!" he shouted to an elevated road pillar. "Well, how is
+that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was
+driving at now.
+
+"Hippopotamus! Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx! It's been a year
+since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far. We quit at 469
+B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn't have guessed
+what he was trying to get out of him."
+
+Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor
+supported.
+
+Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on
+the sill.
+
+"Will that be you, lad?" he asked.
+
+Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the
+outset of committing a good deed.
+
+"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" he
+snapped, viciously. "Have I no right to come in?"
+
+"Ye're a faithful lad," said old man McCree, with a sigh. "Is it evening
+yet?"
+
+Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt
+letters, "The History of Greece." Dust was on it half an inch thick. He
+laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper.
+And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:
+
+"Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?"
+
+"Did I hear ye open the book?" said old man McCree. "Many and weary be
+the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great
+likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. 'Tis a fine day outside,
+lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair
+by the windy and me pipe."
+
+"Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
+hippopotamus," said Danny. "The war began there. It kept something doing
+for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon,
+in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the
+battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I'll read it."
+
+With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree
+sat for an hour, listening.
+
+Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree
+was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man
+McCree's eyes.
+
+"Do you hear our lad readin' to me?" he said. "There is none finer in
+the land. My two eyes have come back to me again."
+
+After supper he said to Danny: "'Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now
+ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough."
+
+"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" said
+Danny, angrily. "Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is
+yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the
+kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire.
+Am I nothing in this house?"
+
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+THE FIFTH WHEEL
+
+
+The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They
+were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth
+Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked
+at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted
+them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues. The
+Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture looming
+mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood for the
+tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by the
+winged walking delegate of the Lord.
+
+Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the
+Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north
+wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a
+man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you
+credit.
+
+The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over
+the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and had assumed for
+himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box
+on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for
+other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,
+this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all
+might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and
+the rent man and business go to the deuce.
+
+The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
+dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth's
+monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with
+conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the
+Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
+coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad
+of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms
+beautifully devoid of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative
+monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must
+hear one phrase of the Preacher's--the one that formed his theme that
+night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in the
+world.
+
+_"No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky."_
+
+Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to the
+Potter's Field.
+
+A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
+emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his
+coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed
+signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling goose. But,
+conscientiously, I must warn the milliner's apprentice who reads this,
+expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no further. The
+young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for
+drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the
+one-night bed seekers.
+
+If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family
+carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage
+is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van
+Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year's Eve feather
+tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays
+and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady's maid. But it is
+one of the saddest things about romance that a tight shoe or an empty
+commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary heretic of any
+Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas's physical troubles were not few. Therefore,
+his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost lady's maid than it
+was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent things that his
+racked nerves almost convinced him were flying, dancing, crawling, and
+wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above and around the dismal
+campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of straight whisky and
+a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a
+psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by
+phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and intercourse.
+
+The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own
+age, shabby but neat.
+
+"What's the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?" asked Thomas, with the
+freemasonic familiarity of the damned--"Booze? That's mine. You don't
+look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the
+lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that ever
+made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how
+do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale."
+
+The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy
+ex-coachman.
+
+"No," said he, "mine isn't exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow that
+Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion of my
+unforgiving relatives. I've been out of work for a year because I don't
+know how to work; and I've been sick in Bellevue and other hospitals for
+months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I was turned out
+of the hospital yesterday. And I haven't a cent. That's my tale of woe."
+
+"Tough luck," said Thomas. "A man alone can pull through all right. But
+I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it."
+
+Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,
+so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that
+it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and
+pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.
+
+When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became
+loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake
+of the flying car.
+
+Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the
+Preacher's goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
+swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
+both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
+canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with
+the lost tire.
+
+One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand
+an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save
+his pride.
+
+Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
+chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
+sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.
+
+Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner
+and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be
+suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to
+higher denominations.
+
+But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received
+the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,
+and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
+
+"Strange--strange!" said he. "Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied
+that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?"
+
+Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful
+Thomas.
+
+"Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
+if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
+Washington Square North?"
+
+"Oughtn't I to?" replied Thomas. "I lived there. Wish I did yet."
+
+The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
+
+"Step in please," he said. "You have been expected."
+
+Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
+motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
+the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
+course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.
+
+"Maybe the guy hasn't got any change," was his diagnosis. "Lots of these
+swell rounders don't lug about any ready money. Guess he'll dump me out
+when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow,
+it's a cinch that I've got that open-air bed convention beat to a
+finish."
+
+Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself,
+to marvel at the surprises of life. "Wonderful! amazing! strange!" he
+repeated to himself constantly.
+
+When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
+a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front
+houses.
+
+"Be kind enough to enter my house with me," said the sealskinned
+gentleman when they had alighted. "He's going to dig up, sure,"
+reflected Thomas, following him inside.
+
+There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a door
+to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness.
+Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly in
+the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly
+appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy
+tales.
+
+The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
+fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
+portieres of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The
+furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman's feet
+sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three or
+four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet drapery.
+
+Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one
+eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor--to find that
+he had disappeared.
+
+"B'gee!" muttered Thomas, "this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn't
+wonder if it ain't one of these Moravian Nights' adventures that you
+read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy."
+
+Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated
+globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant
+electric glow.
+
+With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
+Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
+terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
+crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
+light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
+portieres parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the
+room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate
+taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy
+hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave
+him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive
+a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah's throne-room advancing to greet a
+visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his
+manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t's_ to be mindful of his
+_p's_ and _q's_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat
+terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.
+
+"Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap.
+I hope I didn't break anything. But I've nearly got the williwalloos,
+and when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a
+snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the
+sideboard."
+
+"That is merely a mechanical toy," said the gentleman with a wave of his
+hand. "May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you to
+my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with the
+psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to the
+point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know the
+Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North."
+
+"Any silver missing?" asked Thomas tartly. "Any joolry displaced? Of
+course I know 'em. Any of the old ladies' sunshades disappeared? Well,
+I know 'em. And then what?"
+
+The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.
+
+"Wonderful!" he murmured. "Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the
+Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you," he continued, "that
+there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you
+that very good fortune awaits you. We will see."
+
+"Do they want me back?" asked Thomas, with something of his old
+professional pride in his voice. "I'll promise to cut out the booze and
+do the right thing if they'll try me again. But how did you get wise,
+doc? B'gee, it's the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its
+flashlight owls and so forth."
+
+With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two
+minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the chauffeur,
+who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious apartment,
+he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by his witty and
+genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the cold streets
+from which he had been so recently and so singularly rescued. A servant
+brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a glass of miraculous
+wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop him. Thus half an
+hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned motor car at the
+door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with another soft
+petition for a brief absence.
+
+Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front
+door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall
+through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was
+screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double
+portieres. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely
+tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were
+scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or
+toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.
+
+The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She
+was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,
+took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an
+attendant might have done.
+
+"You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco," said the elder woman, wearily.
+"I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I've about
+lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to
+your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it."
+
+"Madam," said the professor, with his princeliest smile, "the true Art
+cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes
+requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the
+crystal, the stars, the magic formulae of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of
+Po. But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean
+Chiroscope has been successful in our search."
+
+The professor's voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in
+his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more
+interest.
+
+"Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on
+it," she said. "What do you mean?"
+
+"The words were these," said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full
+magnificent height: "_'By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall
+come.'_"
+
+"I haven't seen many chariots," said the lady, "but I never saw one with
+five wheels."
+
+"Progress," said the professor--"progress in science and mechanics has
+accomplished it--though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an
+extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I
+repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only answer
+the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before your
+eyes the proof thereof."
+
+And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.
+
+"O professor!" she cried anxiously--"When?--where? Has he been found? Do
+not keep me in suspense."
+
+"I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes," said Professor
+Cherubusco, "and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the
+true Art."
+
+Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl
+when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.
+
+"Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
+welcome and restoration to favor?" he asked, with his courteous, royal
+smile.
+
+"Do I look bughouse?" answered Thomas. "Enough of the footback life for
+me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways as
+a nut on a new axle."
+
+"My dear young man," said the other, "she has been searching for you
+everywhere."
+
+"Great!" said Thomas. "I'm on the job. That team of dropsical
+dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman
+like myself; but I'll take the job back, sure, doc. They're good people
+to be with."
+
+And now a change came o'er the suave countenance of the Caliph of
+Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.
+
+"May I ask what your name is?" he said shortly.
+
+"You've been looking for me," said Thomas, "and don't know my name?
+You're a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office
+gumshoers. I'm Thomas McQuade, of course; and I've been chauffeur of
+the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago
+for--well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on
+booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing
+in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.
+Now, what's the prize for the best answer to all this?"
+
+To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and
+dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was
+opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,
+disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian's shoe.
+
+As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he
+hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.
+
+"Crazy guy," was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. "Just
+wanted to have some fun kiddin', I guess. He might have dug up a dollar,
+anyhow. Now I've got to hurry up and get back to that gang of bum bed
+hunters before they all get preached to sleep."
+
+When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of
+the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the
+proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file
+in front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals and
+something of a wife and child.
+
+"Sorry to see you back again," said the young man, turning to speak to
+him. "I hoped you had struck something better than this."
+
+"Me?" said Thomas. "Oh, I just took a run around the block to keep warm!
+I see the public ain't lending to the Lord very fast to-night."
+
+"In this kind of weather," said the young man, "charity avails itself of
+the proverb, and both begins and ends at home."
+
+And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of
+petition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes
+still registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in.
+
+In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with
+wind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight
+toward him from the opposite sidewalk. "Annie!" he yelled, and ran
+toward her.
+
+"You fool, you fool!" she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging upon
+his neck, "why did you do it?"
+
+"The Stuff," explained Thomas briefly. "You know. But subsequently nit.
+Not a drop." He led her to the curb. "How did you happen to see me?"
+
+"I came to find you," said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. "Oh, you
+big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you here."
+
+"Professor Ch---- Don't know the guy. What saloon does he work in?"
+
+"He's a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found you
+with the Chaldean telescope, he said."
+
+"He's a liar," said Thomas. "I never had it. He never saw me have
+anybody's telescope."
+
+"And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something."
+
+"Annie," said Thoms solicitously, "you're giving me the wheels now. If
+I had a chariot I'd have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any
+singing and preaching for a nightcap, either."
+
+"Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she'll take you back. I begged
+her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;
+and your old room over the stable is ready."
+
+"Great!" said Thomas earnestly. "You are It, Annie. But when did these
+stunts happen?"
+
+"To-night at Professor Cherubusco's. He sent his automobile for the
+Missis, and she took me along. I've been there with her before."
+
+"What's the professor's line?"
+
+"He's a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows
+everything. But he hasn't done the Missis any good yet, though she's
+paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told him we
+could find you here."
+
+"What's the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?"
+
+"That's a family secret," said Annie. "And now you've asked enough
+questions. Come on home, you big fool."
+
+They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped.
+
+"Got any dough with you, Annie?" he asked.
+
+Annie looked at him sharply.
+
+"Oh, I know what that look means," said Thomas. "You're wrong. Not
+another drop. But there's a guy that was standing next to me in the bed
+line over there that's in bad shape. He's the right kind, and he's got
+wives or kids or something, and he's on the sick list. No booze. If you
+could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a decent bed I'd like
+it."
+
+Annie's fingers began to wiggle in her purse.
+
+"Sure, I've got money," said she. "Lots of it. Twelve dollars." And then
+she added, with woman's ineradicable suspicion of vicarious benevolence:
+"Bring him here and let me see him first."
+
+Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As
+the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:
+
+"Mr. Walter-- Oh--Mr. Walter!
+
+"Is that you, Annie?" said the young man meekly.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Walter!--and the Missis hunting high and low for you!"
+
+"Does mother want to see me?" he asked, with a flush coming out on his
+pale cheek.
+
+"She's been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see you.
+She wants you to come home. She's tried police and morgues and lawyers
+and advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she
+took up clearvoyants. You'll go right home, won't you, Mr. Walter?"
+
+"Gladly, if she wants me," said the young man. "Three years is a long
+time. I suppose I'll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars are
+giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of bays we
+used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?"
+
+"They have," said Thomas, feelingly. "And they'll have 'em ten years
+from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one
+hundred and forty-nine years. I'm the coachman. Just got my
+reappointment five minutes ago. Let's all ride up in a surface car--that
+is--er--if Annie will pay the fares."
+
+On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to
+pay the conductor.
+
+"Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of
+money around," said Thomas sarcastically.
+
+"In that purse," said Annie decidedly, "is exactly $11.85. I shall take
+every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the
+greatest man in the world."
+
+"Well," said Thomas, "I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe off
+things the way he does. I'm glad his spooks told him where you could
+find me. If you'll give me his address, some day I'll go up there,
+myself, and shake his hand."
+
+Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt an
+abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.
+
+"Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last dreams
+of booze, but I've a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile
+with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights.
+He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front
+steps. If it was the _d t's_, why am I so sore?"
+
+"Shut up, you fool," said Annie.
+
+"If I could find that funny guy's house," said Thomas, in conclusion,
+"I'd go up there some day and punch his nose for him."
+
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+
+
+The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion
+with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.
+
+It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
+song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
+
+When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak
+dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:
+
+"Too artificial."
+
+Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and
+swallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls.
+
+And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a
+well-arrived writer of fiction--a man who had trod on asphalt all his
+life, and who had never looked upon bucolic scenes except with
+sensations of disgust from the windows of express trains.
+
+Conant wrote a poem and called it "The Doe and the Brook." It was a
+fine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had
+strayed with Amaryllis only as far as the florist's windows, and whose
+sole ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter. Conant
+signed this poem, and we sent it to the same editor.
+
+But this has very little to do with the story.
+
+Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next
+morning, a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped slowly
+up Forty-second Street.
+
+The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and
+hair the exact color of the little orphan's (afterward discovered to be
+the earl's daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney's plays. His trousers were
+corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his
+back. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,
+though in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating
+the suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.
+In his hand was a valise--description of it is an impossible task; a
+Boston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office
+in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay--the rustic's
+letter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of the
+Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men.
+
+Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw
+stranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall buildings.
+At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been
+done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney
+"attraction" or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his
+memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the newsboys looked
+bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the way of cabs and
+street cars.
+
+At Eighth Avenue stood "Bunco Harry," with his dyed mustache and shiny,
+good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
+sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who
+had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his
+head.
+
+"Too thick, pal," he said, critically--"too thick by a couple of inches.
+I don't know what your lay is; but you've got the properties too thick.
+That hay, now--why, they don't even allow that on Proctor's circuit any
+more."
+
+"I don't understand you, mister," said the green one. "I'm not lookin'
+for any circus. I've just run down from Ulster County to look at the
+town, bein' that the hayin's over with. Gosh! but it's a whopper. I
+thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times
+as big."
+
+"Oh, well," said "Bunco Harry," raising his eyebrows, "I didn't mean
+to butt in. You don't have to tell. I thought you ought to tone down
+a little, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success at your graft,
+whatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow."
+
+"I wouldn't mind having a glass of lager beer," acknowledged the other.
+
+They went to a cafe frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty eyes,
+and sat at their drinks.
+
+"I'm glad I come across you, mister," said Haylocks. "How'd you like to
+play a game or two of seven-up? I've got the keerds."
+
+He fished them out of Noah's valise--a rare, inimitable deck, greasy
+with bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields.
+
+"Bunco Harry" laughed loud and briefly.
+
+"Not for me, sport," he said, firmly. "I don't go against that make-up
+of yours for a cent. But I still say you've overdone it. The Reubs
+haven't dressed like that since '79. I doubt if you could work Brooklyn
+for a key-winding watch with that layout."
+
+"Oh, you needn't think I ain't got the money," boasted Haylocks. He drew
+forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and laid it
+on the table.
+
+"Got that for my share of grandmother's farm," he announced. "There's
+$950 in that roll. Thought I'd come to the city and look around for a
+likely business to go into."
+
+"Bunco Harry" took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost
+respect in his smiling eyes.
+
+"I've seen worse," he said, critically. "But you'll never do it in them
+clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw
+hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and
+freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work
+off phony stuff like that."
+
+"What's his line?" asked two or three shifty-eyed men of "Bunco Harry"
+after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed.
+
+"The queer, I guess," said Harry. "Or else he's one of Jerome's men.
+Or some guy with a new graft. He's too much hayseed. Maybe that his--I
+wonder now--oh, no, it couldn't have been real money."
+
+Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived
+into a dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight
+of him their eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated
+rusticity became apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion.
+
+Haylocks swung his valise across the bar.
+
+"Keep that a while for me, mister," he said, chewing at the end of a
+virulent claybank cigar. "I'll be back after I knock around a spell. And
+keep your eye on it, for there's $950 inside of it, though maybe you
+wouldn't think so to look at me."
+
+Somewhere outside a phonograph struck up a band piece, and Haylocks was
+off for it, his coat-tail buttons flopping in the middle of his back.
+
+"Divvy, Mike," said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at one
+another.
+
+"Honest, now," said the bartender, kicking the valise to one side. "You
+don't think I'd fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he ain't no jay.
+One of McAdoo's come-on squad, I guess. He's a shine if he made himself
+up. There ain't no parts of the country now where they dress like that
+since they run rural free delivery to Providence, Rhode Island. If he's
+got nine-fifty in that valise it's a ninety-eight cent Waterbury that's
+stopped at ten minutes to ten."
+
+When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse he
+returned for his valise. And then down Broadway he gallivanted, culling
+the sights with his eager blue eyes. But still and evermore Broadway
+rejected him with curt glances and sardonic smiles. He was the oldest of
+the "gags" that the city must endure. He was so flagrantly impossible,
+so ultra rustic, so exaggerated beyond the most freakish products of the
+barnyard, the hayfield and the vaudeville stage, that he excited only
+weariness and suspicion. And the wisp of hay in his hair was so genuine,
+so fresh and redolent of the meadows, so clamorously rural that even a
+shell-game man would have put up his peas and folded his table at the
+sight of it.
+
+Haylocks seated himself upon a flight of stone steps and once more
+exhumed his roll of yellow-backs from the valise. The outer one, a
+twenty, he shucked off and beckoned to a newsboy.
+
+"Son," said he, "run somewhere and get this changed for me. I'm mighty
+nigh out of chicken feed. I guess you'll get a nickel if you'll hurry
+up."
+
+A hurt look appeared through the dirt on the newsy's face.
+
+"Aw, watchert'ink! G'wan and get yer funny bill changed yerself. Dey
+ain't no farm clothes yer got on. G'wan wit yer stage money."
+
+On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He saw
+Haylocks, and his expression suddenly grew cold and virtuous.
+
+"Mister," said the rural one. "I've heard of places in this here town
+where a fellow could have a good game of old sledge or peg a card at
+keno. I got $950 in this valise, and I come down from old Ulster to see
+the sights. Know where a fellow could get action on about $9 or $10? I'm
+goin' to have some sport, and then maybe I'll buy out a business of some
+kind."
+
+The steerer looked pained, and investigated a white speck on his left
+forefinger nail.
+
+"Cheese it, old man," he murmured, reproachfully. "The Central Office
+must be bughouse to send you out looking like such a gillie. You
+couldn't get within two blocks of a sidewalk crap game in them Tony
+Pastor props. The recent Mr. Scotty from Death Valley has got you beat
+a crosstown block in the way of Elizabethan scenery and mechanical
+accessories. Let it be skiddoo for yours. Nay, I know of no gilded halls
+where one may bet a patrol wagon on the ace."
+
+Rebuffed once again by the great city that is so swift to detect
+artificialities, Haylocks sat upon the curb and presented his thoughts
+to hold a conference.
+
+"It's my clothes," said he; "durned if it ain't. They think I'm a
+hayseed and won't have nothin' to do with me. Nobody never made fun of
+this hat in Ulster County. I guess if you want folks to notice you in
+New York you must dress up like they do."
+
+So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through their
+noses and rubbed their hands and ran the tape line ecstatically over the
+bulge in his inside pocket where reposed a red nubbin of corn with an
+even number of rows. And messengers bearing parcels and boxes streamed
+to his hotel on Broadway within the lights of Long Acre.
+
+At 9 o'clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom Ulster
+County would have foresworn. Bright tan were his shoes; his hat the
+latest block. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue
+silk handkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant English
+walking coat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond
+hair was trimmed close; the wisp of hay was gone.
+
+For an instant he stood, resplendent, with the leisurely air of a
+boulevardier concocting in his mind the route for his evening pleasures.
+And then he turned down the gay, bright street with the easy and
+graceful tread of a millionaire.
+
+But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in the
+city had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with gray
+eyes picked two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from the row
+of loungers in front of the hotel.
+
+"The juiciest jay I've seen in six months," said the man with gray eyes.
+"Come along."
+
+It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh
+Street Police Station with the story of his wrongs.
+
+"Nine hundred and fifty dollars," he gasped, "all my share of
+grandmother's farm."
+
+The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust
+Valley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the
+strong-arm gentlemen.
+
+When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was
+received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is
+decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown.
+
+"When I read the first line of 'The Doe and the Brook,'" said the
+editor, "I knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to
+heart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to that
+fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild, free
+child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and walk
+down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show."
+
+"Thanks," said Conant. "I suppose the check will be round on Thursday,
+as usual."
+
+The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your
+choice of "Stay on the Farm" or "Don't Write Poetry."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+THE ROBE OF PEACE
+
+
+Mysteries follow one another so closely in a great city that the reading
+public and the friends of Johnny Bellchambers have ceased to marvel
+at his sudden and unexplained disappearance nearly a year ago. This
+particular mystery has now been cleared up, but the solution is so
+strange and incredible to the mind of the average man that only a select
+few who were in close touch with Bellchambers will give it full
+credence.
+
+Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically
+inner circle of the _elite_. Without any of the ostentation of the
+fashionable ones who endeavor to attract notice by eccentric display of
+wealth and show he still was _au fait_ in everything that gave deserved
+lustre to his high position in the ranks of society.
+
+Especially did he shine in the matter of dress. In this he was the
+despair of imitators. Always correct, exquisitely groomed, and possessed
+of an unlimited wardrobe, he was conceded to be the best-dressed man in
+New York, and, therefore, in America. There was not a tailor in Gotham
+who would not have deemed it a precious boon to have been granted the
+privilege of making Bellchambers' clothes without a cent of pay. As he
+wore them, they would have been a priceless advertisement. Trousers
+were his especial passion. Here nothing but perfection would he notice.
+He would have worn a patch as quickly as he would have overlooked a
+wrinkle. He kept a man in his apartments always busy pressing his ample
+supply. His friends said that three hours was the limit of time that he
+would wear these garments without exchanging.
+
+Bellchambers disappeared very suddenly. For three days his absence
+brought no alarm to his friends, and then they began to operate the
+usual methods of inquiry. All of them failed. He had left absolutely no
+trace behind. Then the search for a motive was instituted, but none was
+found. He had no enemies, he had no debts, there was no woman. There
+were several thousand dollars in his bank to his credit. He had never
+showed any tendency toward mental eccentricity; in fact, he was of a
+particularly calm and well-balanced temperament. Every means of tracing
+the vanished man was made use of, but without avail. It was one of those
+cases--more numerous in late years--where men seem to have gone out like
+the flame of a candle, leaving not even a trail of smoke as a witness.
+
+In May, Tom Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam, two of Bellchambers' old
+friends, went for a little run on the other side. While pottering around
+in Italy and Switzerland, they happened, one day, to hear of a monastery
+in the Swiss Alps that promised something outside of the ordinary
+tourist-beguiling attractions. The monastery was almost inaccessible to
+the average sightseer, being on an extremely rugged and precipitous spur
+of the mountains. The attractions it possessed but did not advertise
+were, first, an exclusive and divine cordial made by the monks that was
+said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse. Next a huge brass bell
+so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceased sounding since it
+was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it was asserted that no
+Englishman had ever set foot within its walls. Eyres and Gilliam decided
+that these three reports called for investigation.
+
+It took them two days with the aid of two guides to reach the monastery
+of St. Gondrau. It stood upon a frozen, wind-swept crag with the snow
+piled about it in treacherous, drifting masses. They were hospitably
+received by the brothers whose duty it was to entertain the infrequent
+guest. They drank of the precious cordial, finding it rarely potent and
+reviving. They listened to the great, ever-echoing bell, and learned
+that they were pioneer travelers, in those gray stone walls, over the
+Englishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly every corner of the
+earth.
+
+At three o'clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young Gothamites
+stood with good Brother Cristofer in the great, cold hallway of the
+monastery to watch the monks march past on their way to the refectory.
+They came slowly, pacing by twos, with their heads bowed, treading
+noiselessly with sandaled feet upon the rough stone flags. As the
+procession slowly filed past, Eyres suddenly gripped Gilliam by the arm.
+"Look," he whispered, eagerly, "at the one just opposite you now--the
+one on this side, with his hand at his waist--if that isn't Johnny
+Bellchambers then I never saw him!"
+
+Gilliam saw and recognized the lost glass of fashion.
+
+"What the deuce," said he, wonderingly, "is old Bell doing here? Tommy,
+it surely can't be he! Never heard of Bell having a turn for the
+religious. Fact is, I've heard him say things when a four-in-hand didn't
+seem to tie up just right that would bring him up for court-martial
+before any church."
+
+"It's Bell, without a doubt," said Eyres, firmly, "or I'm pretty badly
+in need of an oculist. But think of Johnny Bellchambers, the Royal High
+Chancellor of swell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here in cold
+storage doing penance in a snuff-colored bathrobe! I can't get it
+straight in my mind. Let's ask the jolly old boy that's doing the
+honors."
+
+Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the
+monks had passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one they
+referred. Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned their
+worldly names when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to speak
+with one of the brothers? If they would come to the refectory and
+indicate the one they wished to see, the reverend abbot in authority
+would, doubtless, permit it.
+
+Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother
+Cristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They
+saw his face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never
+looking up, eating broth from a coarse, brown bowl.
+
+Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two
+travelers by the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to
+come. When he did come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and
+Gilliam looked at him in perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny
+Bellchambers, but he had a different look. Upon his smooth-shaven face
+was an expression of ineffable peace, of rapturous attainment, of
+perfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly erect, his eyes
+shone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and well-groomed
+as in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now he
+seemed clothed in but a single garment--a long robe of rough brown
+cloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose
+folds nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old
+ease and grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that meeting
+it was not manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no seats;
+they stood to converse.
+
+"Glad to see you, old man," said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. "Wasn't
+expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all.
+Society's an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and
+retire to--er--contemplation and--er--prayer and hymns, and those
+things.
+
+"Oh, cut that, Tommy," said Bellchambers, cheerfully. "Don't be afraid
+that I'll pass around the plate. I go through these thing-um-bobs with
+the rest of these old boys because they are the rules. I'm Brother
+Ambrose here, you know. I'm given just ten minutes to talk to you
+fellows. That's rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn't it,
+Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?"
+
+"It's the same old Johnny," said Gilliam, joyfully. "What the devil--I
+mean why-- Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?"
+
+"Peel the bathrobe," pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, "and go back with
+us. The old crowd'll go wild to see you. This isn't in your line, Bell.
+I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you
+shook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a
+dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice
+factory. You'll get catarrh here, Johnny--and-- My God! you haven't any
+socks on!"
+
+Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled.
+
+"You fellows don't understand," he said, soothingly. "It's nice of you
+to want me to go back, but the old life will never know me again. I
+have reached here the goal of all my ambitions. I am entirely happy
+and contented. Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days. You
+see this robe that I wear?" Bellchambers caressingly touched the
+straight-hanging garment: "At last I have found something that will not
+bag at the knees. I have attained--"
+
+At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated
+through the monastery. It must have been a summons to immediate
+devotions, for Brother Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the
+chamber without another word. A slight wave of his hand as he passed
+through the stone doorway seemed to say a farewell to his old friends.
+They left the monastery without seeing him again.
+
+And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought back
+with them from their latest European tour.
+
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+
+
+The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is
+a conscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is
+the Western Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from
+speculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden
+toys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to a
+pulp.
+
+Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for
+a rest. He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the
+wilderness business is about as much rest and pleasure to him as sliding
+down the bumps at Coney would be to President Taft. "Give me," says
+Pogue, "a big city for my vacation. Especially New York. I'm not much
+fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the globe
+where I don't find any."
+
+While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places.
+One is a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads
+books about his hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at
+the other--his hall bedroom in Eighteenth Street--where he sat in his
+stocking feet trying to pluck "The Banks of the Wabash" out of a small
+zither. Four years he has practised this tune without arriving near
+enough to cast the longest trout line to the water's edge. On the
+dresser lay a blued-steel Colt's forty-five and a tight roll of tens and
+twenties large enough around to belong to the spring rattlesnake-story
+class. A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air fluttered nearby in the
+hall, unable to enter or to flee, scandalized by the stocking feet,
+aghast at the Colt's, yet powerless, with her metropolitan instincts,
+to remove herself beyond the magic influence of the yellow-hued roll.
+
+I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker
+or more candid in his conversation. Beside his expression the cry of
+Henry James for lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have
+seemed like a Chaldean cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession
+with pride, for he considered it an art. And I was curious enough to ask
+him whether he had known any women who followed it.
+
+"Ladies?" said Pogue, with Western chivalry. "Well, not to any great
+extent. They don't amount to much in special lines of graft, because
+they're all so busy in general lines. What? Why, they have to. Who's got
+the money in the world? The men. Did you ever know a man to give a woman
+a dollar without any consideration? A man will shell out his dust to
+another man free and easy and gratis. But if he drops a penny in one of
+the machines run by the Madam Eve's Daughters' Amalgamated Association
+and the pineapple chewing gum don't fall out when he pulls the lever you
+can hear him kick to the superintendent four blocks away. Man is the
+hardest proposition a woman has to go up against. He's the low-grade
+one, and she has to work overtime to make him pay. Two times out of
+five she's salted. She can't put in crushers and costly machinery. He'd
+notice 'em and be onto the game. They have to pan out what they get, and
+it hurts their tender hands. Some of 'em are natural sluice troughs and
+can carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones have to depend on
+signed letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo walk, cowhide whips,
+ability to cook, sentimental juries, conversational powers, silk
+underskirts, ancestry, rouge, anonymous letters, violet sachet powders,
+witnesses, revolvers, pneumatic forms, carbolic acid, moonlight, cold
+cream and the evening newspapers."
+
+"You are outrageous, Ferg," I said. "Surely there is none of this
+'graft' as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious matrimonial union!"
+
+"Well," said Pogue, "nothing that would justify you every time in
+calling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a
+vaudeville manager on a dead run. But it's this way: Suppose you're a
+Fifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and
+cappers.
+
+"You come home at night and bring a $9,000,000 diamond brooch to the
+lady who's staked you for a claim. You hand it over. She says, 'Oh,
+George!' and looks to see if it's backed. She comes up and kisses you.
+You've waited for it. You get it. All right. It's graft.
+
+"But I'm telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and she
+suggested corn in all of its phases. Her hair was as yellow as the silk;
+her form was as tall and graceful as a stalk in the low grounds during a
+wet summer; her eyes were as big and startling as bunions, and green was
+her favorite color.
+
+"On my last trip into the cool recesses of your sequestered city I met a
+human named Vaucross. He was worth--that is, he had a million. He told
+me he was in business on the street. 'A sidewalk merchant?' says I,
+sarcastic. 'Exactly,' says he, 'Senior partner of a paving concern.'
+
+"I kind of took to him. For this reason, I met him on Broadway one night
+when I was out of heart, luck, tobacco and place. He was all silk hat,
+diamonds and front. He was all front. If you had gone behind him you
+would have only looked yourself in the face. I looked like a cross
+between Count Tolstoy and a June lobster. I was out of luck. I had--but
+let me lay my eyes on that dealer again.
+
+"Vaucross stopped and talked to me a few minutes and then he took me to
+a high-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then some
+Beethoven, and Bordelaise sauce, and cussing in French, and frangipangi,
+and some hauteur and cigarettes. When I am flush I know them places.
+
+"I declare, I must have looked as bad as a magazine artist sitting there
+without any money and my hair all rumpled like I was booked to read a
+chapter from 'Elsie's School Days' at a Brooklyn Bohemian smoker. But
+Vaucross treated me like a bear hunter's guide. He wasn't afraid of
+hurting the waiter's feelings.
+
+"'Mr. Pogue,' he explains to me, 'I am using you.'
+
+"'Go on,' says I; 'I hope you don't wake up.'
+
+"And then he tells me, you know, the kind of man he was. He was a
+New Yorker. His whole ambition was to be noticed. He wanted to be
+conspicuous. He wanted people to point him out and bow to him, and tell
+others who he was. He said it had been the desire of his life always. He
+didn't have but a million, so he couldn't attract attention by spending
+money. He said he tried to get into public notice one time by planting
+a little public square on the east side with garlic for free use of
+the poor; but Carnegie heard of it, and covered it over at once with a
+library in the Gaelic language. Three times he had jumped in the way of
+automobiles; but the only result was five broken ribs and a notice in
+the papers that an unknown man, five feet ten, with four amalgam-filled
+teeth, supposed to be the last of the famous Red Leary gang had been run
+over.
+
+"'Ever try the reporters,' I asked him.
+
+"'Last month,' says Mr. Vaucross, 'my expenditure for lunches to
+reporters was $124.80.'
+
+"'Get anything out of that?' I asks.
+
+"'That reminds me,' says he; 'add $8.50 for pepsin. Yes, I got
+indigestion.'
+
+"'How am I supposed to push along your scramble for prominence?' I
+inquires. 'Contrast?'
+
+"'Something of that sort to-night,' says Vaucross. 'It grieves me; but
+I am forced to resort to eccentricity.' And here he drops his napkin in
+his soup and rises up and bows to a gent who is devastating a potato
+under a palm across the room.
+
+"'The Police Commissioner,' says my climber, gratified. 'Friend', says
+I, in a hurry, 'have ambitions but don't kick a rung out of your ladder.
+When you use me as a stepping stone to salute the police you spoil my
+appetite on the grounds that I may be degraded and incriminated. Be
+thoughtful.'
+
+"At the Quaker City squab en casserole the idea about Artemisia Blye
+comes to me.
+
+"'Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,' says I--'a column or
+two every day in all of 'em and your picture in most of 'em for a week.
+How much would it be worth to you?'
+
+"'Ten thousand dollars,' says Vaucross, warm in a minute. 'But no
+murder,' says he; 'and I won't wear pink pants at a cotillon.'
+
+"'I wouldn't ask you to,' says I. 'This is honorable, stylish and
+uneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and some other
+beans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.'
+
+"We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I
+telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple
+of photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth
+Presbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and $80.
+She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior and a
+valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage book
+and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.
+
+"The fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all decolletee
+and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to dinner in one of
+these New York feminine apartment houses where a man can't get in unless
+he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder cigarettes.
+
+"'She's a stunner,' says Vaucross when he saw her. 'They'll give her a
+two-column cut sure.'
+
+"This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business straight
+through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and display
+and emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to nothing as
+far as his ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a white tie
+and patent leather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large end of
+a cornucopia to purchase nutriment and heartsease for tall, willowy
+blondes in New York is as common a sight as blue turtles in delirium
+tremens. But he was to write her love letters--the worst kind of love
+letters, such as your wife publishes after you are dead--every day. At
+the end of the month he was to drop her, and she would bring suit for
+$100,000 for breach of promise.
+
+"Miss Artemisia was to get $10,000. If she won the suit that was all;
+and if she lost she was to get it anyhow. There was a signed contract to
+that effect.
+
+"Sometimes they had me out with 'em, but not often. I couldn't keep up
+to their style. She used to pull out his notes and criticize them like
+bills of lading.
+
+"'Say, you!' she'd say. 'What do you call this--letter to a Hardware
+Merchant from His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash? You
+Eastern duffers know as much about writing love letters as a Kansas
+grasshopper does about tugboats. "My dear Miss Blye!"--wouldn't that put
+pink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake? How long do
+you expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?
+You want to get down to business, and call me "Tweedlums Babe" and
+"Honeysuckle," and sign yourself "Mama's Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy" if
+you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs. Get
+sappy.'
+
+"After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His
+notes read like something or other in the original. I could see a jury
+sitting up, and women tearing one another's hats to hear 'em read. And I
+could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop
+Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever enjoyed. He
+seemed mighty pleased at the prospects.
+
+"They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn
+restaurant and watched 'em. A process-server walked in and handed
+Vaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at 'em; and he
+looked as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent
+cigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.
+
+"About two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood Vaucross
+and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging--yes, sir, clinging--to his
+arm. And they tells me they'd been out and got married. And they
+articulated some trivial cadences about love and such. And they laid
+down a bundle on the table and said 'Good night' and left.
+
+"And that's why I say," concluded Ferguson Pogue, "that a woman is too
+busy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft such as is
+given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great success
+in special lines."
+
+"What was in the bundle that they left?" I asked, with my usual
+curiosity.
+
+"Why," said Ferguson, "there was a scalper's railroad ticket as far as
+Kansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross's old pants."
+
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+THE CALL OF THE TAME
+
+
+When the inauguration was accomplished--the proceedings were made smooth
+by the presence of the Rough Riders--it is well known that a herd of
+those competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The
+newspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats
+and leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed
+with the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the
+wonderful plural "tenderfeet" in each of the scribe's stories. The
+Westerners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third
+story, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel
+corridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of Ye
+Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from his
+valet.
+
+Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy's Gentlemen of
+the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz.
+
+The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue's rush hour swept him away from the
+company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts
+filled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky
+deafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes
+confused his vision.
+
+The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier's first impulse
+was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the
+disturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with
+a grin into a doorway.
+
+The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West
+was not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their
+eyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the
+bright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar,
+pattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters
+on the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the
+out-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of
+the half-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the
+circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest
+sun of Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that
+unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they were
+being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity
+of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have not
+intruded upon him nearer than a day's ride--these brands of the West
+were set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat,
+gentle reader--just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail
+carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.
+
+Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan
+cattle, seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him
+a buffet upon his collar-bone that sent him reeling against a wall.
+
+The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who
+has suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But
+he looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration
+of love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its
+friends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its
+enemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the
+welcoming bullet demands.
+
+"God in the mountains!" cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg of
+his cull. "Can this be Longhorn Merritt?"
+
+The other man was--oh, look on Broadway any day for the
+pattern--business man--latest rolled-brim derby--good barber, business,
+digestion and tailor.
+
+"Greenbrier Nye!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten him.
+"My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to--oh, to be
+sure--the inaugural ceremonies--I remember you joined the Rough Riders.
+You must come and have luncheon with me, of course."
+
+Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the size,
+shape and color of a McClellan saddle.
+
+"Longy," he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic, "what
+have they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen. They done made
+you into an inmate of the city directory. You never made no such Johnny
+Branch execration of yourself as that out on the Gila. 'Come and have
+lunching with me!' You never defined grub by any such terms of reproach
+in them days."
+
+"I've been living in New York seven years," said Merritt. "It's been
+eight since we punched cows together in Old Man Garcia's outfit. Well,
+let's go to a cafe, anyhow. It sounds good to hear it called 'grub'
+again."
+
+They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by
+a natural law, to the bar.
+
+"Speak up," invited Greenbrier.
+
+"A dry Martini," said Merritt.
+
+"Oh, Lord!" cried Greenbrier; "and yet me and you once saw the same pink
+Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in Canyon Diablo! A
+dry--but let that pass. Whiskey straight--and they're on you."
+
+Merritt smiled, and paid.
+
+They lunched in a small extension of the dining room that connected with
+the cafe. Merritt dexterously diverted his friend's choice, that hovered
+over ham and eggs, to a puree of celery, a salmon cutlet, a partridge
+pie and a desirable salad.
+
+"On the day," said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, "when I can't
+hold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I ain't seen in
+eight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o'clock on the
+third day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me forty times over a
+640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?"
+
+"Right, old man," laughed Merritt. "Waiter, bring an absinthe frappe
+and--what's yours, Greenbrier?"
+
+"Whiskey straight," mourned Nye. "Out of the neck of a bottle you used
+to take it, Longy--straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping
+pony--Arizona redeye, not this ab--oh, what's the use? They're on you."
+
+Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass.
+
+"All right. I suppose you think I'm spoiled by the city. I'm as good a
+Westerner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can't make up my mind
+to go back out there. New York is comfortable--comfortable. I make a
+good living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in
+snowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months
+for me. I reckon I'll hang out here in the future. We'll take in the
+theatre to-night, Greenbrier, and after that we'll dine at--"
+
+"I'll tell you what you are, Merritt," said Greenbrier, laying one elbow
+in his salad and the other in his butter. "You are a concentrated,
+effete, unconditional, short-sleeved, gotch-eared Miss Sally Walker. God
+made you perpendicular and suitable to ride straddle and use cuss words
+in the original. Wherefore you have suffered his handiwork to elapse
+by removing yourself to New York and putting on little shoes tied with
+strings, and making faces when you talk. I've seen you rope and tie a
+steer in 42 1/2. If you was to see one now you'd write to the Police
+Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks that you inoculate
+your system with--these little essences of cowslip with acorns in 'em,
+and paregoric flip--they ain't anyways in assent with the cordiality of
+manhood. I hate to see you this way."
+
+"Well, Mr. Greenbrier," said Merritt, with apology in his tone, "in a
+way you are right. Sometimes I do feel like I was being raised on the
+bottle. But, I tell you, New York is comfortable--comfortable. There's
+something about it--the sights and the crowds, and the way it changes
+every day, and the very air of it that seems to tie a one-mile-long
+stake rope around a man's neck, with the other end fastened somewhere
+about Thirty-fourth Street. I don't know what it is."
+
+"God knows," said Greenbrier sadly, "and I know. The East has gobbled
+you up. You was venison, and now you're veal. You put me in mind of a
+japonica in a window. You've been signed, sealed and diskivered.
+Requiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty."
+
+"A green chartreuse here," said Merritt to the waiter.
+
+"Whiskey straight," sighed Greenbrier, "and they're on you, you renegade
+of the round-ups."
+
+"Guilty, with an application for mercy," said Merritt. "You don't know
+how it is, Greenbrier. It's so comfortable here that--"
+
+"Please loan me your smelling salts," pleaded Greenbrier. "If I hadn't
+seen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an empty gun
+in Phoenix--"
+
+Greenbrier's voice died away in pure grief.
+
+"Cigars!" he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion.
+
+"A pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine," said Merritt.
+
+"They're on you," chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal his
+contempt.
+
+At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column.
+
+That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o'er
+fair women and br--let it go, anyhow--brave men. The orchestra played
+charmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a
+waiter when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you
+contributed to it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity.
+
+Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old
+friend, and he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail.
+
+"I take the horehound tea," said Greenbrier, "for old times' sake. But
+I'd prefer whiskey straight. They're on you."
+
+"Right!" said Merritt. "Now, run your eye down that bill of fare and see
+if it seems to hitch on any of these items."
+
+"Lay me on my lava bed!" said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. "All these
+specimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What's this? Horse with the
+heaves? I pass. But look along! Here's truck for twenty round-ups all
+spelled out in different directions. Wait till I see."
+
+The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list.
+
+"This Medoc isn't bad," he suggested.
+
+"You're the doc," said Greenbrier. "I'd rather have whiskey straight.
+It's on you."
+
+Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took
+dishes away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd
+enjoying itself.
+
+"How was the range when you left the Gila?" asked Merritt.
+
+"Fine," said Greenbrier. "You see that lady in the red speckled silk at
+that table. Well, she could warm over her beans at my campfire. Yes, the
+range was good. She looks as nice as a white mustang I see once on Black
+River."
+
+When the coffee came, Greenbrier put one foot on the seat of the chair
+next to him.
+
+"You said it was a comfortable town, Longy," he said, meditatively.
+"Yes, it's a comfortable town. It's different from the plains in a blue
+norther. What did you call that mess in the crock with the handle,
+Longy? Oh, yes, squabs in a cash roll. They're worth the roll. That
+white mustang had just such a way of turning his head and shaking his
+mane--look at her, Longy. If I thought I could sell out my ranch at a
+fair price, I believe I'd--
+
+"Gyar--song!" he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed every knife
+and fork in the restaurant.
+
+The waiter dived toward the table.
+
+"Two more of them cocktail drinks," ordered Greenbrier.
+
+Merritt looked at him and smiled significantly.
+
+"They're on me," said Greenbrier, blowing a puff of smoke to the
+ceiling.
+
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+
+
+The poet Longfellow--or was it Confucius, the inventor of
+wisdom?--remarked:
+
+ "Life is real, life is earnest;
+  And things are not what they seem."
+
+As mathematics are--or is: thanks, old subscriber!--the only just rule
+by which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means,
+adjust our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the
+great goddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures--unassailable sums in
+addition--shall be set over against whatever opposing element there
+may be.
+
+A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would
+say: "Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus--that is, that
+life is real--then things (all of which life includes) are real.
+Anything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the
+proposition that 'things are not what they seem,' why--"
+
+But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we
+would conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued,
+satisfying, mysterious X.
+
+Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an
+old New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that bread
+is made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flour
+crop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no perceptible
+effect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the flour market.
+
+The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never
+had to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought a
+five-cent loaf of bread you laid down an additional two cents, which
+went to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity.
+
+A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000
+prof--er--rake-off.
+
+Mr. Kinsolving's son Dan was at college when the mathematical experiment
+in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found the
+old gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading "Little Dorrit" on the
+porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He had
+retired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from bread
+buyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the earth
+and lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay.
+
+Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village
+to see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired
+Kenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical,
+studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of oligarchies.
+Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning watch-making in his
+father's jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial, easy-tempered and
+tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two foregathered joyously,
+being opposites. And then Dan went back to college, and Kenwitz to his
+mainsprings--and to his private library in the rear of the jewelry shop.
+
+Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the
+accumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took a
+filial look at Septimus Kinsolving's elaborate tombstone in Greenwood
+and a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the family
+lawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire,
+hurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue.
+
+Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parent
+from a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches for
+outdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington
+Square. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity
+that was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more
+intense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic.
+
+"I know about it now," said Dan, finally. "I pumped it out of the
+eminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad's collections
+of bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that
+he squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of
+bread at little bakeries around the corner. You've studied economics,
+Dan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses,
+and the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those things
+before. Football and trying to be white to my fellow-man were about the
+extent of my college curriculum.
+
+"But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I've been
+thinking. I'd like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to give
+up too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income
+for a good many yards; but I'd like to make it square with 'em. Is there
+any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?"
+
+Kenwitz's big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face
+took on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan's arm with the grip of a
+friend and a judge.
+
+"You can't do it!" he said, emphatically. "One of the chief punishments
+of you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find that
+you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I admire
+your good intentions, Dan, but you can't do anything. Those people were
+robbed of their precious pennies. It's too late to remedy the evil. You
+can't pay them back"
+
+"Of course," said Dan, lighting his pipe, "we couldn't hunt up every one
+of the duffers and hand 'em back the right change. There's an awful lot
+of 'em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have--I never cared
+for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the Roquefort.
+But we might find a few of 'em and chuck some of dad's cash back where
+it came from. I'd feel better if I could. It seems tough for people to be
+held up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn't mind standing a rise
+in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and think, Ken. I want
+to pay back all of that money I can."
+
+"There are plenty of charities," said Kenwitz, mechanically.
+
+"Easy enough," said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. "I suppose I could give
+the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don't
+want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold Peter.
+It's the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken."
+
+The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.
+
+"Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of
+consumers during that corner in flour?" he asked.
+
+"I do not." said Dan, stoutly. "My lawyer tells me that I have two
+millions."
+
+"If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn't
+repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You cannot
+conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.
+Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a
+thousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how
+hopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance
+can it be done."
+
+"Back up, philosopher!" said Dan. "The penny has no sorrow that the
+dollar cannot heal."
+
+"Not in one instance," repeated Kenwitz. "I will give you one, and let
+us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.
+He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he
+had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,
+Boyne's business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital--all he had in
+the world."
+
+Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
+
+"I accept the instance," he cried. "Take me to Boyne. I will repay his
+thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery."
+
+"Write your check," said Kenwitz, without moving, "and then begin to
+write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one
+for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the
+building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to
+that much. Boyne died in an asylum."
+
+"Stick to the instance," said Dan. "I haven't noticed any insurance
+companies on my charity list."
+
+"Draw your next check for $100,000," went on Kenwitz. "Boyne's son fell
+into bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He was
+acquitted last week after a three years' legal battle, and the state
+draws upon taxpayers for that much expense."
+
+"Back to the bakery!" exclaimed Dan, impatiently. "The Government
+doesn't need to stand in the bread line."
+
+"The last item of the instance is--come and I will show you," said
+Kenwitz, rising.
+
+The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by
+nature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath
+that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch
+needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.
+
+He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,
+poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid brick
+tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked on a
+door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.
+
+In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She
+nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of
+sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color
+of an ancient Tuscan's shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz
+and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.
+
+Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in
+heart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last
+item of the Instance.
+
+"How many this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker. A mountain of
+coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
+
+"Nearly thirty dozen," said the young woman cheerfully. "I've made
+almost $4. I'm improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so
+much money." Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A
+little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
+
+Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
+
+"Miss Boyne," he said, "let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the
+man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do
+something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act."
+
+The smile left the young woman's face. She rose and pointed her
+forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in
+the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
+
+The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism
+and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the
+moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to
+be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him
+warmly.
+
+"I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely--"a thousand times
+obliged."
+
+"Mein Gott! you are crazy!" cried the watchmaker, dropping his
+spectacles for the first time in years.
+
+Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway
+with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the
+proprietor.
+
+A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
+
+"These loaves are ten cents," said the clerk.
+
+"I always get them at eight cents uptown," said the lady. "You need not
+fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home."
+
+The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.
+
+"Mr. Kenwitz!" cried the lady, heartily. "How do you do?"
+
+Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension
+on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
+
+"Why, Miss Boyne!" he began.
+
+"Mrs. Kinsolving," she corrected. "Dan and I were married a month ago."
+
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+THE THING'S THE PLAY
+
+
+Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free
+passes, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the
+popular vaudeville houses.
+
+One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much
+past forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a
+taste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I
+regarded the man.
+
+"There was a story about that chap a month or two ago," said the
+reporter. "They gave me the assignment. It was to run a column and was
+to be on the extremely light and joking order. The old man seems to like
+the funny touch I give to local happenings. Oh, yes, I'm working on
+a farce comedy now. Well, I went down to the house and got all the
+details; but I certainly fell down on that job. I went back and turned
+in a comic write-up of an east side funeral instead. Why? Oh, I couldn't
+seem to get hold of it with my funny hooks, somehow. Maybe you could
+make a one-act tragedy out of it for a curtain-raiser. I'll give you the
+details."
+
+After the performance my friend, the reporter, recited to me the facts
+over the Wuerzburger.
+
+"I see no reason," said I, when he had concluded, "why that shouldn't
+make a rattling good funny story. Those three people couldn't have acted
+in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had been real actors in
+a real theatre. I'm really afraid that all the stage is a world, anyhow,
+and all the players men and women. 'The thing's the play,' is the way I
+quote Mr. Shakespeare."
+
+"Try it," said the reporter.
+
+"I will," said I; and I did, to show him how he could have made a
+humorous column of it for his paper.
+
+
+There stands a house near Abingdon Square. On the ground floor there has
+been for twenty-five years a little store where toys and notions and
+stationery are sold.
+
+One night twenty years ago there was a wedding in the rooms above the
+store. The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen was
+married to Frank Barry. John Delaney was best man. Helen was eighteen,
+and her picture had been printed in a morning paper next to the
+headlines of a "Wholesale Female Murderess" story from Butte, Mont. But
+after your eye and intelligence had rejected the connection, you seized
+your magnifying glass and read beneath the portrait her description as
+one of a series of Prominent Beauties and Belles of the lower west side.
+
+Frank Barry and John Delaney were "prominent" young beaux of the same
+side, and bosom friends, whom you expected to turn upon each other every
+time the curtain went up. One who pays his money for orchestra seats and
+fiction expects this. That is the first funny idea that has turned up in
+the story yet. Both had made a great race for Helen's hand. When Frank
+won, John shook his hand and congratulated him--honestly, he did.
+
+After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was
+getting married in a traveling dress. She and Frank were going to Old
+Point Comfort for a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering
+cave-dwellers were waiting with their hands full of old Congress gaiters
+and paper bags of hominy.
+
+Then there was a rattle of the fire-escape, and into her room jumps the
+mad and infatuated John Delaney, with a damp curl drooping upon his
+forehead, and made violent and reprehensible love to his lost one,
+entreating her to flee or fly with him to the Riviera, or the Bronx, or
+any old place where there are Italian skies and _dolce far niente_.
+
+It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him. With
+blazing and scornful eyes she fairly withered him by demanding whatever
+he meant by speaking to respectable people that way.
+
+In a few moments she had him going. The manliness that had possessed him
+departed. He bowed low, and said something about "irresistible impulse"
+and "forever carry in his heart the memory of"--and she suggested that
+he catch the first fire-escape going down.
+
+"I will away," said John Delaney, "to the furthermost parts of the
+earth. I cannot remain near you and know that you are another's. I will
+to Africa, and there amid other scenes strive to for--"
+
+"For goodness sake, get out," said Helen. "Somebody might come in."
+
+He knelt upon one knee, and she extended him one white hand that he
+might give it a farewell kiss.
+
+Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever
+vouchsafed you--to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the
+one you don't want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to
+you and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall
+forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to
+feel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky
+one, broken-hearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself
+as he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are well
+manicured--say, girls, it's galluptious--don't ever let it get by you.
+
+And then, of course--how did you guess it?--the door opened and in
+stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.
+
+The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen's hand, and out of the window
+and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.
+
+A little slow music, if you please--faint violin, just a breath in the
+clarinet and a touch of the 'cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot,
+with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing
+and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears
+them from his shoulders--once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and
+that--the stage manager will show you how--and throws her from him to
+the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he
+look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring
+groups of astonished guests.
+
+And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must
+stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray,
+rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which
+must precede the rising of the curtain again.
+
+Mrs. Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could
+have bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and
+general results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but
+she made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth balls,
+nor did she sell it to a magazine.
+
+One day a middle-aged money-making lawyer, who bought his legal cap and
+ink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him.
+
+"I'm really much obliged to you," said Helen, cheerfully, "but I married
+another man twenty years ago. He was more a goose than a man, but I
+think I love him yet. I have never seen him since about half an hour
+after the ceremony. Was it copying ink that you wanted or just writing
+fluid?"
+
+The lawyer bowed over the counter with old-time grace and left a
+respectful kiss on the back of her hand. Helen sighed. Parting salutes,
+however romantic, may be overdone. Here she was at thirty-eight,
+beautiful and admired; and all that she seemed to have got from her
+lovers were approaches and adieus. Worse still, in the last one she had
+lost a customer, too.
+
+Business languished, and she hung out a Room to Let card. Two large
+rooms on the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers
+came, and went regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode
+of neatness, comfort and taste.
+
+One day came Ramonti, the violinist, and engaged the front room above.
+The discord and clatter uptown offended his nice ear; so a friend had
+sent him to this oasis in the desert of noise.
+
+Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short,
+pointed, foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and
+his artist's temperament--revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic
+manner--was a welcome tenant in the old house near Abingdon Square.
+
+Helen lived on the floor above the store. The architecture of it was
+singular and quaint. The hall was large and almost square. Up one side
+of it, and then across the end of it ascended an open stairway to the
+floor above. This hall space she had furnished as a sitting room and
+office combined. There she kept her desk and wrote her business letters;
+and there she sat of evenings by a warm fire and a bright red light and
+sewed or read. Ramonti found the atmosphere so agreeable that he spent
+much time there, describing to Mrs. Barry the wonders of Paris, where he
+had studied with a particularly notorious and noisy fiddler.
+
+Next comes lodger No. 2, a handsome, melancholy man in the early 40's,
+with a brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes.
+He, too, found the society of Helen a desirable thing. With the eyes of
+Romeo and Othello's tongue, he charmed her with tales of distant climes
+and wooed her by respectful innuendo.
+
+From the first Helen felt a marvelous and compelling thrill in the
+presence of this man. His voice somehow took her swiftly back to the
+days of her youth's romance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to
+it, and it led her to an instinctive belief that he had been a factor
+in that romance. And then with a woman's reasoning (oh, yes, they do,
+sometimes) she leaped over common syllogisms and theory, and logic, and
+was sure that her husband had come back to her. For she saw in his eyes
+love, which no woman can mistake, and a thousand tons of regret and
+remorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously near to love requited,
+which is the _sine qua non_ in the house that Jack built.
+
+But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twenty
+years and then drops in again should not expect to find his slippers
+laid out too conveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar.
+There must be expiation, explanation, and possibly execration. A little
+purgatory, and then, maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be
+trusted with a harp and crown. And so she made no sign that she knew or
+suspected.
+
+And my friend, the reporter, could see nothing funny in this! Sent out
+on an assignment to write up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing
+story of--but I will not knock a brother--let us go on with the story.
+
+One evening Ramonti stopped in Helen's hall-office-reception-room and
+told his love with the tenderness and ardor of the enraptured artist.
+His words were a bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the heart
+of a man who is a dreamer and doer combined.
+
+"But before you give me an answer," he went on, before she could accuse
+him of suddenness, "I must tell you that 'Ramonti' is the only name I
+have to offer you. My manager gave me that. I do not know who I am or
+where I came from. My first recollection is of opening my eyes in a
+hospital. I was a young man, and I had been there for weeks. My life
+before that is a blank to me. They told me that I was found lying in the
+street with a wound on my head and was brought there in an ambulance.
+They thought I must have fallen and struck my head upon the stones.
+There was nothing to show who I was. I have never been able to remember.
+After I was discharged from the hospital, I took up the violin. I have
+had success. Mrs. Barry--I do not know your name except that--I love
+you; the first time I saw you I realized that you were the one woman in
+the world for me--and"--oh, a lot of stuff like that.
+
+Helen felt young again. First a wave of pride and a sweet little thrill
+of vanity went all over her; and then she looked Ramonti in the eyes,
+and a tremendous throb went through her heart. She hadn't expected that
+throb. It took her by surprise. The musician had become a big factor in
+her life, and she hadn't been aware of it.
+
+"Mr. Ramonti," she said sorrowfully (this was not on the stage,
+remember; it was in the old home near Abingdon Square), "I'm awfully
+sorry, but I'm a married woman."
+
+And then she told him the sad story of her life, as a heroine must do,
+sooner or later, either to a theatrical manager or to a reporter.
+
+Ramonti took her hand, bowed low and kissed it, and went up to his room.
+
+Helen sat down and looked mournfully at her hand. Well she might. Three
+suitors had kissed it, mounted their red roan steeds and ridden away.
+
+In an hour entered the mysterious stranger with the haunting eyes. Helen
+was in the willow rocker, knitting a useless thing in cotton-wool. He
+ricocheted from the stairs and stopped for a chat. Sitting across the
+table from her, he also poured out his narrative of love. And then he
+said: "Helen, do you not remember me? I think I have seen it in your
+eyes. Can you forgive the past and remember the love that has lasted
+for twenty years? I wronged you deeply--I was afraid to come back to
+you--but my love overpowered my reason. Can you, will you, forgive me?"
+
+Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a
+strong and trembling clasp.
+
+There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene
+like that and her emotions to portray.
+
+For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal
+love for her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory
+of her first choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure
+feeling. Honor and faith and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it. But
+the other half of her heart and soul was filled with something else--a
+later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against the new.
+
+And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,
+petitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the
+noblest. The daws may peck upon one's sleeve without injury, but whoever
+wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the neck.
+
+This music and the musician called her, and at her side honor and the
+old love held her back.
+
+"Forgive me," he pleaded.
+
+"Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you
+love," she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
+
+"How could I tell?" he begged. "I will conceal nothing from you. That
+night when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark
+street I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had
+struck a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and
+jealousy. I hid near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although you
+married him, Helen--"
+
+"_Who Are You?_" cried the woman, with wide-open eyes, snatching her
+hand away.
+
+"Don't you remember me, Helen--the one who has always loved you best? I
+am John Delaney. If you can forgive--"
+
+But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs
+toward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for
+his in each of his two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed,
+cried and sang: "Frank! Frank! Frank!"
+
+Three mortals thus juggling with years as though they were billiard
+balls, and my friend, the reporter, couldn't see anything funny in it!
+
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+
+
+My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She
+left her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she
+plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of
+woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I had
+no cold. Next came her kiss of parting--the level kiss of domesticity
+flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the extemporaneous,
+of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft touch of long
+malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf pin; and then, as I
+closed the door, I heard her morning slippers pattering back to her
+cooling tea.
+
+When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur.
+The attack came suddenly.
+
+For many weeks I had been toiling, almost night and day, at a famous
+railroad law case that I won triumphantly but a few days previously. In
+fact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for
+many years. Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician,
+had warned me.
+
+"If you don't slacken up, Bellford," he said, "you'll go suddenly to
+pieces. Either your nerves or your brain will give way. Tell me,
+does a week pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of
+aphasia--of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his
+identity blotted out--and all from that little brain clot made by
+overwork or worry?"
+
+"I always thought," said I, "that the clot in those instances was really
+to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters."
+
+Doctor Volney shook his head.
+
+"The disease exists," he said. "You need a change or a rest. Court-room,
+office and home--there is the only route you travel. For recreation
+you--read law books. Better take warning in time."
+
+"On Thursday nights," I said, defensively, "my wife and I play cribbage.
+On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. That law
+books are not a recreation remains yet to be established."
+
+That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I was
+feeling as well as I usually did--possibly in better spirits than usual.
+
+
+I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the
+incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and
+tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: "I must have a name
+of some sort." I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a
+paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly
+$3,000 in bills of large denomination. "I must be some one, of course,"
+I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.
+
+The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must
+have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed
+in the best good humor and spirits. One of them--a stout, spectacled
+gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes--took the
+vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper.
+In the intervals between his periods of reading, we conversed, as
+travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the
+conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and
+by my companion said:
+
+"You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this
+time. I'm glad they held the convention in New York; I've never been
+East before. My name's R. P. Bolder--Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove,
+Missouri."
+
+Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it.
+Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent.
+My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of
+drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper,
+where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.
+
+"My name," said I, glibly, "is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and
+my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas."
+
+"I knew you were a druggist," said my fellow traveler, affably. "I saw
+the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle
+rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention."
+
+"Are all these men druggists?" I asked, wonderingly.
+
+"They are. This car came through from the West. And they're your
+old-time druggists, too--none of your patent tablet-and-granule
+pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk.
+We percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain't
+above handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side
+line of confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I've got an idea
+to spring on this convention--new ideas is what they want. Now, you
+know the shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot.
+Tart. and Sod. et Pot. Tart.--one's poison, you know, and the other's
+harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do
+druggists mostly keep 'em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different
+shelves. That's wrong. I say keep 'em side by side, so when you want
+one you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you
+catch the idea?"
+
+"It seems to me a very good one," I said.
+
+"All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We'll
+make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream professors
+that think they're the only lozenges in the market look like hypodermic
+tablets."
+
+"If I can be of any aid," I said, warming, "the two bottles of--er--"
+
+"Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash."
+
+"Shall henceforth sit side by side," I concluded, firmly.
+
+"Now, there's another thing," said Mr. Bolder. "For an excipient in
+manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer--the magnesia carbonate or
+the pulverised glycerrhiza radix?"
+
+"The--er--magnesia," I said. It was easier to say than the other word.
+
+Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
+
+"Give me the glycerrhiza," said he. "Magnesia cakes."
+
+"Here's another one of these fake aphasia cases," he said, presently,
+handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. "I
+don't believe in 'em. I put nine out of ten of 'em down as frauds. A man
+gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time.
+He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost
+his memory--don't know his own name, and won't even recognize the
+strawberry mark on his wife's left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why can't
+they stay at home and forget?"
+
+I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:
+
+
+   "DENVER, June 12.--Elwyn C. Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is
+   mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all
+   efforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known
+   citizen of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and
+   lucrative law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the
+   most extensive private library in the State. On the day of his
+   disappearance, he drew quite a large sum of money from his bank. No
+   one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford
+   was a man of singularly quiet and domestic tastes, and seemed to
+   find his happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at all
+   exists to his strange disappearance, it may be found in the fact
+   that for some months he has been deeply absorbed in an important
+   law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z. Railroad Company. It
+   is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort
+   is being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man."
+
+
+"It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder," I said,
+after I had read the despatch. "This has the sound, to me, of a genuine
+case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected,
+choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of
+memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name,
+a history or a home."
+
+"Oh, gammon and jalap!" said Mr. Bolder. "It's larks they're after.
+There's too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they
+use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it's all over they
+look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: 'He
+hypnotized me.'"
+
+Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and
+philosophy.
+
+We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel,
+and I wrote my name "Edward Pinkhammer" in the register. As I did so
+I felt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy--a sense of
+unlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born into
+the world. The old fetters--whatever they had been--were stricken from
+my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an
+infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man's
+learning and experience.
+
+I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no
+baggage.
+
+"The Druggists' Convention," I said. "My trunk has somehow failed to
+arrive." I drew out a roll of money.
+
+"Ah!" said he, showing an auriferous tooth, "we have quite a number of
+the Western delegates stopping here." He struck a bell for the boy.
+
+I endeavored to give color to my role.
+
+"There is an important movement on foot among us Westerners," I said,
+"in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles
+containing the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of
+sodium and potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf."
+
+"Gentleman to three-fourteen," said the clerk, hastily. I was whisked
+away to my room.
+
+The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life
+of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve
+problems of the past.
+
+It was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up to
+my lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to him
+who is able to bear them. You must be either the city's guest or its
+victim.
+
+The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet
+counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having
+come upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat
+entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens,
+that transported one into strange and delightful lands full of
+frolicsome music, pretty girls and grotesque drolly extravagant parodies
+upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will, bound by
+no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird cabarets, at
+weirder _tables d'hote_ to the sound of Hungarian music and the wild
+shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or, again, where the night
+life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic picture, and the
+millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they adorn,
+and the men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the
+spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that I have mentioned I
+learned one thing that I never knew before. And that is that the key to
+liberty is not in the hands of License, but Convention holds it. Comity
+has a toll-gate at which you must pay, or you may not enter the land
+of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming disorder, the parade, the
+abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail. Therefore,
+in Manhattan you must obey these unwritten laws, and then you will be
+freest of the free. If you decline to be bound by them, you put on
+shackles.
+
+Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly
+murmuring palm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate
+restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in
+steamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks
+and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there
+was always Broadway--glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable
+Broadway--growing upon one like an opium habit.
+
+One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a
+black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed
+around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.
+
+"Hello, Bellford!" he cried, loudly. "What the deuce are you doing in
+New York? Didn't know anything could drag you away from that old book
+den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,
+eh?"
+
+"You have made a mistake, sir," I said, coldly, releasing my hand from
+his grasp. "My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me."
+
+The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the
+clerk's desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about
+telegraph blanks.
+
+"You will give me my bill," I said to the clerk, "and have my baggage
+brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed
+by confidence men."
+
+I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on
+lower Fifth Avenue.
+
+There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be
+served almost _al fresco_ in a tropic array of screening flora. Quiet
+and luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to take
+luncheon or refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way to a
+table among the ferns when I felt my sleeve caught.
+
+"Mr. Bellford!" exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.
+
+I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone--a lady of about thirty,
+with exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been
+her very dear friend.
+
+"You were about to pass me," she said, accusingly. "Don't tell me you
+do not know me. Why should we not shake hands--at least once in fifteen
+years?"
+
+I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the
+table. I summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was
+philandering with an orange ice. I ordered a _creme de menthe_. Her hair
+was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you could not look
+away from her eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are conscious of
+sunset while you look into the profundities of a wood at twilight.
+
+"Are you sure you know me?" I asked.
+
+"No," she said, smiling. "I was never sure of that."
+
+"What would you think," I said, a little anxiously, "if I were to tell
+you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas?"
+
+"What would I think?" she repeated, with a merry glance. "Why, that you
+had not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I do wish
+you had. I would have liked to see Marian." Her voice lowered
+slightly--"You haven't changed much, Elwyn."
+
+I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
+
+"Yes, you have," she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in
+her latest tones; "I see it now. You haven't forgotten. You haven't
+forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could."
+
+I poked my straw anxiously in the _creme de menthe_.
+
+"I'm sure I beg your pardon," I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. "But
+that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I've forgotten everything."
+
+She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed
+to see in my face.
+
+"I've heard of you at times," she went on. "You're quite a big lawyer
+out West--Denver, isn't it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of
+you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You
+may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand
+dollars."
+
+She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
+
+"Would it be too late," I asked, somewhat timorously, "to offer you
+congratulations?"
+
+"Not if you dare do it," she answered, with such fine intrepidity that
+I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb
+nail.
+
+"Tell me one thing," she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly--"a
+thing I have wanted to know for many years--just from a woman's
+curiosity, of course--have you ever dared since that night to touch,
+smell or look at white roses--at white roses wet with rain and dew?"
+
+I took a sip of _creme de menthe_.
+
+"It would be useless, I suppose," I said, with a sigh, "for me to repeat
+that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory is
+completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it."
+
+The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained
+my words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She
+laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound--it was a laugh of
+happiness--yes, and of content--and of misery. I tried to look away from
+her.
+
+"You lie, Elwyn Bellford," she breathed, blissfully. "Oh, I know you
+lie!"
+
+I gazed dully into the ferns.
+
+"My name is Edward Pinkhammer," I said. "I came with the delegates to
+the Druggists' National Convention. There is a movement on foot for
+arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and
+tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little
+interest."
+
+A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her
+hand, and bowed.
+
+"I am deeply sorry," I said to her, "that I cannot remember. I could
+explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
+Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the--the roses and
+other things."
+
+"Good-by, Mr. Bellford," she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as
+she stepped into her carriage.
+
+I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet
+man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails
+with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
+
+ "Mr. Pinkhammer," he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his
+forefinger, "may I request you to step aside with me for a little
+conversation? There is a room here."
+
+"Certainly," I answered.
+
+He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman
+were there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually good-looking
+had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen worry and
+fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring and
+features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling dress;
+she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and pressed an
+unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started forward, but
+the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative motion of his
+hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of forty, a little
+gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful face.
+
+"Bellford, old man," he said, cordially, "I'm glad to see you again. Of
+course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you
+were overdoing it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in
+no time."
+
+I smiled ironically.
+
+"I have been 'Bellforded' so often," I said, "that it has lost its edge.
+Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to
+entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I
+never saw you before in my life?"
+
+Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She sprang
+past his detaining arm. "Elwyn!" she sobbed, and cast herself upon me,
+and clung tight. "Elwyn," she cried again, "don't break my heart. I am
+your wife--call my name once--just once. I could see you dead rather
+than this way."
+
+I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
+
+"Madam," I said, severely, "pardon me if I suggest that you accept a
+resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity," I went on, with an amused
+laugh, as the thought occurred to me, "that this Bellford and I could
+not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium
+and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the
+allusion," I concluded airily, "it may be necessary for you to keep an
+eye on the proceedings of the Druggists' National Convention."
+
+The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
+
+"What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?" she moaned.
+
+He led her to the door.
+
+"Go to your room for a while," I heard him say. "I will remain and talk
+with him. His mind? No, I think not--only a portion of the brain. Yes,
+I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him."
+
+The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still
+manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
+
+"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may," said
+the gentleman who remained.
+
+"Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take it
+comfortably; I am rather tired." I stretched myself upon a couch by a
+window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
+
+"Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly. "Your name is not
+Pinkhammer."
+
+"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly. "But a man must have a
+name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire
+the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self suddenly, the
+fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been
+Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer."
+
+"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford. You
+are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack
+of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of
+it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too
+bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the
+room is your wife."
+
+"She is what I would call a fine-looking woman," I said, after a
+judicial pause. "I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair."
+
+"She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two
+weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in
+New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from
+Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did
+not recognize him."
+
+"I think I remember the occasion," I said. "The fellow called me
+'Bellford,' if I am not mistaken. But don't you think it about time,
+now, for you to introduce yourself?"
+
+"I am Robert Volney--Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for
+twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford
+to trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man--try to
+remember!"
+
+"What's the use to try?" I asked, with a little frown. "You say you are
+a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it
+return slowly, or suddenly?"
+
+"Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it went."
+
+"Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?" I asked.
+
+"Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power, and will have
+done everything that science can do to cure you."
+
+"Very well," said I. "Then you will consider that I am your patient.
+Everything is in confidence now--professional confidence."
+
+"Of course," said Doctor Volney.
+
+I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the
+centre table--a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.
+I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the
+couch again.
+
+"It will be best, Bobby," I said, "to have this cure happen suddenly.
+I'm rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in.
+But, oh, Doc," I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin--"good
+old Doc--it was glorious!"
+
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+
+
+     The cities are full of pride,
+       Challenging each to each--
+     This from her mountainside,
+       That from her burthened beach.
+                               R. KIPLING.
+
+  Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,
+  Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States
+  that are "story cities"--New York, of course, New Orleans, and,
+  best of the lot, San Francisco.--FRANK NORRIS.
+
+
+East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.
+Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a
+State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less
+loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak
+of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into
+detail.
+
+Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half
+an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.
+But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness
+comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the
+Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation
+is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it
+is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town
+there can be no romance--what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and
+a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and
+McNally.
+
+
+  NASHVILLE--A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the
+  State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the
+  N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads.  This city is regarded
+  as the most important educational centre in the South.
+
+
+I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain
+for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the
+form of a recipe.
+
+Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;
+dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of
+honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.
+
+The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville
+drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup;
+but 'tis enough--'twill serve.
+
+I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for
+me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of
+Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and
+driven by something dark and emancipated.
+
+I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it
+the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).
+I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old
+"marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah."
+
+The hotel was one of the kind described as "renovated." That means
+$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass
+cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of
+Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management
+was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy,
+the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as
+Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There
+is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers _en
+brochette_.
+
+At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He
+pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't
+really reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown."
+
+Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long
+before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the
+streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.
+
+
+  It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted
+  by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.
+
+
+As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a
+company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with--no, I saw with
+relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan
+of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, "Kyar you
+anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned that I was
+merely a "fare" instead of a victim.
+
+I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those
+streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn't until they were
+"graded." On a few of the "main streets" I saw lights in stores here and
+there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon;
+saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of
+semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor.
+The streets other than "main" seemed to have enticed upon their borders
+houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights
+shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled
+orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little "doing."
+I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.
+
+
+  In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against
+  Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas.
+  The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a
+  terrible conflict.
+
+
+All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine
+marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the
+tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There
+were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the
+great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the
+crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a
+ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible
+battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.
+Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of
+Jefferson Brick! the tile floor--the beautiful tile floor! I could not
+avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my
+foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
+
+Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew
+him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat
+has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so
+well said almost everything:
+
+
+  Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,
+  And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
+
+
+Let us regard the word "British" as interchangeable _ad lib_. A rat
+is a rat.
+
+This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had
+forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage,
+red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.
+He possessed one single virtue--he was very smoothly shaven. The mark
+of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a
+stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have
+repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have
+been spared the addition of one murder.
+
+I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major
+Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive
+that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles;
+so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to
+apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he
+had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.
+
+I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by
+profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince
+Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug
+chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little
+lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another Wuerzburger
+and wish that Longstreet had--but what's the use?
+
+Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort
+Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to
+hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam
+was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.
+Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family
+matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and
+profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in
+the land of Nod.
+
+By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure
+by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that
+I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he
+crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another
+serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of him
+brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained my
+release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and
+showed a handful of silver money.
+
+When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: "If that
+man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint,
+we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any
+known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the
+time. But we don't seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him
+out legally."
+
+"Why, no," said I, after some reflection; "I don't see my way clear
+to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as
+asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town," I continued,
+"seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or
+excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?"
+
+"Well, sir," said the clerk, "there will be a show here next Thursday.
+It is--I'll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room
+with the ice water. Good night."
+
+After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about
+ten o'clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued,
+spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the
+Ladies' Exchange.
+
+"A quiet place," I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling
+of the occupant of the room beneath mine. "Nothing of the life here that
+gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a good,
+ordinary, humdrum, business town."
+
+
+  Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing
+  centres of the country.  It is the fifth boot and shoe market
+  in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing
+  city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods,
+  grocery, and drug business.
+
+
+I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the
+digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was
+traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a
+Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal
+connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea
+Adair.
+
+Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had
+sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors
+swear approvingly over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had
+commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or her
+output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten
+or twenty.
+
+At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken livers _en brochette_
+(try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle,
+which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner I came
+upon Uncle Caesar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids,
+with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second
+afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat
+that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his ankles and had
+once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and sun and age had so
+variegated it that Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale
+monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it has to do with the
+story--the story that is so long in coming, because you can hardly
+expect anything to happen in Nashville.
+
+Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it
+had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled
+magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead
+had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving "black mammy")
+new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine
+was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a
+substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking
+devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing
+frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all
+its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone
+remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the
+buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There
+was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many
+mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of
+yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine.
+
+This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have
+started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals
+hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a
+feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling
+tones:
+
+"Step right in, suh; ain't a speck of dust in it--jus' got back from a
+funeral, suh."
+
+I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra
+cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was
+little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked
+in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.
+
+"I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street," I said, and was about to step
+into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of
+the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of
+sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly
+returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: "What are you gwine there
+for, boss?"
+
+"What is it to you?" I asked, a little sharply.
+
+"Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome kind of part of town
+and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is
+clean--jes' got back from a funeral, suh."
+
+A mile and a half it must have been to our journey's end. I could hear
+nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick
+paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with
+coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms.
+All I could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim
+houses.
+
+
+  The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets,
+  of which 137 miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost
+  $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.
+
+
+Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards
+back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees
+and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid
+the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose
+that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when
+you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former
+grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside.
+
+When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came
+to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter,
+feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.
+
+"It's two dollars, suh," he said.
+
+"How's that?" I asked. "I plainly heard you call out at the hotel:
+'Fifty cents to any part of the town.'"
+
+"It's two dollars, suh," he repeated obstinately. "It's a long ways from
+the hotel."
+
+"It is within the city limits and well within them." I argued. "Don't
+think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills
+over there?" I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them,
+myself, for the drizzle); "well, I was born and raised on their other
+side. You old fool nigger, can't you tell people from other people when
+you see 'em?"
+
+The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. "Is you from the South, suh?
+I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin' sharp
+in the toes for a Southern gen'l'man to wear."
+
+"Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?" said I inexorably.
+
+His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned,
+remained ten seconds, and vanished.
+
+"Boss," he said, "fifty cents is right; but I _needs_ two dollars, suh;
+I'm _obleeged_ to have two dollars. I ain't _demandin'_ it now, suh;
+after I know whar you's from; I'm jus' sayin' that I _has_ to have two
+dollars to-night, and business is mighty po'."
+
+Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been
+luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn,
+ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.
+
+"You confounded old rascal," I said, reaching down to my pocket, "you
+ought to be turned over to the police."
+
+For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; _he knew_. HE KNEW.
+
+I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that
+one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was
+missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A
+strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its
+negotiability.
+
+Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted
+the rope and opened a creaky gate.
+
+The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in
+twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled
+it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that
+hugged it close--the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still
+drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and
+cold.
+
+Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the
+cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the
+cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a
+queen's, received me.
+
+The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in
+it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a
+cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two
+or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon
+drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of
+Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.
+
+Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated
+to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the
+sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid
+originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at
+home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from inference and
+by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists
+made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers, trying,
+unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the
+half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne
+and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly
+everybody nowadays knows too much--oh, so much too much--of real life.
+
+I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a
+dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to
+the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas
+in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like
+a harpsichord's, and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the
+presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower
+the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy after
+I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three
+o'clock of the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the business
+proposition.
+
+"Your town," I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the
+time for smooth generalities), "seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A
+home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever
+happen."
+
+
+  It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with
+  the West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity
+  of more than 2,000 barrels.
+
+
+Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.
+
+"I have never thought of it that way," she said, with a kind of sincere
+intensity that seemed to belong to her. "Isn't it in the still, quiet
+places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the
+earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one's window
+and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the
+everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world--I mean
+the building of the Tower of Babel--result in finally? A page and a half
+of Esperanto in the _North American Review_."
+
+"Of course," said I platitudinously, "human nature is the same
+everywhere; but there is more color--er--more drama and movement
+and--er--romance in some cities than in others."
+
+"On the surface," said Azalea Adair. "I have traveled many times around
+the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings--print and dreams. I
+have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring
+with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in
+public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets
+because his wife was going out with her face covered--with rice powder.
+In San Francisco's Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped
+slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would
+never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had
+reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville
+the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates
+and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The
+boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have
+seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh,
+yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud
+and lumber yards."
+
+Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair
+breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back
+in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and
+ten years lifted from her shoulders.
+
+"You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said, "and a sugar
+cake."
+
+She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl
+about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in
+mouth and bulging eyes.
+
+Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill,
+a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two
+pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It
+was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro--there was no doubt
+about it.
+
+"Go up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy," she said, handing the
+girl the dollar bill, "and get a quarter of a pound of tea--the kind he
+always sends me--and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The
+supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted," she explained to
+me.
+
+Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet
+had died away on the back porch, a wild shriek--I was sure it was
+hers--filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry
+man's voice mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible
+words.
+
+Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two
+minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man's voice; then something
+like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.
+
+"This is a roomy house," she said, "and I have a tenant for part of it.
+I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible
+to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr. Baker
+will be able to supply me."
+
+I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired
+concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on
+my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair's name. But
+to-morrow would do.
+
+That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this
+uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but
+in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an
+accomplice--after the fact, if that is the correct legal term--to a
+murder.
+
+As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the
+polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of
+his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his
+ritual: "Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean--jus' got back from a
+funeral. Fifty cents to any--"
+
+And then he knew me and grinned broadly. "'Scuse me, boss; you is de
+gen'l'man what rid out with me dis mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh."
+
+"I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three," said I,
+"and if you will be here, I'll let you drive me. So you know Miss
+Adair?" I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.
+
+"I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh," he replied.
+
+"I judge that she is pretty poor," I said. "She hasn't much money to
+speak of, has she?"
+
+For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King
+Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack
+driver.
+
+"She ain't gwine to starve, suh," he said slowly. "She has reso'ces,
+suh; she has reso'ces."
+
+"I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip," said I.
+
+"Dat is puffeckly correct, suh," he answered humbly. "I jus' _had_ to
+have dat two dollars dis mawnin', boss."
+
+I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: "A.
+Adair holds out for eight cents a word."
+
+The answer that came back was: "Give it to her quick you duffer."
+
+Just before dinner "Major" Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the
+greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so
+instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was
+standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the
+white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks,
+hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable,
+roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks
+attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.
+
+With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a
+pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the
+dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the
+middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar
+bill again. It could have been no other.
+
+I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary,
+eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that
+just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar
+bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective
+story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: "Seems as if a
+lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver's Trust. Pays dividends
+promptly, too. Wonder if--" Then I fell asleep.
+
+King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over
+the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I
+was ready.
+
+Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked
+on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per
+word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without
+much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa
+and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored
+Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him,
+he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the
+value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired
+and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight
+cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of
+mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old
+Negro.
+
+"Uncle Caesar," he said calmly, "Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to
+give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port
+wine. And hurry back. Don't drive--run. I want you to get back sometime
+this week."
+
+It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the
+speeding powers of the land-pirate's steeds. After Uncle Caesar was
+gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me
+over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he
+had decided that I might do.
+
+"It is only a case of insufficient nutrition," he said. "In other words,
+the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many
+devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept
+nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle Caesar, who was once owned by
+her family."
+
+"Mrs. Caswell!" said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract
+and saw that she had signed it "Azalea Adair Caswell."
+
+"I thought she was Miss Adair," I said.
+
+"Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir," said the doctor. "It
+is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant
+contributes toward her support."
+
+When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea
+Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that
+were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to
+her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart.
+Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere,
+and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power
+and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on
+future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.
+
+"By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had
+royalty for a coachman. Old Caesar's grandfather was a king in Congo.
+Caesar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed."
+
+As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Caesar's voice inside: "Did
+he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?"
+
+"Yes, Caesar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in
+and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the
+responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary
+formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Caesar drove me back
+to the hotel.
+
+Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The
+rest must be only bare statements of facts.
+
+At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Caesar was at his
+corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster
+and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to
+anywhere in the city--hack's puffickly clean, suh--jus' got back from a
+funeral--"
+
+And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His
+coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings
+were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button--the button of
+yellow horn--was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle Caesar!
+
+About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of
+a drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I
+wedged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs
+was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A
+doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was
+that it was conspicuous by its absence.
+
+The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by
+curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had
+been engaged in terrific battle--the details showed that. Loafer and
+reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had
+lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not
+be opened. The gentle citizens who had know him stood about and searched
+their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were possible, to
+speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought: "When 'Cas'
+was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in school."
+
+While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of "the man that was"
+which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped
+something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little
+later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last
+struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it
+in a death grip.
+
+At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the
+possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major
+Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners:
+
+"In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these
+no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon
+which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found
+the money was not on his person."
+
+I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing
+the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow
+horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends
+of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the
+slow, muddy waters below.
+
+_I wonder what's doing in Buffalo!_
+
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+
+
+If you are a philosopher you can do this thing: you can go to the top
+of a high building, look down upon your fellow-men 300 feet below, and
+despise them as insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on
+summer ponds, they crawl and circle and hustle about idiotically without
+aim or purpose. They do not even move with the admirable intelligence
+of ants, for ants always know when they are going home. The ant is of
+a lowly station, but he will often reach home and get his slippers on
+while you are left at your elevated station.
+
+Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a creeping,
+contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires, bootblacks, beauties,
+hod-carriers and politicians become little black specks dodging bigger
+black specks in streets no wider than your thumb.
+
+From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an
+unintelligible mass of distorted buildings and impossible perspectives;
+the revered ocean is a duck pond; the earth itself a lost golf ball. All
+the minutiae of life are gone. The philosopher gazes into the infinite
+heavens above him, and allows his soul to expand to the influence of
+his new view. He feels that he is the heir to Eternity and the child of
+Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his immortal heritage,
+and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind shall traverse
+those mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet. The tiny world
+beneath his feet upon which this towering structure of steel rests as a
+speck of dust upon a Himalayan mountain--it is but one of a countless
+number of such whirling atoms. What are the ambitions, the achievements,
+the paltry conquests and loves of those restless black insects below
+compared with the serene and awful immensity of the universe that lies
+above and around their insignificant city?
+
+It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They
+have been expressly compiled from the philosophies of the world and set
+down with the proper interrogation point at the end of them to represent
+the invariable musings of deep thinkers on high places. And when the
+philosopher takes the elevator down his mind is broader, his heart is at
+peace, and his conception of the cosmogony of creation is as wide as the
+buckle of Orion's summer belt.
+
+But if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an Eighth
+Avenue candy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet
+by eight, and earned $6 per week, and ate ten-cent lunches and were
+nineteen years old, and got up at 6.30 and worked till 9, and never had
+studied philosophy, maybe things wouldn't look that way to you from the
+top of a skyscraper.
+
+Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who
+kept the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a tool-box
+of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow's nest against a corner
+of a down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit, candies,
+newspapers, song books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season. When stern
+winter shook his congealed locks and Joe had to move himself and the
+fruit inside, there was exactly room in the store for the proprietor,
+his wares, a stove the size of a vinegar cruet, and one customer.
+
+Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues
+and fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and
+wanted Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her.
+
+"I got money saved up, Daisy," was his love song; "and you know how bad
+I want you. That store of mine ain't very big, but--"
+
+"Oh, ain't it?" would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one. "Why,
+I heard Wanamaker's was trying to get you to sublet part of your floor
+space to them for next year."
+
+Daisy passed Joe's corner every morning and evening.
+
+"Hello, Two-by-Four!" was her usual greeting. "Seems to me your store
+looks emptier. You must have sold a pack of chewing gum."
+
+"Ain't much room in here, sure," Joe would answer, with his slow grin,
+"except for you, Daise. Me and the store are waitin' for you whenever
+you'll take us. Don't you think you might before long?"
+
+"Store!"--a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy's uptilted nose--"sardine
+box! Waitin' for me, you say? Gee! you'd have to throw out about a
+hundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of it, Joe."
+
+"I wouldn't mind an even swap like that," said Joe, complimentary.
+
+Daisy's existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways
+between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall
+bedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were
+so near to one another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of
+noise. She could light the gas with one hand and close the door with the
+other without taking her eyes off the reflection of her brown pompadour
+in the mirror. She had Joe's picture in a gilt frame on the dresser, and
+sometimes--but her next thought would always be of Joe's funny little
+store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great building, and
+away would go her sentiment in a breeze of laughter.
+
+Daisy's other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board
+in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a
+philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like
+continental labels on a Passaic (N. J.) suit-case. Knowledge he had
+kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as
+for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without
+so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the
+proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the
+shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails
+required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the
+population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of Mr.
+H. McKay Twombly's second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel,
+the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office
+messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, Pa., and the number
+of bones in the foreleg of a cat.
+
+The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were
+the sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk
+that he would set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And
+again he used them as breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse.
+Firing at you a volley of figures concerning the weight of a lineal
+foot of bar-iron 5 x 2 3/4 inches, and the average annual rainfall at
+Fort Snelling, Minn., he would transfix with his fork the best piece of
+chicken on the dish while you were trying to rally sufficiently to ask
+him weakly why does a hen cross the road.
+
+Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good looks,
+of a hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon kind, it
+seems that Joe, of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival worthy of his
+steel. But Joe carried no steel. There wouldn't have been room in his
+store to draw it if he had.
+
+One Saturday afternoon, about four o'clock, Daisy and Mr. Dabster
+stopped before Joe's booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and--well, Daisy
+was a woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until Joe
+had seen it. A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible object
+of the call. Joe supplied it through the open side of his store. He did
+not pale or falter at sight of the hat.
+
+"Mr. Dabster's going to take me on top of the building to observe the
+view," said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. "I never was
+on a skyscraper. I guess it must be awfully nice and funny up there."
+
+"H'm!" said Joe.
+
+"The panorama," said Mr. Dabster, "exposed to the gaze from the top of
+a lofty building is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy has
+a decided pleasure in store for her."
+
+"It's windy up there, too, as well as here," said Joe. "Are you dressed
+warm enough, Daise?"
+
+"Sure thing! I'm all lined," said Daisy, smiling slyly at his clouded
+brow. "You look just like a mummy in a case, Joe. Ain't you just put in
+an invoice of a pint of peanuts or another apple? Your stock looks awful
+over-stocked."
+
+Daisy giggled at her favorite joke; and Joe had to smile with her.
+
+"Your quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.--er--er," remarked Dabster,
+"in comparison with the size of this building. I understand the area
+of its side to be about 340 by 100 feet. That would make you occupy
+a proportionate space as if half of Beloochistan were placed upon a
+territory as large as the United States east of the Rocky Mountains,
+with the Province of Ontario and Belgium added."
+
+"Is that so, sport?" said Joe, genially. "You are Weisenheimer on
+figures, all right. How many square pounds of baled hay do you think
+a jackass could eat if he stopped brayin' long enough to keep still a
+minute and five eighths?"
+
+A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to
+the top floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and out
+upon the roof. Dabster led her to the parapet so she could look down at
+the black dots moving in the street below.
+
+"What are they?" she asked, trembling. She had never been on a height
+like this before.
+
+And then Dabster must needs play the philosopher on the tower, and
+conduct her soul forth to meet the immensity of space.
+
+"Bipeds," he said, solemnly. "See what they become even at the small
+elevation of 340 feet--mere crawling insects going to and fro at
+random."
+
+"Oh, they ain't anything of the kind," exclaimed Daisy,
+suddenly--"they're folks! I saw an automobile. Oh, gee! are we that
+high up?"
+
+"Walk over this way," said Dabster.
+
+He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far
+below, starred here and there, early as it was, by the first beacon
+lights of the winter afternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south
+and east vanishing mysteriously into the sky.
+
+"I don't like it," declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes. "Say we go
+down."
+
+But the philosopher was not to be denied his opportunity. He would let
+her behold the grandeur of his mind, the half-nelson he had on the
+infinite, and the memory he had for statistics. And then she would
+nevermore be content to buy chewing gum at the smallest store in New
+York. And so he began to prate of the smallness of human affairs, and
+how that even so slight a removal from earth made man and his works look
+like one tenth part of a dollar thrice computed. And that one should
+consider the sidereal system and the maxims of Epictetus and be
+comforted.
+
+"You don't carry me with you," said Daisy. "Say, I think it's awful to
+be up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them we saw might have
+been Joe. Why, Jiminy! we might as well be in New Jersey! Say, I'm
+afraid up here!"
+
+The philosopher smiled fatuously.
+
+"The earth," said he, "is itself only as a grain of wheat in space. Look
+up there."
+
+Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short day was spent and the stars
+were coming out above.
+
+"Yonder star," said Dabster, "is Venus, the evening star. She is
+66,000,000 miles from the sun."
+
+"Fudge!" said Daisy, with a brief flash of spirit, "where do you think
+I come from--Brooklyn? Susie Price, in our store--her brother sent her
+a ticket to go to San Francisco--that's only three thousand miles."
+
+The philosopher smiled indulgently.
+
+"Our world," he said, "is 91,000,000 miles from the sun. There are
+eighteen stars of the first magnitude that are 211,000 times further
+from us than the sun is. If one of them should be extinguished it would
+be three years before we would see its light go out. There are six
+thousand stars of the sixth magnitude. It takes thirty-six years for the
+light of one of them to reach the earth. With an eighteen-foot telescope
+we can see 43,000,000 stars, including those of the thirteenth
+magnitude, whose light takes 2,700 years to reach us. Each of these
+stars--"
+
+"You're lyin'," cried Daisy, angrily. "You're tryin' to scare me. And
+you have; I want to go down!"
+
+She stamped her foot.
+
+"Arcturus--" began the philosopher, soothingly, but he was interrupted
+by a demonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was
+endeavoring to portray with his memory instead of his heart. For to the
+heart-expounder of nature the stars were set in the firmament expressly
+to give soft light to lovers wandering happily beneath them; and if you
+stand tiptoe some September night with your sweetheart on your arm you
+can almost touch them with your hand. Three years for their light to
+reach us, indeed!
+
+Out of the west leaped a meteor, lighting the roof of the skyscraper
+almost to midday. Its fiery parabola was limned against the sky toward
+the east. It hissed as it went, and Daisy screamed.
+
+"Take me down," she cried, vehemently, "you--you mental arithmetic!"
+
+Dabster got her to the elevator, and inside of it. She was wild-eyed,
+and she shuddered when the express made its debilitating drop.
+
+Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her.
+She vanished; and he stood, bewildered, without figures or statistics
+to aid him.
+
+Joe had a lull in trade, and by squirming among his stock succeeded in
+lighting a cigarette and getting one cold foot against the attenuated
+stove.
+
+The door was burst open, and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit
+and candies, tumbled into his arms.
+
+"Oh, Joe, I've been up on the skyscraper. Ain't it cozy and warm and
+homelike in here! I'm ready for you, Joe, whenever you want me."
+
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+
+
+Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al
+Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
+
+Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue--that street that the city seems
+to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue--born and bred in the
+Bowery--staggers northward full of good resolutions.
+
+Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly
+in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit
+mate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring,
+polyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and
+here the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling
+the tread of marching hosts--Hooray! But now come the silent and
+terrible mountains--buildings square as forts, high as the clouds,
+shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day.
+On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and book
+shops, where you see copies of "Littell's Living Age" and G. W. M.
+Reynold's novels in the windows. And next--poor Fourth Avenue!--the
+street glides into a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted
+to "Antiques."
+
+Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and
+menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and
+helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and
+the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully
+in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with
+Jack-o'-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound
+citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown
+that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the fighting
+dead. What street could live inclosed by these mortuary relics, and trod
+by these spectral citizens in whose sunken hearts scarce one good whoop
+or tra-la-la remained?
+
+Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the
+Little Rialto--not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There
+need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; 'tis but the suicide of a
+street. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the
+tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
+
+Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the modest
+restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its
+crumbling red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges,
+tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus--its papier-mache lobster
+and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce--if you care to
+sit at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the
+yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance--to sit
+there with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle
+from which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed
+charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the "Nobleman
+in India."
+
+Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a
+Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of
+the dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become
+a reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a
+restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave
+him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house
+bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other gave him
+the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg,
+the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave--the Caliph--the Prince
+of Bohemia--going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious,
+the inexplicable, the recondite.
+
+One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth
+upon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and
+the artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his
+short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward toward the more
+central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an
+assortment of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out of
+doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its face
+value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and coffee;
+others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of full
+meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in effect,
+meal tickets good for a week.
+
+Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph's
+heart--it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of
+Harun Al Rashid's. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put
+less warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars than had
+Quigg's beef stew among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of
+Manhattan.
+
+Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of
+distress that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd
+that whooped and fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and the
+crosstown street that he was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld
+a young man of an exceedingly melancholy and preoccupied demeanor
+engaged in the pastime of casting silver money from his pockets in the
+middle of the street. With each motion of the generous one's hand the
+crowd huddled upon the falling largesse with yells of joy. Traffic was
+suspended. A policeman in the centre of the mob stooped often to the
+ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
+
+The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after
+knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his
+way swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm. "Come with me at
+once," he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had
+learned to fear.
+
+"Pinched," remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionless
+eyes. "Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me
+gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?"
+
+Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed
+Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
+
+There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph's
+mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to
+know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving
+him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and
+stores.
+
+"I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn't
+I?" asked the young man.
+
+"You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to
+scramble after," said the Margrave.
+
+"That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw
+chicken feed to-- Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,
+roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!"
+
+"Young sir," said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, "though I do
+not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know
+humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist
+eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his
+bounty--through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure
+and distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated
+misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You may
+be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler, the
+Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among his
+people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so
+much of their distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I seek
+for romance and adventure in city streets--not in ruined castles or in
+crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those that
+take place in men's hearts when acted upon by the furious and diverse
+forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this evening
+I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper than the
+wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance the
+certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat--I invite your
+confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise. Will
+you not trust me?"
+
+"Gee, how you talk!" exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration
+supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. "You've got the
+Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that
+old Turk you speak of. I read 'The Arabian Nights' when I was a kid. He
+was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say,
+you might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon
+giants all night without ever touching me. My case won't yield to that
+kind of treatment."
+
+"If I could hear your story," said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious
+smile.
+
+"I'll spiel it in about nine words," said the young man, with a deep
+sigh, "but I don't think you can help me any. Unless you're a peach at
+guessing it's back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum."
+
+THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER'S RIDDLE
+
+"I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street.
+I've worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's enough to marry
+on, ain't it? Well, I'm not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is
+one of these funny Dutchmen--you know the kind--always getting off bum
+jokes. He's got about a million riddles and things that he faked from
+Rogers Brothers' great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and
+Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it?
+Well, jobs ain't to be picked off every Anheuser bush-- And then there's
+Laura.
+
+"What? The old man's daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About
+nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of
+the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of
+straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness
+blacking--think of that!
+
+"Me? well, it's either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill
+is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?--well, you saw me plating
+the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-night. That was on
+account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of
+what I wouldst.
+
+"How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: 'Boys,
+one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles
+antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide--is
+not that--hein?' And he hands us a riddle--a conundrum, some calls
+it--and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till to-morrow
+morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us
+guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o' Wednesday night to
+his daughter's birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us
+goes, for she's naturally aching for a husband, and it's either me or
+Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry
+somebody that'll carry on the business after he's stitched his last pair
+of traces.
+
+"The riddle? Why, it was this: 'What kind of a hen lays the longest?
+Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain't it like a
+Dutchman to risk a man's happiness on a fool proposition like that?
+Now, what's the use? What I don't know about hens would fill several
+incubators. You say you're giving imitations of the old Arab guy that
+gave away--libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy
+that'll solve this hen query, or not?"
+
+When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the
+park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave
+and impressive tones:
+
+"I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in
+search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered
+a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have
+overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their
+habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and
+cross-breedings, their span of life, their--"
+
+"Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!" interrupted the young man,
+flippantly. "Riddles--especially old Hildebrant's riddles--don't have
+to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and
+Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can't strike just
+the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well,
+Your Majesty, I'm glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time
+away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of
+his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I'll say good
+night. Peace fo' yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah."
+
+The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
+
+"I cannot express my regret," he said, sadly. "Never before have I
+found myself unable to assist in some way. 'What kind of a hen lays the
+longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called
+the Plymouth Rock that--"
+
+"Cut it out," said the young man. "The Caliph trade is a mighty serious
+one. I don't suppose you'd even see anything funny in a preacher's
+defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs."
+
+From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth
+a card and handed it to the young man.
+
+"Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow," he said. "The time may come
+when it might be of use to you."
+
+"Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name is
+Simmons."
+
+   *     *     *     *     *     *
+
+Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall altogether
+pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray
+if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser's heart would
+follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of
+Hildebrant, harness maker.
+
+Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw
+leather martingale.
+
+Bill Watson came in first.
+
+"Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the
+joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
+
+"Er--why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so,
+Mr. Hildebrant--the one that lives the longest-- Is that right?"
+
+"Nein!" said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. "You haf not
+guessed der answer."
+
+Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
+
+In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco--pale, melancholy,
+hopeless.
+
+"Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays
+der longest?'"
+
+Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this
+mountain of pernicious humor--curse him and die? Why should-- But there
+was Laura.
+
+Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood.
+His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's card. He drew
+it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling
+fly. There was written on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: "Good for one
+roast chicken to bearer."
+
+Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
+
+"A dead one!" said he.
+
+"Goot!" roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. "Dot is
+right! You gome at mine house at 8 o'clock to der party."
+
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+
+
+There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted;
+and newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young
+journalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic
+view of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced
+to very questionable sources--facts and philosophy. We will begin
+with--whichever you choose to call it.
+
+Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope
+under a bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish
+sorrows overwhelm them are we put to our wits' end. We exhaust our
+paltry store of consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep. Then
+we grovel in the dust of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we call
+out of the rat-trap. As for the children, no one understands them except
+old maids, hunchbacks, and shepherd dogs.
+
+Now comes the facts in the case of the Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion,
+and the Twenty-fifth of December.
+
+On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her
+rag-doll. There were many servants in the Millionaire's palace on the
+Hudson, and these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding
+the lost treasure. The child was a girl of five, and one of those
+perverse little beasts that often wound the sensibilities of wealthy
+parents by fixing their affections upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy
+instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and pony phaetons.
+
+The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the
+Millionaire, to whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as Bay
+State Gas; and to the Lady, the Child's mother, who was all form--that
+is, nearly all, as you shall see.
+
+The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed,
+spindling, and corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire
+smiled and tapped his coffers confidently. The pick of the output of
+the French and German toymakers was rushed by special delivery to the
+mansion; but Rachel refused to be comforted. She was weeping for her
+rag child, and was for a high protective tariff against all foreign
+foolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside manners and
+stop-watches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely about
+peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their
+stop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or
+place. Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon
+as possible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at
+therapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this
+time cablegrams were coming from Santa Claus saying that he would soon
+be here and enjoining us to show a true Christian spirit and let up on
+the pool-rooms and tontine policies and platoon systems long enough to
+give him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing
+itself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawn-brokers had doubled
+their gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red
+sleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you
+waited on one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows of
+the stores, they who had 'em were getting their furs. You hardly knew
+which was the best bet in balls--three, high, moth, or snow. It was no
+time at which to lose the rag-doll or your heart.
+
+If Doctor Watson's investigating friend had been called in to solve this
+mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the Millionaire's
+wall a copy of "The Vampire." That would have quickly suggested, by
+induction, "A rag and a bone and a hank of hair." "Flip," a Scotch
+terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child's heart, frisked through the
+halls. The hank of hair! Aha! X, the unfound quantity, represented the
+rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones they--Done! It were
+an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip's forefeet. Look, Watson!
+Earth--dried earth between the toes. Of course, the dog--but Sherlock
+was not there. Therefore it devolves. But topography and architecture
+must intervene.
+
+The Millionaire's palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a
+lawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man's face two days after a shave.
+At one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce
+trimmed to a leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had
+ravished the rag-doll from the nursery, dragged it to a corner of
+the lawn, dug a hole, and buried it after the manner of careless
+undertakers. There you have the mystery solved, and no checks to write
+for the hypodermical wizard or fi'-pun notes to toss to the sergeant.
+Then let's get down to the heart of the thing, tiresome readers--the
+Christmas heart of the thing.
+
+Fuzzy was drunk--not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or
+I might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes
+a gentleman down on his luck.
+
+Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the
+park bench, the kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary
+beds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly
+garnered largesse of great cities--these formed the chapters of his
+history.
+
+Fuzzy walked toward the river, down the street that bounded one side of
+the Millionaire's house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost
+rag-doll, protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputian murder mystery,
+from its untimely grave in a corner of the fence. He dragged forth the
+maltreated infant, tucked it under his arm, and went on his way crooning
+a road song of his brethren that no doll that has been brought up to the
+sheltered life should hear. Well for Betsy that she had no ears. And
+well that she had no eyes save unseeing circles of black; for the faces
+of Fuzzy and the Scotch terrier were those of brothers, and the heart of
+no rag-doll could withstand twice to become the prey of such fearsome
+monsters.
+
+Though you may not know it, Grogan's saloon stands near the river and
+near the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled. In Grogan's,
+Christmas cheer was already rampant.
+
+Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast of
+Saturn he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup.
+
+He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously,
+seasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as
+one entertaining his lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught
+the farce of it, and roared. The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many
+of us carry rag-dolls.
+
+"One for the lady?" suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another
+contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat.
+
+He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a
+success. Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.
+
+In a group near the stove sat "Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and
+"One-ear" Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring
+district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a
+newspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and
+blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed "One Hundred
+Dollars Reward." To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed,
+or stolen from the Millionaire's mansion. It seemed that grief still
+ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the
+terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to
+distract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking,
+mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The
+advertisement was a last resort.
+
+Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his
+one-sided parabolic way.
+
+The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his
+arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates
+elsewhere.
+
+"Say, 'Bo," said Black Riley to him, "where did you cop out dat doll?"
+
+"This doll?" asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure
+that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by
+the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country
+home in Newport. This doll--"
+
+"Cheese the funny business," said Riley. "You swiped it or picked it up
+at de house on de hill where--but never mind dat. You want to take fifty
+cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother's kid at home might be
+wantin' to play wid it. Hey--what?"
+
+He produced the coin.
+
+Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to
+the office of Sarah Bernhardt's manager and propose to him that she be
+released from a night's performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum
+and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy's laugh.
+
+Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler
+does. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine
+from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel
+unaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three inches
+of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy
+linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small,
+circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed
+the quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the
+moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without
+abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black
+Riley temporized.
+
+"Wot'll you take for it, den?" he asked.
+
+"Money," said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, "cannot buy her."
+
+He was intoxicated with the artist's first sweet cup of attainment.
+To set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic
+converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of
+plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in
+his honor--could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will
+perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament.
+
+Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other
+cafes to conquer.
+
+Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were
+beginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet.
+Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the
+hour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted
+red. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the
+Saturnalians.
+
+"Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and "One-ear" Mike held a hasty converse
+outside Grogan's. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings, not
+fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare than
+the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have eaten
+the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already
+doomed.
+
+They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan's Casino.
+They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy could
+read--and more.
+
+"Boys," said he, "you are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week to
+think it over."
+
+The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
+
+The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless,
+and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the
+morrow.
+
+"A cool hundred," said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
+
+"Boys," said he, "you are true friends. I'll go up and claim the reward.
+The show business is not what it used to be."
+
+Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot
+of the rise on which stood the Millionaire's house. There Fuzzy turned
+upon them acrimoniously.
+
+"You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds," he roared. "Go away."
+
+They went away--a little way.
+
+In "Pigeon" McCarthy's pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight
+inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.
+One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a
+slung-shot, being a conventional thug. "One-ear" Mike relied upon a
+pair of brass knucks--an heirloom in the family.
+
+"Why fetch and carry," said Black Riley, "when some one will do it for
+ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey--what?"
+
+"We can chuck him in the river," said "Pigeon" McCarthy, "with a stone
+tied to his feet."
+
+"Youse guys make me tired," said "One-ear" Mike sadly. "Ain't progress
+ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on 'im, and
+drop 'im on the Drive--well?"
+
+Fuzzy entered the Millionaire's gate and zigzagged toward the softly
+glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate
+and lingered--one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They
+fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.
+
+Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic
+instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he
+wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.
+
+The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces
+shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his passport,
+his card of admission, his surety of welcome--the lost rag-doll of the
+daughter of the house dangling under his arm.
+
+Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen
+lights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child.
+The doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling
+to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of
+childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious
+being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy
+wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic
+smile and blattering small talk that is supposed to charm the budding
+intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging
+her Betsy close.
+
+There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and
+worshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy's hand ten
+ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to
+James, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with
+the other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial
+regions.
+
+James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far
+as the front door.
+
+When the money touched fuzzy's dingy palm his first instinct was to take
+to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that blunder
+of etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It--and, oh, what an
+elysium it opened to the gaze of his mind's eye! He had tumbled to the
+foot of the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged, cold,
+drifting; and he held in his hand the key to a paradise of the mud-honey
+that he craved. The fairy doll had waved a wand with her rag-stuffed
+hand; and now wherever he might go the enchanted palaces with shining
+foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glassware would be open to
+him.
+
+He followed James to the door.
+
+He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for
+him to pass into the vestibule.
+
+Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his
+two pals casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably
+fatal weapons that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.
+
+Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire's door and bethought himself. Like
+little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green thoughts
+and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite drunk,
+mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths and
+festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall
+gay--where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known
+polished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and--and some one
+was singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before.
+Some one singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas--Fuzzy
+though he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that.
+
+And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of
+some impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white,
+transient, forgotten ghost--the spirit of _noblesse oblige_. Upon a
+gentleman certain things devolve.
+
+James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled
+walk to the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and "One-ear" Mike saw,
+and carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate.
+
+With a more imperious gesture than James's master had ever used or could
+ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a gentleman
+certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season.
+
+"It is cust--customary," he said to James, the flustered, "when a
+gentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the season
+with the lady of the house. You und'stand? I shall not move shtep till
+I pass compl'ments season with lady the house. Und'stand?"
+
+There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it
+through the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He was
+simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.
+
+A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy
+in the hall. James explained somewhere to some one.
+
+Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.
+
+The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than
+any picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a
+doll. Fuzzy didn't understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.
+
+A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped
+sterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to
+Fuzzy.
+
+As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities dropped
+from him for one brief moment. He straightened himself; and Time, so
+disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate Fuzzy.
+
+Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most
+opulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan's whisky. What
+had the Millionaire's mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia
+hall, where the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl, drinking
+the ancient toast of the House? And why should the patter of the cab
+horses' hoofs on the frozen street be in any wise related to the sound
+of the saddled hunters stamping under the shelter of the west veranda?
+And what had Fuzzy to do with any of it?
+
+The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile
+fade away like a false dawn. Her eyes turned serious. She saw something
+beneath the rags and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not
+understand. But it did not matter.
+
+Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly.
+
+"P-pardon, lady," he said, "but couldn't leave without exchangin'
+comp'ments sheason with lady th' house. 'Gainst princ'ples gen'leman do
+sho."
+
+And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the
+House when men wore lace ruffles and powder.
+
+"The blessings of another year--"
+
+Fuzzy's memory failed him. The Lady prompted:
+
+"--Be upon this hearth."
+
+"--The guest--" stammered Fuzzy.
+
+"--And upon her who--" continued the Lady, with a leading smile.
+
+"Oh, cut it out," said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly. "I can't remember. Drink
+hearty."
+
+Fuzzy had shot his arrow. They drank. The Lady smiled again the smile of
+her caste. James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front door.
+The harp music still softly drifted through the house.
+
+Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate.
+
+"I wonder," said the Lady to herself, musing, "who--but there were so
+many who came. I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing to them
+after they have fallen so low."
+
+Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door. The Lady called: "James!"
+
+James stalked back obsequiously, leaving Fuzzy waiting unsteadily, with
+his brief spark of the divine fire gone.
+
+Outside, Black Riley stamped his cold feet and got a firmer grip on his
+section of gas-pipe.
+
+"You will conduct this gentleman," said the lady, "Downstairs. Then tell
+Louis to get out the Mercedes and take him to whatever place he wishes
+to go."
+
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+
+
+The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces,
+bazaars, khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers
+disguises, seeking diversion and victims for their unbridled generosity.
+You can scarcely find a poor beggar whom they are willing to let enjoy
+his spoils unsuccored, nor a wrecked unfortunate upon whom they will not
+reshower the means of fresh misfortune. You will hardly find anywhere a
+hungry one who has not had the opportunity to tighten his belt in gift
+libraries, nor a poor pundit who has not blushed at the holiday basket
+of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly through his door by the
+eleemosynary press.
+
+So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed
+calenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber's Sixth Brother, hoping
+to escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans.
+
+Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories
+of those who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of the
+Faithful. Until dawn you might sit on the enchanted rug and listen to
+such stories as are told of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent the
+Forty Thieves to soak up the oil plant of Ali Baba; of the good Caliph
+Kar-Neg-Ghe, who gave away palaces; of the Seven Voyages of Sailbad, the
+Sinner, who frequented wooden excursion steamers among the islands; of
+the Fisherman and the Bottle; of the Barmecides' Boarding house; of
+Aladdin's rise to wealth by means of his Wonderful Gas-meter.
+
+But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too
+valuable to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of
+narrative languishes. And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy
+poor and the resigned unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap
+upon them strange mercies and mysterious benefits, too often comes the
+report from Arabian headquarters that the captive refused "to talk."
+
+This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of
+their philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the
+shortcomings of this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called
+
+THE STORY OF THE CALIPH WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water
+at his $1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its
+imbibition, for immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak
+soundly with his fist and shouted to the empty dining room:
+
+"By the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If
+I can get that squared, it'll do the trick."
+
+Thus, by the commonest artifice of the trade, having gained your
+interest, the action of the story will now be suspended, leaving you
+grumpily to consider a sort of dull biography beginning fifteen years
+before.
+
+When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania
+coal mine. I don't know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems
+to be standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have
+his picture taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But,
+instead of dying of overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents
+and brothers at the mercy of the union strikers' reserve fund, he
+hitched up his galluses, put a dollar or two in a side proposition now
+and then, and at forty-five was worth $20,000,000.
+
+There now! it's over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I've seen
+biographies that--but let us dissemble.
+
+I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at
+the seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble
+origin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth,
+capitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh,
+caliph; eighth, _x_. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher
+mathematics.
+
+At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a
+czar was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil,
+railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched
+Jacob's hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully
+cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage
+of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private
+secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot
+fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the
+mantle of the late H. A. Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob
+slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand, and
+became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.
+
+When a man's income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends
+him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul's
+salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be
+forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his
+wealth. The trust magnate "estimates" it. The rich malefactor hands you
+a cigar and denies that he has bought the P. D. & Q. The caliph merely
+smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a
+record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a "Where-to-Dine-Well"
+tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being
+that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher
+than did her future _divorce_. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar
+quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in
+his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human--Count
+Tolstoi, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.
+
+Don't lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort
+of moral essay for intellectual readers.
+
+There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.
+
+When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels
+in the Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send
+a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the
+Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed
+warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is neither
+here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his favor of
+the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double line, but
+still mighty close to the matter under the caption of "Oddities of the
+Day's News" in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read that one "Jasper
+Spargyous" had "donated $100,000 to the U. B. A. of G." A camel may have
+a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him
+whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he
+have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem to have been inserted in
+the eye of a needle by that effort of that rich man to enter the K. of
+H. The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, S. Peter,
+secretary and gatekeeper.
+
+Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and
+presented it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain
+a scientific course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate
+lavatory instead, which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever
+discovered.
+
+The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C
+degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added
+the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.
+
+While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw
+two professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor
+acoustics, undesignedly reached his ear.
+
+"There goes the latest _chevalier d'industrie_," said one of them, "to
+buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree to-morrow."
+
+"_In foro conscientiae_," said the other. "Let's 'eave 'arf a brick at
+'im."
+
+Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for
+him. There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that he
+had bought. That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs Act.
+
+Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale.
+
+"If I could see folks made happier," he said to himself--"If I could see
+'em myself and hear 'em express their gratitude for what I done for 'em
+it would make me feel better. This donatin' funds to institutions and
+societies is about as satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot
+machine."
+
+So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to the
+homes of the poorest.
+
+"The very thing!" said Jacob. "I will charter two river steamboats, pack
+them full of these unfortunate children and--say ten thousand dolls and
+drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a delightful
+outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to blow the
+taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than I can work
+it off my mind."
+
+Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense
+person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a
+"Drop Letters Here" sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him
+in a space between a barber's pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came
+out of the post-office slit--smooth, husky words with gloves on 'em, but
+sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.
+
+"Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O'Grady's
+district you're buttin' into--see? Mike's got de stomach-ache privilege
+for every kid in dis neighborhood--see? And if dere's any picnics or red
+balloons to be dealt out here, Mike's money pays for 'em--see? Don't
+you butt in, or something'll be handed to you. Youse d---- settlers and
+reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have
+got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students
+and professors rough-housing de soda-water stands and dem rubber-neck
+coaches fillin' de streets, de folks down here are 'fraid to go out of
+de houses. Now, you leave 'em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows
+how to handle 'em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser
+now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit' Mike O'Grady for de Santa Claus
+belt in dis district?"
+
+Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph
+Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side.
+To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized
+charity, presented the Y. M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000
+collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers
+in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth
+for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring
+peace to the caliph's heart. He tried to get a personal note into his
+benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got
+well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with
+respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out
+an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the
+star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of
+his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to
+write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while
+his capital still kept piling up, and his _optikos needleorum
+camelibus_--or rich man's disease--was unrelieved.
+
+In Caliph Spraggins's $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who
+used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in
+Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two
+fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back
+from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors
+in the restaurant languages and those etudes and things.
+
+Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist's delineation of her charms
+on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized
+description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful,
+brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a
+perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain
+food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too
+much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth
+that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the
+slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep
+this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.
+
+Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the
+grocer's young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged
+in conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the
+ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse
+should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid
+eggs out of the wagon.
+
+Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer's young man
+yourself. But you wouldn't have given him your heart, because you are
+saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid
+liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I
+know about it. So I am glad the grocer's young man was for Celia, and
+not for you.
+
+The grocer's young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy
+in his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the
+new frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the
+back of his head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his
+sunburned face looked like one that smiled a good deal when he was not
+preaching the doctrine of everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon
+horses. He slung imported A1 fancy groceries about as though they were
+only the stuff he delivered at boarding-houses; and when he picked up
+his whip, your mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the
+buttonless foils.
+
+Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the house.
+The grocer's wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days Celia
+watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time to
+admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing around
+the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories. Then she
+consulted Annette.
+
+To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a
+paragraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novels
+which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of
+the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia's side-kicker and
+chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn't know it, you may hazard a bean or
+two.
+
+"Oh, canary-bird seed!" exclaimed Annette. "Ain't it a corkin'
+situation? You a heiress, and fallin' in love with him on sight! He's a
+sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain't susceptible like
+the common run of grocer's assistants. He never pays no attention to
+me."
+
+"He will to me," said Celia.
+
+"Riches--" began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine
+sting.
+
+"Oh, you're not so beautiful," said Celia, with her wide, disarming
+smile. "Neither am I; but he sha'n't know that there's any money mixed
+up with my looks, such as they are. That's fair. Now, I want you to lend
+me one of your caps and an apron, Annette."
+
+"Oh, marshmallows!" cried Annette. "I see. Ain't it lovely? It's just
+like 'Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker's Wrongs.' I'll
+bet he'll turn out to be a count."
+
+There was a long hallway (or "passageway," as they call it in the land
+of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the
+house. The grocer's young man went through this to deliver his goods.
+One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow
+complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid's cap and apron. But
+as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy
+tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most
+expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of the
+maids.
+
+But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling
+"Fisher's Hornpipe" so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the
+world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for
+shame.
+
+The grocer's young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on
+his collar button behind.
+
+"That's out o' sight, Kid," said he.
+
+"My name is Celia, if you please," said the whistler, dazzling him with
+a three-inch smile.
+
+That's all right. I'm Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you work
+in?"
+
+"I'm the--the second parlor maid."
+
+"Do you know the 'Falling Waters'?"
+
+"No," said Celia, "we don't know anybody. We got rich too quick--that
+is, Mr. Spraggins did."
+
+"I'll make you acquainted," said Thomas McLeod. "It's a strathspey--the
+first cousin to a hornpipe."
+
+If Celia's whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas McLeod's
+surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could actually
+whistle _bass_.
+
+When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and ride
+with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of the
+Charon line.
+
+"I'll be around to-morrow at 10:15," said Thomas, "with some spinach and
+a case of carbonic."
+
+"I'll practice that what-you-may-call-it," said Celia. "I can whistle a
+fine second."
+
+The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general
+literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements
+of iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman's Auxiliary of
+the Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a
+description of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon
+the province of the X-ray or of park policemen.
+
+A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the
+latticed "passage."
+
+"Sixteen a week isn't much," said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his
+shoulder blades.
+
+Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march.
+Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for
+a dozen handkerchiefs.
+
+"Maybe I'll get a raise next month," said Thomas. "I'll be around
+to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap."
+
+"All right," said Celia. "Annette's married cousin pays only $20 a month
+for a flat in the Bronx."
+
+Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt
+Henrietta's invincible pride of caste and pa's mightiness as a Colossus
+of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her
+grocer's young man might go whistle for a living.
+
+Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with
+"The Devil's Dream," whistled keenly between his teeth.
+
+"Raised to eighteen a week yesterday," he said. "Been pricing flats
+around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and
+unpinning that cap, old girl."
+
+"Oh, Tommy!" said Celia, with her broadest smile. "Won't that be enough?
+I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess we could
+call it a flat pudding if we wanted to."
+
+"And tell no lie," said Thomas.
+
+"And I can sweep and polish and dust--of course, a parlor maid learns
+that. And we could whistle duets of evenings."
+
+"The old man said he'd raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan couldn't
+think of any harder name to call a Republican than a 'postponer,'" said
+the grocer's young man.
+
+"I can sew," said Celia; "and I know that you must make the gas
+company's man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and I
+know how to put up quince jam and window curtains."
+
+"Bully! you're all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off on
+eighteen."
+
+As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved discovery
+by running swiftly to the gate.
+
+"And, oh, Tommy, I forgot," she called, softly. "I believe I could make
+your neckties."
+
+"Forget it," said Thomas decisively.
+
+"And another thing," she continued. "Sliced cucumbers at night will
+drive away cockroaches."
+
+"And sleep, too, you bet," said Mr. McLeod. "Yes, I believe if I have a
+delivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I'll look in at a
+furniture store I know over there."
+
+It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck
+the sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about
+ten thousand dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the
+reflection that some stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into
+wells, move around in circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light
+on Jacob's words.
+
+The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor
+coal-digger (ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and
+bought a small tract of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise
+corn. Not a nubbin. Jacob, whose nose was a divining-rod, told him there
+was a vein of coal beneath. He bought the land from the miner for $125
+and sold it a month afterward for $10,000. Luckily the miner had enough
+left of his sale money to drink himself into a black coat opening in the
+back, as soon as he heard the news.
+
+And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the
+sudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money
+to the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe might
+be his.
+
+And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand
+words and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle
+cracked.
+
+Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any
+existed, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
+
+Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going
+to be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold
+back your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so
+people can stop reading there if they want to.
+
+After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand
+dollars--I mean miles--they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his
+confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there
+were no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one
+morning in one of their offices.
+
+Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked straight
+at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap over the top
+of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
+
+There was a slight flaw in Jacob's system of restitution. He did not
+consider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he
+represented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who had
+sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
+
+"Well, sir," said Thomas, "this sounds to me like an illustrated
+post-card from South Boston with 'We're having a good time here' written
+on it. I don't know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars money, or do
+I have to save so many coupons to get it?"
+
+Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
+
+That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully
+into his pocket.
+
+"Grandfather's best thanks," he said, "to the party who sends it."
+
+Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure
+time, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas,
+the better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so
+frank and wholesome.
+
+"I would like to have you visit my house," he said. "I might help you in
+investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have a
+daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are
+not many young men I would care to have call on her."
+
+"I'm obliged," said Thomas. "I'm not much at making calls. It's
+generally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I'm engaged to a
+girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She's a
+parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won't be working
+there much longer, though. Say, don't forget to give your friend my
+grandfather's best regards. You'll excuse me now; my wagon's outside
+with a lot of green stuff that's got to be delivered. See you again,
+sir."
+
+At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the
+Spraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back,
+he took out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them
+carelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the
+cook.
+
+"I told you he was a count," she said, after relating. "He never would
+carry on with me."
+
+"But you say he showed money," said the cook.
+
+"Hundreds of thousands," said Annette. "Carried around loose in his
+pockets. And he never would look at me."
+
+"It was paid to me to-day," Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. "It
+came from my grandfather's estate. Say, Cele, what's the use of waiting
+now? I'm going to quit the job to-night. Why can't we get married next
+week?"
+
+"Tommy," said Celia. "I'm no parlor maid. I've been fooling you. I'm
+Miss Spraggins--Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I'll be worth forty
+million dollars some day."
+
+Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time since
+we have known him.
+
+"I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me
+next week. But you _can_ whistle."
+
+"No," said Celia, "I'll not be marrying you next week. My father would
+never let me marry a grocer's clerk. But I'll marry you to-night, Tommy,
+if you say so."
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make
+of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized
+fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage
+and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had
+bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her say what a kind,
+thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
+
+There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,
+glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy
+and histrionics.
+
+"Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just
+this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be
+married. I couldn't stop her, sir. They went in a cab."
+
+"What young man?" roared old Jacob.
+
+"A millionaire, if you please, sir--a rich nobleman in disguise. He
+carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only
+to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me."
+
+Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been
+delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
+
+"Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the
+corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run
+it down."
+
+There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes
+half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly
+crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it.
+
+"What t'ell you doin'?" yelled the cabman.
+
+"Pa!" shrieked Celia.
+
+"Grandfather's remorseful friend's agent!" said Thomas. "Wonder what's
+on his conscience now."
+
+"A thousand thunders," said Gaston, or Mike. "I have no other match."
+
+"Young man," said old Jacob, severely, "how about that parlor maid you
+were engaged to?"
+
+
+A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his
+private secretary.
+
+"The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000
+toward the conversion of the Koreans," said the secretary.
+
+"Pass 'em up," said Jacob.
+
+"The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
+$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due."
+
+"Tell 'em it's been cut out."
+
+"The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
+buy alcohol to preserve specimens."
+
+"Waste basket."
+
+"The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants
+$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course."
+
+"Tell 'em to see an undertaker."
+
+"Cut 'em all out," went on Jacob. "I've quit being a good thing. I need
+every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors
+of every company that I'm interested in and recommend a 10 per cent. cut
+in salaries. And say--I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of
+the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about
+waste. I've got no money to throw away. And say--we've got vinegar
+pretty well in hand, haven't we?'
+
+"The Globe Spice & Seasons Company," said secretary, "controls the
+market at present."
+
+"Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches."
+
+Suddenly Jacob Spraggins's plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He
+walked over to the secretary's desk and showed a small red mark on his
+thick forefinger.
+
+"Bit it," he said, "darned if he didn't, and he ain't had the tooth
+three weeks--Jaky McLeod, my Celia's kid. He'll be worth a hundred
+millions by the time he's twenty-one if I can pile it up for him."
+
+As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
+
+"Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I'll be back
+in an hour and sign the letters."
+
+
+The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the
+end of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded
+all his former favorites and companions of his "Arabian Nights" rambles.
+Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only death warrant
+the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a tradesman's bill.
+
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+
+
+HABIT--a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent
+repetition.
+
+
+The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that
+one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters
+of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we
+strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate
+Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving
+Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us
+of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart--and they
+said something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew
+or--er--yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the
+inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,
+we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable
+vade mecum--the unabridged dictionary.
+
+Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle's. Hinkle's is one of the big
+downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the "financial
+district." Each day from 12 o'clock to 2 Hinkle's was full of hungry
+customers--messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
+stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending--and also people with
+money.
+
+The cashiership at Hinkle's was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted
+and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched
+(as good a word as "dined") many more. It might be said that Hinkle's
+breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted
+to a horde.
+
+Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a
+strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at
+the bottom you thrust your waiter's check and the money, while your
+heart went pit-a-pat.
+
+For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of
+a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could--Next!--lost
+your chance--please don't shove. She could keep cool and collected while
+she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
+indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better
+than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper
+an egg with one of Hinkle's casters.
+
+There is an old and dignified allusion to the "fierce light that beats
+upon a throne." The light that beats upon the young lady cashier's cage
+is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang.
+
+Every male patron of Hinkle's, from the A. D. T. boys up to the
+curbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks
+they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid's art. Between the meshes
+of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows,
+invitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that
+was wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.
+
+There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young
+lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she
+is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin,
+leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a
+Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the cheery
+word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and
+you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the brass-bound
+inaccessibility multiplies her charms--anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted
+angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready,
+alert--Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your
+circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
+
+The young men who broke bread at Hinkle's never settled with the cashier
+without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went
+to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets
+and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms,
+generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem
+flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss
+Merriam more regularly than he ate.
+
+During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam's conversation, while she took
+money for checks, would run something like this:
+
+"Good morning, Mr. Haskins--sir?--it's natural, thank you--don't be
+quite so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny--ten, fifteen, twenty--chase along
+now or they'll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon--count
+it again, please--Oh, don't mention it . . . Vaudeville?--thanks;
+not on your moving picture--I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on
+Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons . . . 'Scuse me, I thought that
+was a quarter . . . Twenty-five and seventy-five's a dollar--got
+that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you
+addressing?--say--you'll get all that's coming to you in a
+minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett--you're always fooling--no--?
+Well, maybe I'll marry you some day--three, four and sixty-five
+is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
+please . . . Ten cents?--'scuse me; the check calls for seventy--well,
+maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that
+way, Mr. Saunders?--some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de
+Merody does suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike
+along there, buddy; don't take this for a Coney Island ticket
+booth . . . Huh?--why, Macy's--don't it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn't too
+cool--these light-weight fabrics is all the go this season . . . Come
+again, please--that's the third time you've tried to--what?--forget
+it--that lead quarter is an old friend of mine . . . Sixty-five?--must
+have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth
+Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De Forest--swell?--oh, my!--who
+is she? . . . What's the matter with it?--why, it ain't
+money--what?--Columbian half?--well, this ain't South
+America . . . Yes, I like the mixed best--Friday?--awfully
+sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday--Thursday,
+then . . . Thanks--that's sixteen times I've been told that this
+morning--I guess I must be beautiful . . . Cut that out, please--who
+do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr. Westbrook--do you really think
+so?--the idea!--one--eighty and twenty's a dollar--thank you ever so
+much, but I don't ever go automobile riding with gentlemen--your
+aunt?--well, that's different--perhaps . . . Please don't get
+fresh--your check was fifteen cents, I believe--kindly step aside and
+let . . . Hello, Ben--coming around Thursday evening?--there's a
+gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
+and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . ."
+
+About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo--whose other
+name is Fortune--suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
+while he was walking past Hinkle's, on his way to a street car. A
+wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is--move up,
+please; there are others.
+
+A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the
+spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle's restaurant.
+When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a
+beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing
+his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frappe
+out of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed
+with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered
+consciousness.
+
+To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker
+McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward
+Miss Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with
+interest--not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.
+The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple
+were childless--they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.
+
+To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts
+of the good old couple. They came to Hinkle's again and again; they
+invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East
+Seventies. Miss Merriam's winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
+impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
+Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
+matron, nee Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
+of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
+smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of the
+fatuity of parents.
+
+A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she
+stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
+
+"They're going to adopt me," she told the bereft restaurateur. "They're
+funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
+Say, Hinkle, there isn't any use of talking--I'm on the a la carte to
+wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
+Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I've been cashiering
+so long I feel funny doing anything else. I'll miss joshing the fellows
+awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and. But I can't let
+this chance slide. And they're awfully good, Hinkle; I know I'll have a
+swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for the week. Cut out
+the half if it hurts you, Hinkle."
+
+And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced the
+transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to
+the skin. Nerve--but just here will you oblige by perusing again the
+quotation with which this story begins?
+
+The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their
+adopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
+Miss--er--McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle's.
+To give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle's
+did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.
+
+Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
+Seventy---- Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without
+debts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember
+the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the
+W----f-A----a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie
+on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that--you did not?
+Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.
+
+At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer--er--McRamsey was
+exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
+her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity bazaar
+the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a finish. An
+earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be lower, but his
+outstanding accounts are also lower.
+
+Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
+sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
+proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
+the slums a Christmas din----Say! did you ever wonder where they get the
+other 364?
+
+Miss McRamsey--beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
+radiant--fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
+a little arched opening, fenced her in.
+
+Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring--admiring
+greatly, and faced the open wicket.
+
+"You look chawming, you know--'pon my word you do--my deah," he said,
+beguilingly.
+
+Miss McRamsey whirled around.
+
+"Cut that joshing out," she said, coolly and briskly. "Who do you think
+you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!--"
+
+Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
+certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond
+and puzzled whisker.
+
+"Miss McRamsey has fainted," some one explained.
+
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+
+
+Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the _Minerva
+Magazine_, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his
+favorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office
+when his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette. Which
+is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street,
+safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and
+meandered along the walks of budding Madison Square.
+
+The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a
+pastoral; the color motif was green--the presiding shade at the creation
+of man and vegetation.
+
+The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a
+poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had
+breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree
+buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the
+garnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above
+was of that pale aquamarine tint that ballroom poets rhyme with "true"
+and "Sue" and "coo." The one natural and frank color visible was the
+ostensible green of the newly painted benches--a shade between the color
+of a pickled cucumber and that of a last year's fast-black cravenette
+raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape
+appeared a masterpiece.
+
+And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle
+concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of
+the editor's mind.
+
+Editor Westbrook's spirit was contented and serene. The April number of
+the _Minerva_ had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the
+month--a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty
+copies more if he had 'em. The owners of the magazine had raised his
+(the editor's) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a
+recently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning
+papers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers'
+banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a
+splendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he
+left his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic
+interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When
+he had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly
+hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic
+medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards
+of the convalescent city.
+
+While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches
+(already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood)
+he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be
+panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his
+captor was--Dawe--Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel
+scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
+
+While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight
+biography of Dawe is offered.
+
+He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances.
+At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had
+some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near
+Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners
+together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became "dearest" friends.
+Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself,
+ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park
+neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's
+trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble
+mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live
+by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many
+to Westbrook. The _Minerva_ printed one or two of them; the rest were
+returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter
+with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons
+for considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear
+conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was
+mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food
+that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to
+her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they sat
+down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp.
+Dawe commented.
+
+"It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe. "It may not be art, but I do
+wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella
+Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry."
+
+As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor
+Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor
+had seen Dawe in several months.
+
+"Why, Shack, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the
+form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance.
+
+"Sit down for a minute," said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. "This is my
+office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down--you won't
+be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take
+you for a swell porch-climber. They won't know you are only an editor."
+
+"Smoke, Shack?" said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the
+virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield.
+
+Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl
+pecks at a chocolate cream.
+
+"I have just--" began the editor.
+
+"Oh, I know; don't finish," said Dawe. "Give me a match. You have just
+ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and
+invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that
+couldn't read the 'Keep off the Grass' signs."
+
+"How goes the writing?" asked the editor.
+
+"Look at me," said Dawe, "for your answer. Now don't put on that
+embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don't get a job
+as a wine agent or a cab driver. I'm in the fight to a finish. I know I
+can write good fiction and I'll force you fellows to admit it yet. I'll
+make you change the spelling of 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm
+done with you."
+
+Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly
+sorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression--the
+copyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable
+contributor.
+
+"Have you read the last story I sent you--'The Alarum of the Soul'?"
+asked Dawe.
+
+"Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had
+some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it
+goes back to you. I regret--"
+
+"Never mind the regrets," said Dawe, grimly. "There's neither salve nor
+sting in 'em any more. What I want to know is _why_. Come now; out with
+the good points first."
+
+"The story," said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh, "is
+written around an almost original plot. Characterization--the best you
+have done. Construction--almost as good, except for a few weak joints
+which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good
+story, except--"
+
+"I can write English, can't I?" interrupted Dawe.
+
+"I have always told you," said the editor, "that you had a style."
+
+"Then the trouble is--"
+
+"Same old thing," said Editor Westbrook. "You work up to your climax
+like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don't
+know what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what you
+do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison
+with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its
+impossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth.
+But you spoil every denouement by those flat, drab, obliterating strokes
+of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would rise to
+the literary pinnacle of your dramatic senses, and paint them in the
+high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer bulky,
+self-addressed envelopes at your door."
+
+"Oh, fiddles and footlights!" cried Dawe, derisively. "You've got that
+old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black
+mustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother
+kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: 'May high heaven
+witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless
+villain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another's
+vengeance!'"
+
+Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious complacency.
+
+"I think," said he, "that in real life the woman would express herself
+in those words or in very similar ones."
+
+"Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere but on the stage," said Dawe
+hotly. "I'll tell you what she'd say in real life. She'd say: 'What!
+Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after
+another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station.
+Why wasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake,
+get out of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat--the brown one
+with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she's usually shy of
+strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm upset!'
+
+"That's the way she'd talk," continued Dawe. "People in real life don't
+fly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can't
+do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same
+vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas
+a little more, that's all."
+
+"Shack," said Editor Westbrook impressively, "did you ever pick up the
+mangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street
+car, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted
+mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and
+despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?"
+
+"I never did," said Dawe. "Did you?"
+
+"Well, no," said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. "But I can well
+imagine what she would say."
+
+"So can I," said Dawe.
+
+And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the
+oracle and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an
+unarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and
+heroines of the _Minerva Magazine_, contrary to the theories of the
+editor thereof.
+
+"My dear Shack," said he, "if I know anything of life I know that every
+sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an
+apposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of
+feeling. How much of this inevitable accord between expression and
+feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of
+art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of the
+lioness that has been deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far above
+her customary whine and purr as the kingly and transcendent utterances
+of Lear are above the level of his senile vaporings. But it is also true
+that all men and women have what may be called a sub-conscious dramatic
+sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep and powerful emotion--a
+sense unconsciously acquired from literature and the stage that prompts
+them to express those emotions in language befitting their importance
+and histrionic value."
+
+"And in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius,
+where did the stage and literature get the stunt?" asked Dawe.
+
+"From life," answered the editor, triumphantly.
+
+The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but
+dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately his
+dissent.
+
+On a bench nearby a frowzy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that
+his moral support was due a downtrodden brother.
+
+"Punch him one, Jack," he called hoarsely to Dawe. "W'at's he come
+makin' a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen'lemen that comes in
+the square to set and think?"
+
+Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure.
+
+"Tell me," asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, "what especial faults in
+'The Alarum of the Soul' caused you to throw it down?"
+
+"When Gabriel Murray," said Westbrook, "goes to his telephone and is
+told that his fiancee has been shot by a burglar, he says--I do not
+recall the exact words, but--"
+
+"I do," said Dawe. "He says: 'Damn Central; she always cuts me off.'
+(And then to his friend) 'Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a
+big hole? It's kind of hard luck, ain't it? Could you get me a drink
+from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.'"
+
+"And again," continued the editor, without pausing for argument, "when
+Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has
+fled with the manicure girl, her words are--let me see--"
+
+"She says," interposed the author: "'Well, what do you think of that!'"
+
+"Absurdly inappropriate words," said Westbrook, "presenting an
+anti-climax--plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they
+mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms
+when confronted by sudden tragedy."
+
+"Wrong," said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. "I say no man
+or woman ever spouts 'high-falutin' talk when they go up against a real
+climax. They talk naturally and a little worse."
+
+The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside
+information.
+
+"Say, Westbrook," said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, "would you have
+accepted 'The Alarum of the Soul' if you had believed that the actions
+and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story
+that we discussed?"
+
+"It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way," said the
+editor. "But I have explained to you that I do not."
+
+"If I could prove to you that I am right?"
+
+"I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't time to argue any further
+just now."
+
+"I don't want to argue," said Dawe. "I want to demonstrate to you from
+life itself that my view is the correct one."
+
+"How could you do that?" asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
+
+"Listen," said the writer, seriously. "I have thought of a way. It is
+important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as
+correct by the magazines. I've fought for it for three years, and I'm
+down to my last dollar, with two months' rent due."
+
+"I have applied the opposite of your theory," said the editor, "in
+selecting the fiction for the _Minerva Magazine_. The circulation has
+gone up from ninety thousand to--"
+
+"Four hundred thousand," said Dawe. "Whereas it should have been boosted
+to a million."
+
+"You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory."
+
+"I will. If you'll give me about half an hour of your time I'll prove to
+you that I am right. I'll prove it by Louise."
+
+"Your wife!" exclaimed Westbrook. "How?"
+
+"Well, not exactly by her, but _with_ her," said Dawe. "Now, you know
+how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I'm the only
+genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor's signature.
+She's been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I've been cast for
+the neglected genius part."
+
+"Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion," agreed the
+editor. "I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once
+were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring
+Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we'll have one of those informal
+chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much."
+
+"Later," said Dawe. "When I get another shirt. And now I'll tell you my
+scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast--if you can call
+tea and oatmeal breakfast--Louise told me she was going to visit her
+aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three o'clock.
+She is always on time to a minute. It is now--"
+
+Dawe glanced toward the editor's watch pocket.
+
+"Twenty-seven minutes to three," said Westbrook, scanning his
+time-piece.
+
+"We have just enough time," said Dawe. "We will go to my flat at once. I
+will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where she
+will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room
+concealed by the portieres. In that note I'll say that I have fled from
+her forever with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic
+soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and
+hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one--yours
+or mine."
+
+"Oh, never!" exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. "That would be
+inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe's feelings
+played upon in such a manner."
+
+"Brace up," said the writer. "I guess I think as much of her as you do.
+It's for her benefit as well as mine. I've got to get a market for my
+stories in some way. It won't hurt Louise. She's healthy and sound. Her
+heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It'll last for only a
+minute, and then I'll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to
+me to give me the chance, Westbrook."
+
+Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in
+the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all
+of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place.
+Pity 'tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go
+around.
+
+The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and
+then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood.
+Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat
+of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside
+the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone
+gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the
+vanished quality. _Sic transit gloria urbis_.
+
+A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again
+eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow
+flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated facade. To the fifth
+story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door
+of one of the front flats.
+
+When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how
+meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
+
+"Get a chair, if you can find one," said Dawe, "while I hunt up pen and
+ink. Hello, what's this? Here's a note from Louise. She must have left
+it there when she went out this morning."
+
+He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.
+He began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having
+begun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words
+that Editor Westbrook heard:
+
+
+   "Dear Shackleford:
+
+    "By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and
+   still a-going. I've got a place in the chorus of the Occidental
+   Opera Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o'clock. I
+   didn't want to starve to death, and so I decided to make my own
+   living. I'm not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She
+   said she was tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg
+   and dictionary, and she's not coming back, either. We've been
+   practising the songs and dances for two months on the quiet. I hope
+   you will be successful, and get along all right! Good-bye.
+
+   "Louise."
+
+
+Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and
+cried out in a deep, vibrating voice:
+
+_"My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,
+then let Thy Heaven's fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting
+by-words of traitors and fiends!"_
+
+Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand
+fumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted between his pale lips:
+
+_"Say, Shack, ain't that a hell of a note? Wouldn't that knock you off
+your perch, Shack? Ain't it hell, now, Shack--ain't it?"_
+
+
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+PAST ONE AT ROONEY'S
+
+
+Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet and
+Montagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If
+you but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have
+work cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a
+dozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but in
+the domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the
+niceties of deportment to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch of
+elbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house and
+kin.
+
+So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted
+into Dutch Mike's for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of
+Montagus making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest
+parliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his
+thirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where the
+mirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy's movements that his
+indifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that the
+finger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at Dutch
+Mike's that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio,
+companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the Mulberry
+Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P's and Q's so
+solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and the other
+on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom to seek
+safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival associations
+congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
+
+But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry
+Docks. We must to Rooney's, where, on the most blighted dead branch of
+the tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
+
+Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first
+overstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were
+immediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like
+swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane deck.
+But McManus's simile must be the torpedo. He glided in under the guns
+and slipped a scant three inches of knife blade between the ribs of the
+Mulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a devotee to strategy,
+had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch of the
+electrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire alone.
+Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying for the
+watch instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian shindy.
+
+The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by three
+distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the ethics of
+the gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no Capulet to be
+seen.
+
+"Raus mit der interrogatories," said Buck Malone to the officer. "Sure I
+know who done it. I always manages to get a bird's eye view of any guy
+that comes up an' makes a show case for a hardware store out of me. No.
+I'm not telling you his name. I'll settle with um meself. Wow--ouch!
+Easy, boys! Yes, I'll attend to his case meself. I'm not making any
+complaint."
+
+At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Side
+dock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick Cleary
+drifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. "He'll maybe
+not croak," said Brick; "and he won't tell, of course. But Dutch Mike
+did. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up. It's
+unhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan's in Europe for a week's end with
+Kings. He'll be back on the _Kaiser Williams_ next Friday. You'll have
+to duck out of sight till then. Tim'll fix it up all right for us when
+he comes back."
+
+This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney's one night and
+there looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the first
+time in his precarious career.
+
+Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princes
+and hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe for
+Cork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the high
+rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing the
+slow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_.
+
+It was on Thursday evening that Cork's seclusion became intolerable to
+him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool touch
+of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the hollow
+of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and repartee
+along and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the district where
+he was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere, for news was
+scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the failure of the
+police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back,
+the big white finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then.
+But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would be
+small danger in a little excursion that night among the crass pleasures
+that represented life to him.
+
+At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street looking
+up at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent lights against
+a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the place
+as a tough "hang-out"; with its frequenters and its locality he was
+unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all such
+resorts, he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over the
+cafe.
+
+Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled
+with Rooney's guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human
+pianola with drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furious
+unprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak a
+song--songs full of "Mr. Johnsons" and "babes" and "coons"--historical
+word guaranties of the genuineness of African melodies composed by red
+waistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the cotton fields and rice
+swamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.
+
+For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives,
+seats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He
+has Wellington's nose, Dante's chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois,
+the smile of Talleyrand, Corbett's foot work, and the poise of an
+eleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assisted
+by a lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who
+goes among the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now,
+what is there about Rooney's to inspire all this pother? It is more
+respectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens and
+bundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and a
+chat. Even by gaslight the diversions are melancholy i' the mouth--drink
+and rag-time, and an occasional surprise when the waiter swabs the suds
+from under your sticky glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! The
+soul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed doublet
+to a kindred home under Rooney's visible plaid waistcoat. Rooney's is
+twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has removed the embargo. Rooney
+has spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of public opinion, and any
+Elizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as another. Attend to
+the revelation of the secret. In Rooney's ladies may smoke!
+
+McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer
+that he ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his
+brick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and
+heaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his innermost
+soul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his taste. The sham
+gaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious,
+joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving the
+hour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presence
+of well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney's removal of the
+restrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked
+lemon peel, flat beer, and _peau d'Espagne_--all these were manna to
+Cork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet's high
+rear room.
+
+A girl, alone, entered Rooney's, glanced around with leisurely
+swiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested upon
+him for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres all men
+whom she for the first time confronts. In that space of time she will
+decide upon one of two things--either to scream for the police, or that
+she may marry him later on.
+
+Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn red
+morocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed lace
+handkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a small
+beer from the immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of cigarettes
+and lighted one with slightly exaggerated ease of manner. Then she
+looked again in the eyes of Cork McManus and smiled.
+
+Instantly the doom of each was sealed.
+
+The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for a
+woman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among
+that humble portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or
+coats-of-arms or Shaw's plays. Love at first sight has occurred a time
+or two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be found
+among unsophisticated creatures such as the dove, the blue-tailed
+dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk. Poets, subscribers to all
+fiction magazines, and schatchens, take notice.
+
+With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each of
+them the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which is
+the worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as love.
+
+"Have another beer?" suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was
+considered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and
+references.
+
+"No, thanks," said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her
+conventional words carefully. "I--merely dropped in for--a slight
+refreshment." The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require
+explanation. "My aunt is a Russian lady," she concluded, "and we often
+have a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home."
+
+"Cheese it!" said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. "Your fingers are
+as yellow as mine."
+
+"Say," said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,
+"what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?
+What?"
+
+She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and
+bright. Under her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, her
+crinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in a
+thick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still lingered in
+her chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.
+She looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.
+Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below her
+black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk underskirt.
+
+"Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't mean
+anything. Sure, it's no harm to smoke, Maudy."
+
+"Rooney's," said the girl, softened at once by his amends, "is the only
+place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain't a nice habit, but
+aunty lets us at home. And my name ain't Maudy, if you please; it's Ruby
+Delamere."
+
+"That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine's
+McManus--Cor--er--Eddie McManus."
+
+"Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize."
+
+Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl's
+ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
+
+"I know it's late," she said, reaching for her bag; "but you know how
+you want a smoke when you want one. Ain't Rooney's all right? I never
+saw anything wrong here. This is twice I've been in. I work in a
+bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been working
+overtime three nights a week. They won't let you smoke there, of course.
+I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain't it all right in
+here? If it ain't, I won't come any more."
+
+"It's a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere," said Cork.
+"I'm not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don't want to
+have your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday School
+teacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home."
+
+"But I don't know you," said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. "I don't
+accept the company of gentlemen I ain't acquainted with. My aunt never
+would allow that."
+
+"Why," said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, "I'm the latest thing in
+suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin' a
+lady. You bet you'll find me all right, Ruby. And I'll give you a tip as
+to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the Wall
+Street push. Morgan's cab horse casts a shoe every time the old man
+sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I'm in trainin' down the
+Street. The old man's goin' to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in my
+stockin' my next birthday. But it all sounds like a lemon to me. What I
+like is golf and yachtin' and--er--well, say a corkin' fast ten-round
+bout between welter-weights with walkin' gloves."
+
+"I guess you can walk to the door with me," said the girl hesitatingly,
+but with a certain pleased flutter. "Still I never heard anything extra
+good about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights,
+either. Ain't you got any other recommendations?"
+
+"I think you're the swellest looker I've had my lamps on in little old
+New York," said Cork impressively.
+
+"That'll be about enough of that, now. Ain't you the kidder!" She
+modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished
+look at her cavalier. "We'll drink our beer before we go, ha?"
+
+A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in
+spirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended
+fogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.
+Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney's liquids and
+Rooney's gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine.
+
+One o'clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and
+locking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows
+carefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front
+door, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforth
+whoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar to
+Rooney's hawk's eye--the countenance of a true sport.
+
+Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their
+elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,
+scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.
+Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney's had become
+renovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,
+but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The flattest
+glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punch
+struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial company
+became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of one
+in such places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had,
+drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.
+It is the law.
+
+"Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent
+chest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you workin' in the
+bookbindery and livin' at home--and just happenin' in here--and--and
+all that spiel you gave me?"
+
+"Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you think?
+Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask 'em. I handed
+it to you on the level."
+
+"On the dead level?" said Cork. "That's the way I want it; because--"
+
+"Because what?"
+
+"I throw up my hands," said Cork. "You've got me goin'. You're the girl
+I've been lookin' for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?"
+
+"Would you like me to--Eddie?"
+
+"Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about--about yourself, you
+know. When a fellow had a girl--a steady girl--she's got to be all
+right, you know. She's got to be straight goods."
+
+"You'll find I'll be straight goods, Eddie."
+
+"Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can't blame me
+for wantin' to find out. You don't see many girls smokin' cigarettes in
+places like Rooney's after midnight that are like you."
+
+The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," she
+said meekly. "I didn't know how bad it looked. But I won't do it any
+more. And I'll go straight home every night and stay there. And I'll
+give up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie--I'll cut 'em out from this
+minute on."
+
+Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.
+"A lady can smoke," he decided, slowly, "at times and places. Why?
+Because it's bein' a lady that helps her pull it off."
+
+"I'm going to quit. There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flicked
+the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
+
+"At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you of
+evenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a
+puff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock--see?"
+
+"Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searched his hard but frank
+features eagerly with anxious eyes.
+
+"On the dead level."
+
+"When are you coming to see me--where I live?"
+
+"Thursday--day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?"
+
+"Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with me
+to-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now. And don't
+you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you will,
+though."
+
+"On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-dolls to
+me. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the dead level, I do."
+
+Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.
+The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a
+policeman's foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney
+jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric
+lights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except
+for the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of
+crashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring
+panic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring,
+could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table
+to table.
+
+"All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise!
+Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm. We'll
+take care of you all."
+
+Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers. "Are
+you afraid, Eddie?" she whispered. "Are you afraid you'll get a free
+ride?"
+
+"Nothin' doin' in the teeth-chatterin' line," said Cork. "I guess
+Rooney's been slow with his envelope. Don't you worry, girly; I'll look
+out for you all right."
+
+Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the police
+looking everywhere for Buck Malone's assailant, and with Corrigan still
+on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would mean
+an ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high rear room
+of the true Capulet reading the pink extras.
+
+Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the police
+in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their voices
+came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of himself at
+the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the extreme rear
+of the room and lighted a dim gas jet.
+
+"This way, everybody!" he called sharply. "In a hurry; but no noise,
+please!"
+
+The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney's lieutenant swung
+open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder
+already placed for the escape.
+
+"Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less talking,
+please! Don't crowd! There's no danger."
+
+Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.
+Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
+
+"Before we go out," she whispered in his ear--"before anything happens,
+tell me again, Eddie, do you l--do you really like me?"
+
+"On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm, "when it
+comes to you, I'm all in."
+
+When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last
+of the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they
+bore the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an
+adjoining low building over the roof of which their only route to
+safety.
+
+"We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will stand
+the cops off, anyhow."
+
+They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
+
+A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. One
+of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the electric
+light. The other man was a cop of the old regime--a big cop, a thick
+cop, a fuming, abrupt cop--not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair at
+the table and sneered familiarly at the girl.
+
+"What are youse doin' in here?" he asked.
+
+"Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly.
+
+"Had any drinks?"
+
+"Not later than one o'clock."
+
+"Get out--quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he countermanded.
+
+He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Your
+name's McManus."
+
+"Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson."
+
+"Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a knife
+into a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago."
+
+"Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
+officer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's."
+
+"Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be looked
+over. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted his fingers
+under Cork's collar. "Come on!" he ordered roughly.
+
+Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered.
+Her quick eye danced from one man's face to the other as they spoke or
+moved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking--Corrigan on the briny; and
+Ruby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station
+would recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck!
+
+But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms
+extended against the cop. His hold on Cork's collar was loosened and he
+stumbled back two or three paces.
+
+"Don't go so fast, Maguire!" she cried in shrill fury. "Keep your hands
+off my man! You know me, and you know I'm givin' you good advice. Don't
+you touch him again! He's not the guy you are lookin' for--I'll stand
+for that."
+
+"See here, Fanny," said the Cop, red and angry, "I'll take you, too, if
+you don't look out! How do you know this ain't the man I want? What are
+you doing in here with him?"
+
+"How do I know?" said the girl, flaming red and white by turns. "Because
+I've known him a year. He's mine. Oughtn't I to know? And what am I
+doin' here with him? That's easy."
+
+She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted
+draperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the
+table toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened
+itself with little leisurely jerks.
+
+"Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin' the
+usual dividends, Maguire," she said to the officer. "You had your usual
+five-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten."
+
+"A lie!" said the cop, turning purple. "You go on my beat again and I'll
+arrest you every time I see you."
+
+"No, you won't," said the girl. "And I'll tell you why. Witnesses saw me
+give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I've been getting fixed
+for you."
+
+Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: "Come on,
+Fanny; let's have some chop suey before we go home."
+
+"Clear out, quick, both of you, or I'll--"
+
+The cop's bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
+
+At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the
+money without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her
+hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered
+Rooney's that night--she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion
+and sullen wonder.
+
+"I guess I might as well say good-bye here," she said dully. "You won't
+want to see me again, of course. Will you--shake hands--Mr. McManus."
+
+"I mightn't have got wise if you hadn't give the snap away," said Cork.
+"Why did you do it?"
+
+"You'd have been pinched if I hadn't. That's why. Ain't that reason
+enough?" Then she began to cry. "Honest, Eddie, I was goin' to be the
+best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was
+ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from
+everybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I'd
+make you believe I was good, and I was goin' to be good. When you asked
+to come to my house and see me, why, I'd have died rather than do
+anything wrong after that. But what's the use of talking about it? I'll
+say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus."
+
+Cork was pulling at his ear. "I knifed Malone," said he. "I was the one
+the cop wanted."
+
+"Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make any
+difference about that."
+
+"That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don't do nothin' but hang out
+with a tough gang on the East Side."
+
+"That was all right, too," repeated the girl. "It didn't make any
+difference."
+
+Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. "I could get a
+job at O'Brien's," he said aloud, but to himself.
+
+"Good-by," said the girl.
+
+"Come on," said Cork, taking her arm. "I know a place."
+
+Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house
+facing a little park.
+
+"What house is this?" she asked, drawing back. "Why are you going in
+there?"
+
+A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at
+one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps.
+"Read that," said he.
+
+She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a
+scream. "No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won't let you do that--not
+now! Let me go! You shan't do that! You can't--you mus'n't! Not after
+you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!"
+
+Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork's
+right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
+
+Another cop--how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the
+wing!--came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are you
+doing with that girl?" he called gruffly.
+
+"She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork. "It's a straight deal."
+
+"Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with true
+detective cunning.
+
+"Correct," said Cork. "On the dead level, we're goin' to get married."
+
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+THE VENTURERS
+
+
+Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the _Non Sequitur_
+Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation
+car "_Raison d'etre_" for one moment. It is for no longer than to
+consider a brief essay on the subject--let us call it: "What's Around
+the Corner."
+
+_Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est_--men who wear rubbers and pay
+poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more
+continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and
+the poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be
+paralleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.
+
+Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the
+dictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a
+prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk
+in the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and
+alluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance is
+the beautiful countenance--perfect because vague and dream-born--that we
+see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and
+toast.
+
+The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and wayside
+groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the
+difference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit
+was the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it
+happened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is
+disturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and
+city-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children
+and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the flickering
+gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of two modern
+followers of Chance.
+
+
+"Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?" asked
+Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate
+the interior of the Powhatan Club.
+
+"Doubtless," said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.
+
+Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long
+before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the
+air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted
+and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go
+away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,
+must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one
+else. (I had written that "somebody"; but an A. D. T. boy who once took
+a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the
+compound word. This is a vice versa case.)
+
+Forster's favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower of
+Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition
+and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied him
+full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares and
+many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life.
+But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew what was to be found
+at the end of every street. He knew from experience and logic almost
+precisely to what end each digression from routine must lead. He found a
+depressing monotony in all the variations that the music of his sphere
+had grafted upon the tune of life. He had not learned that, although the
+world was made round, the circle has been squared, and that it's true
+interest is to be in "What's Around the Corner."
+
+Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax
+either his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He
+would have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no
+hope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the
+Greater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan
+chair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,
+uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.
+
+At the end of an hour's stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,
+smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old
+hotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that
+he must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of his
+favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the service and
+so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger that must be
+appeased by the "dead perfection" of the place's cuisine. Even the music
+there seemed to be always playing _da capo_.
+
+Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,
+restaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all
+countries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorous
+American. Something might happen there out of the routine--he might come
+upon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a question
+without an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life's
+salt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business suit
+that would not be questioned even where the waiters served the spaghetti
+in their shirt sleeves.
+
+So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because
+the more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the
+thirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored
+carefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five
+figures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but--
+
+Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really
+regarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of
+thirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one waiting
+for a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So his
+proximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of the
+nature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker after
+"What's Around the Corner," instead of manifesting resentment he only
+turned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other's grin of amusement.
+
+"All in?" asked the intruder, drawing nearer.
+
+"Seems so," said Forster. "Now, I thought there was a dollar in--"
+
+"Oh, I know," said the other man, with a laugh. "But there wasn't. I've
+just been through the same process myself, as I was coming around the
+corner. I found in an upper vest pocket--I don't know how they got
+there--exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly two
+pennies will buy!"
+
+"You haven't dined, then?" asked Forster.
+
+"I have not. But I would like to. Now, I'll make you a proposition.
+You look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and
+respectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny
+of a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine
+together. We will choose from the menu like millionaires--or, if you
+prefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly
+for once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to
+see which of us will stand the brunt of the house's displeasure and
+vengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same station
+of life--before our money took wings."
+
+"You're on," said Forster, joyfully.
+
+Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious country
+of Chance--anyhow, it promised something better than the stale
+infestivity of a table d'hote.
+
+The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.
+Ives chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster.
+
+"Match for which of us gives the order," he said.
+
+Forster lost.
+
+Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with the
+absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born. Forster,
+listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.
+
+"I am a man," said Ives, during the oysters, "Who has made a lifetime
+search after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the ordinary
+adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like a gambler
+who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake. What I want
+is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion.
+It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its blindest
+manifestations. The world has come to run so much by rote and
+gravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance in
+which you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expect
+at its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who always
+complained bitterly when any one came in to ask information. 'He wanted
+to _know_, you know!' was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks. Well,
+I don't want to know, I don't want to reason, I don't want to guess--I
+want to bet my hand without seeing it."
+
+"I understand," said Forster delightedly. "I've often wanted the way I
+feel put into words. You've done it. I want to take chances on what's
+coming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course."
+
+"Agreed," said Ives. "I'm glad you catch my idea. It will increase the
+animosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, we
+will pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true venturer--one
+who does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.
+But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficult
+it is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee. In
+the Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from
+doors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle of
+a wall and 'get away with it.' Nowadays, if you speak disrespectfully to
+a policeman, all that is left to the most romantic fancy is to
+conjecture in what particular police station he will land you."
+
+"I know--I know," said Forster, nodding approval.
+
+"I returned to New York to-day," continued Ives, "from a three years'
+ramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad than they are
+at home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The only
+thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I've tried shooting big
+game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many yards;
+and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I enjoy it
+about as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a sum in
+long division on the blackboard."
+
+"I know--I know," said Forster.
+
+"There might be something in aeroplanes," went on Ives, reflectively.
+"I've tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried affair
+of wind and ballast."
+
+"Women," suggested Forster, with a smile.
+
+"Three months ago," said Ives. "I was pottering around in one of the
+bazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but with
+a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some amber and
+pearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an attendant--a big
+Nubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant drew nearer to me
+by degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand. I looked at it
+when I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in pencil: 'The arched
+gate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.' Does that appear to
+you to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?"
+
+"I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the
+property of an old Turk--a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Of
+course I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The same
+Nubian attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside and
+sat on a bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had quite
+an extended chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who was
+writing up the Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said she
+noticed the New York cut of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered if
+I couldn't work something into the metropolitan papers about it."
+
+"I see," said Forster. "I see."
+
+"I've canoed through Canada," said Ives, "down many rapids and over many
+falls. But I didn't seem to get what I wanted out of it because I knew
+there were only two possible outcomes--I would either go to the bottom
+or arrive at the sea level. I've played all games at cards; but the
+mathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the percentages.
+I've made acquaintances on trains, I've answered advertisements, I've
+rung strange door-bells, I've taken every chance that presented itself;
+but there has always been the conventional ending--the logical
+conclusion to the premise."
+
+"I know," repeated Forster. "I've felt it all. But I've had few
+chances to take my chance at chances. Is there any life so devoid of
+impossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad of
+opportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousand
+fails to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways and
+street cars disappointed one as seldom."
+
+"The sun has risen," said Ives, "on the Arabian nights. There are
+no more caliphs. The fisherman's vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,
+warranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours.
+Life moves by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no more
+opportunities such as Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster had.
+The only certain thing is that there is nothing uncertain."
+
+"Well," said Forster, "my experience has been the limited one of a city
+man. I haven't seen the world as you have; but it seems that we view
+it with the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even this
+little venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There may
+be at least one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner is
+presented. Perhaps, after all, the pilgrims who traveled without scrip
+or purse found a keener taste to life than did the knights of the Round
+Table who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur's certified checks
+in the lining of their helmets. And now, if you've finished your coffee,
+suppose we match one of your insufficient coins for the impending blow
+of Fate. What have I up?"
+
+"Heads," called Ives.
+
+"Heads it is," said Forster, lifting his hand. "I lose. We forgot to
+agree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when the
+waiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I will
+hold the fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hat
+and be off. I thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives,
+and wish we might have others."
+
+"If my memory is not at fault," said Ives, laughing, "the nearest police
+station is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too, let me
+assure you."
+
+Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotive
+effort that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism,
+glided to the table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser's
+cup. Forster took it up and added the figures with deliberate care. Ives
+leaned back comfortably in his chair.
+
+"Excuse me," said Forster; "but I thought you were going to ring Grimes
+about that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten about
+it?"
+
+"Oh," said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, "I can do that later
+on. Get me a glass of water, waiter."
+
+"Want to be in at the death, do you?" asked Forster.
+
+"I hope you don't object," said Ives, pleadingly. "Never in my life have
+I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling it out
+of a dinner."
+
+"All right," said Forster, calmly. "You are entitled to see a Christian
+die in the arena as your _pousse-cafe_."
+
+Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged
+air of an inexorable collector.
+
+Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his
+pocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and
+took it away.
+
+"The fact is," said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, "I doubt
+whether I'm what they call a 'game sport,' which means the same as a
+'soldier of Fortune.' I'll have to make a confession. I've been dining
+at this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I always
+sign my checks." And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice: "It
+was first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you knew I
+had no money, and that you might be scooped in, too."
+
+"I guess I'll confess, too," said Ives, with a grin. "I own the hotel.
+I don't run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor
+for my use when I happen to stray into town."
+
+He called a waiter and said: "Is Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? All
+right. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms made
+ready and aired."
+
+"Another venture cut short by the inevitable," said Forster. "Is there
+a conundrum without an answer in the next number? But let's hold to our
+subject just for a minute or two, if you will. It isn't often that I
+meet a man who understands the flaws I pick in existence. I am engaged
+to be married a month from to-day."
+
+"I reserve comment," said Ives.
+
+"Right; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond of
+the lady; but I can't decide whether to show up at the church or
+make a sneak for Alaska. It's the same idea, you know, that we were
+discussing--it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.
+Everybody knows the routine--you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea
+after breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress for
+dinner--theatre twice a week--bills--moping around most evenings trying
+to make conversation--a little quarrel occasionally--maybe sometimes a
+big one, and a separation--or else a settling down into a middle-aged
+contentment, which is worst of all."
+
+"I know," said Ives, nodding wisely.
+
+"It's the dead certainty of the thing," went on Forster, "that keeps me
+in doubt. There'll nevermore be anything around the corner."
+
+"Nothing after the 'Little Church,'" said Ives. "I know."
+
+"Understand," said Forster, "that I am in no doubt as to my feelings
+toward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there
+is something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out
+against any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I
+know that I want it. I'm talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I'm sure
+of what I mean."
+
+"I understand you," said Ives, with a slow smile. "Well, I think I will
+be going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one evening
+soon, Mr. Forster, I'd be glad."
+
+"Thursday?" suggested Forster.
+
+"At seven, if it's convenient," answered Ives.
+
+"Seven goes," assented Forster.
+
+At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in one
+of the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the reception
+room of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of Fortune, Chance
+and Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistler
+etchings, the steel engravings by Oh-what's-his-name?, the still-life
+paintings of the grapes and garden truck with the watermelon seeds
+spilled on the table as natural as life, and the Greuze head. It was
+a household. There was even brass andirons. On a table was an album,
+half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on the corners of the
+lids. A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, with a warning click at five
+minutes to nine. Ives looked at it curiously, remembering a time-piece
+in his grandmother's home that gave such a warning.
+
+And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was
+twenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this
+much--youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet
+eyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with
+the sweet cordiality of an old friendship.
+
+"You can't think what a pleasure it is," she said, "to have you drop in
+once every three years or so."
+
+For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the
+conversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library. When
+that part of it was over, Mary said:
+
+"And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?"
+
+"What I wanted?" said Ives.
+
+"Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn't play
+marbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water
+where you didn't know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. And
+when you grew up you were just the same. We've often talked about your
+peculiar ways."
+
+"I suppose I am an incorrigible," said Ives. "I am opposed to the
+doctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation, taxation,
+and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me something like
+a serial story would be if they printed above each instalment a synopsis
+of _succeeding_ chapters."
+
+Mary laughed merrily.
+
+"Bob Ames told us once," she said, "of a funny thing you did. It was
+when you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a town
+where you hadn't intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up a
+sign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it."
+
+"I remember," said Ives. "That 'next station' has been the thing I've
+always tried to get away from."
+
+"I know it," said Mary. "And you've been very foolish. I hope you didn't
+find what you wanted not to find, or get off at the station where there
+wasn't any, or whatever it was you expected wouldn't happen to you
+during the three years you've been away."
+
+"There was something I wanted before I went away," said Ives.
+
+Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweet
+smile.
+
+"There was," she said. "You wanted me. And you could have had me, as you
+very well know."
+
+Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There
+had been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years
+before. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind then.
+The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the everlasting
+hills. No change would ever come there except the inevitable ones
+wrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album would occupy that
+corner of that table, those pictures would hang on the walls, those
+chairs be found in their same places every morn and noon and night while
+the household hung together. The brass andirons were monuments to order
+and stability. Here and there were relics of a hundred years ago which
+were still living mementos and would be for many years to come. One
+going from and coming back to that house would never need to forecast or
+doubt. He would find what he left, and leave what he found. The veiled
+lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outer
+door.
+
+And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet
+and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass
+his life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he
+would never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her,
+and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the
+house itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was the
+knowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thus
+his thoughts ran.
+
+"I am going to be married soon," said Mary.
+
+On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive's hotel.
+
+"Old man," said he, "we'll have to put that dinner off for a year or so;
+I'm going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk we
+had the other night, and it decided me. I'm going to knock around the
+world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both you and
+me--the terrible dread of knowing what's going to happen. I've done one
+thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it's best for both
+of us. I've written to the lady to whom I was engaged and explained
+everything--told her plainly why I was leaving--that the monotony of
+matrimony would never do for me. Don't you think I was right?"
+
+"It is not for me to say," answered Ives. "Go ahead and shoot elephants
+if you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We've
+got to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,
+Forster, I've found the way. I've found out the biggest hazard in the
+world--a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end
+in the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge
+until the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know--not
+until his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage without
+a rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch,
+every day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found
+the VENTURE. Don't bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster.
+I married her yesterday at noon."
+
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+THE DUEL
+
+
+The gods, lying beside their nectar on 'Lympus and peeping over the edge
+of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would seem
+that to their vision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills
+without special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits
+of ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when
+coupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only
+solace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of
+villages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to
+many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among
+the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story
+addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet
+on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment
+while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I
+love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.
+
+New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus
+beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine's. They
+came here in various ways and for many reasons--Hendrik Hudson, the art
+schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers' convention, the
+Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates,
+brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight
+trains--all these have had a hand in making up the population.
+
+But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan
+has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his
+adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no
+rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.
+
+Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the
+ferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has
+conquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket
+or only the price of a week's lodging.
+
+The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn
+the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You
+cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against--lover or enemy--bosom
+friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only
+by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the
+subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse,
+Beethoven, chloral and John L. in his best days.
+
+In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long
+as you please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and
+be a citizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and
+without rebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but
+Knickerbocker's, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings,
+comparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair's residence in
+Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in
+New York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern Troy,
+concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism. And this
+dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant figures of
+William and Jack.
+
+They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They
+came to dig their fortunes out of the big city.
+
+Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander on
+the nose and the other an upper-cut with his left, just to let them know
+that the fight was on.
+
+William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and
+ambitious; so they countered and clinched. I think they were from
+Nebraska or possibly Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for
+success and scraps and scads, and they tackled the city like two
+Lochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at the City Hall.
+
+Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man
+blew in like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped into
+the chair that was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and had
+ordered as far as cheese before the artist had time to do more than nod.
+After the nod a humorous smile came into his eyes.
+
+"Billy," he said, "you're done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has
+taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand. You
+are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen to-day that you couldn't
+be picked out from them if it weren't for your laundry marks."
+
+"Camembert," finished William. "What's that? Oh, you've still
+got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old
+Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It's giving me mine.
+And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world--only
+slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell
+myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon,
+and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from
+the East. But I'd never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the
+rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard this
+fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife made me
+go. Give me May Irwin or E. S. Willard any time."
+
+"Poor Billy," said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. "You
+remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this
+great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it
+get the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had
+always been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man. You
+have changed from a maverick into a butterick."
+
+"Don't see exactly what you are driving at," said William. "I don't wear
+an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress
+occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a
+pattern--well, ain't the pattern all right? When you're in Rome you've
+got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged
+metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad
+schedule I've got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are
+asterisk stops--which means you wave a red flag and get on every other
+Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There's
+something or somebody doing all the time. I'm clearing $8,000 a year
+selling automatic pumps, and I'm living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I
+was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent's
+sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May
+play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke
+everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board
+sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There's
+only one thing in it that I don't care for, and that's a ferryboat."
+
+The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. "This
+town," said he, "is a leech. It drains the blood of the country. Whoever
+comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the figure of the
+leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence,
+the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute. Hand to hand
+every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You've lost, Billy. It
+shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or--the
+color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very vastness and
+power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the
+lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It
+has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its chariot wheels.
+It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars. Give me the
+domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or one ruled by
+an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest ingredients.
+Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its pre-eminence,
+it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is the
+narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country.
+I would go back there to-morrow if I could."
+
+"Don't you like this _filet mignon_?" said William. "Shucks, now, what's
+the use to knock the town! It's the greatest ever. I couldn't sell
+one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O'Keefe's saloon, in
+Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara Bernhardt
+in 'Andrew Mack' yet?"
+
+"The town's got you, Billy," said Jack.
+
+"All right," said William. "I'm going to buy a cottage on Lake
+Ronkonkoma next summer."
+
+At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it. He caught his
+breath at what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times.
+
+Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The
+irregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep
+gulches and winding streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long,
+desert canyons. Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel,
+enchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city. But into this background
+were cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares
+through which glowed many colored lights. And out of the violet and
+purple depths ascended like the city's soul sounds and odors and
+thrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaiety
+unrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man can know.
+There below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from
+the four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich,
+despoil, elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it came
+up to him and went into his blood.
+
+There was a knock on his door. A telegram had come for him. It came from
+the West, and these were its words:
+
+  "Come back and the answer will be yes.
+
+                                   "DOLLY."
+
+He kept the boy waiting ten minutes, and then wrote the reply:
+"Impossible to leave here at present." Then he sat at the window again
+and let the city put its cup of mandragora to his lips again.
+
+After all it isn't a story; but I wanted to know which one of the heroes
+won the battle against the city. So I went to a very learned friend and
+laid the case before him. What he said was: "Please don't bother me; I
+have Christmas presents to buy."
+
+So there it rests; and you will have to decide for yourself.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+"WHAT YOU WANT"
+
+
+Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as
+Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour
+that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets,
+bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled
+with the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old
+friend, the late Mr. H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred
+years nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but they
+were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you could
+have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor,
+the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and Forty
+Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the
+old Arabian gang easily.
+
+But let us revenue to our lamb chops.
+
+Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks and
+bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph you
+must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.
+Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a
+Turkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and personal
+affairs, the police court'll get you.
+
+Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money
+and everything. That's what makes a caliph--you must get to despise
+everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want something
+that you can't pay for.
+
+"I'll take a little trot around town all by myself," thought old Tom,
+"and try if I can stir up anything new. Let's see--it seems I've read
+about a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to go
+about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he hadn't
+been introduced to. That don't listen like a bad idea. I certainly have
+got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I do know. That
+old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran upon 'em and give
+'em gold--sequins, I think it was--and make 'em marry or got 'em good
+Government jobs. Now, I'd like something of that sort. My money is as
+good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every month where I got
+it. Yes, I guess I'll do a little Cardiff business to-night, and see how
+it goes."
+
+Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and
+walked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,
+who holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all the
+enchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks away
+looked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.
+
+James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments
+on Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door
+open, and where they clean your hat while you wait--two days. James
+stood all day at an electric machine that turned hats around faster than
+the best brands of champagne ever could have done. Overlooking your mild
+impertinence in feeling a curiosity about the personal appearance of a
+stranger, I will give you a modified description of him. Weight, 118;
+complexion, hair and brain, light; height, five feet six; age, about
+twenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of greenish-blue serge; pockets
+containing two keys and sixty-three cents in change.
+
+But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a General
+Alarm that James was either lost or a dead one.
+
+_Allons!_
+
+James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremely
+susceptible to impositions being put upon or below them. All day long
+they burned and smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience.
+But he was earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support
+his feet whether his feet would support him or not.
+
+James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as you
+and I have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts and
+motor-cars and to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe at
+evenfall and watch a badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into their
+common prairie home one by one.
+
+James Turner's idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go
+directly to his boarding-house when his day's work was done. After his
+supper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples and
+infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall room.
+Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of his
+burning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark
+Russell's sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied to
+his smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never palled
+upon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his sole
+intellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James Turner
+taking his ease.
+
+When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of
+his way home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the
+sidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume
+of Clark Russell at half price.
+
+While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down
+miscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His
+discerning eye, made keen by twenty years' experience in the manufacture
+of laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly the poor
+and discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous mood. He
+descended the two shallow stone steps that led from the sidewalk, and
+addressed without hesitation the object of his designed munificence. His
+first words were no worse than salutatory and tentative.
+
+James Turner looked up coldly, with "Sartor Resartus" in one hand and
+"A Mad Marriage" in the other.
+
+"Beat it," said he. "I don't want to buy any coat hangers or town lots
+in Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with your Teddy bear."
+
+"Young man," said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat cleaner,
+"I observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is one of
+the finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth mentioning,
+but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West, where we imagine
+nothing but facts. Maybe I couldn't understand the poetry and allusions
+in them books you are picking over, but I like to see somebody else seem
+to know what they mean. I'm worth about $40,000,000, and I'm getting
+richer every day. I made the height of it manufacturing Aunt Patty's
+Silver Soap. I invented the art of making it. I experimented for three
+years before I got just the right quantity of chloride of sodium
+solution and caustic potash mixture to curdle properly. And after I had
+taken some $9,000,000 out of the soap business I made the rest in corn
+and wheat futures. Now, you seem to have the literary and scholarly
+turn of character; and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay for your
+education at the finest college in the world. I'll pay the expense of
+your rummaging over Europe and the art galleries, and finally set you up
+in a good business. You needn't make it soap if you have any objections.
+I see by your clothes and frazzled necktie that you are mighty poor; and
+you can't afford to turn down the offer. Well, when do you want to
+begin?"
+
+The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is an
+eye expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment suspended
+as high as Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of challenge,
+curiosity, defiance, cynicism, and, strange as you may think it, of a
+childlike yearning for friendliness and fellowship that must be hidden
+when one walks among the "stranger bands." For in New Bagdad one, in
+order to survive, must suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks, rides,
+walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair, house, booth, seat, path or room.
+
+"Say, Mike," said James Turner, "what's your line, anyway--shoe laces?
+I'm not buying anything. You better put an egg in your shoe and beat it
+before incidents occur to you. You can't work off any fountain pens,
+gold spectacles you found on the street, or trust company certificate
+house clearings on me. Say, do I look like I'd climbed down one of them
+missing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What's vitiating you, anyhow?"
+
+"Son," said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, "as I said, I'm
+worth $40,000,000. I don't want to have it all put in my coffin when I
+die. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over these
+here volumes of literature, and I thought I'd keep you. I've give the
+missionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing
+but a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of young
+man I'd like to take up and see what money could make of him."
+
+Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old
+Book Shop. And James Turner's smarting and aching feet did not tend to
+improve his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit
+equal to any caliph's.
+
+"Say, you old faker," he said, angrily, "be on your way. I don't know
+what your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill.
+Well, I don't carry that much around with me. But I do carry a pretty
+fair left-handed punch that you'll get if you don't move on."
+
+"You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup," said the caliph.
+
+Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the
+collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two
+bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A copy came up,
+took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house.
+"Fighting and disorderly conduct," said the cop to the sergeant.
+
+"Three hundred dollars bail," said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly
+and inquiringly.
+
+"Sixty-three cents," said James Turner with a harsh laugh.
+
+The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change
+amounting to four dollars.
+
+"I am worth," he said, "forty million dollars, but--"
+
+"Lock 'em up," ordered the sergeant.
+
+In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. "Maybe
+he's got the money, and maybe he ain't. But if he has or he ain't, what
+does he want to go 'round butting into other folks's business for? When
+a man knows what he wants, and can get it, it's the same as $40,000,000
+to him."
+
+Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.
+
+He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself
+out luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars
+of the cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his
+cot gave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a
+paper-covered volume by Clark Russell called "A Sailor's Sweetheart."
+He gave a great sigh of contentment.
+
+Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:
+
+"Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seems
+to have been the goods after all. He 'phoned to his friends, and he's
+out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman car
+pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him."
+
+"Tell him I ain't in," said James Turner.
+
+
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Strictly Business, by O. Henry
+(#7 in our series by O. Henry)
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
+copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
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+**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
+
+Title: Strictly Business
+
+Author: O. Henry
+
+Release Date: April, 2000  [EBook #2141]
+[This edition 11 was first posted on May 8, 2004]
+
+Edition: 11
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: US-ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, STRICTLY BUSINESS ***
+
+
+
+
+E-text prepared by anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteers and revised by
+Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+More Stories of the Four Million
+
+by
+
+O. HENRY
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+I.     STRICTLY BUSINESS
+II.    THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+III.   BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+IV.    THE DAY RESURGENT
+V.     THE FIFTH WHEEL
+VI.    THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+VII.   THE ROBE OF PEACE
+VIII.  THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+IX.    THE CALL OF THE TAME
+X.     THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+XI.    THE THING'S THE PLAY
+XII.   A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+XIII.  A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+XIV.   PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+XV.    A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+XVI.   COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+XVII.  A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+XIX.   PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+XX.    PAST ONE AT RODNEY'S
+XXI.   THE VENTURERS
+XXII.  THE DUEL
+XXIII. "WHAT YOU WANT"
+
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+
+I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You've been
+touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and
+the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the
+long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your
+ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like
+this:
+
+Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better
+than your own (madam) if they weren't padded. Chorus girls are
+inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back
+to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses
+reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their
+step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew's real name is Boyle O'Kelley. The
+ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first
+sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.
+Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.
+
+All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne
+and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures
+have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.
+
+Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the
+profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the
+players with an eye full of patronizing superiority--and we go home and
+practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking
+glasses.
+
+Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It
+seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians
+and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk, students and
+ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and
+conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a
+manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of
+the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.
+
+Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true
+one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little
+story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only
+the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of
+Keetor's old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of
+gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch--and where I
+last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time
+to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.
+
+The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had
+been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years
+with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes
+with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a
+buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the
+bass-viol player in more than one house--than which no performer ever
+received more satisfactory evidence of good work.
+
+The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful
+performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order to
+give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest Broadway
+corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a matinee
+offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime of a
+minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with that
+most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles--the audible contact of the
+palm of one hand against the palm of the other.
+
+One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known
+vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got
+his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.
+
+A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed
+into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the
+audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, "All
+the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself," sat with his face as long and
+his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his
+grandmother to wind into a ball.
+
+But when H came on, "The Mustard" suddenly sat up straight. H was the
+happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs
+and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;
+but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to
+the old man's account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and
+ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed you
+ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old log
+school-house besides cipherin' and nouns, especially "When the Teach-er
+Kept Me in." Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings,
+she reappeared in considerably less than a "trice" as a fluffy
+"Parisienne"--so near does Art bring the old red mill to the Moulin
+Rouge. And then--
+
+But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else. He
+thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short order
+stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of "Helen
+Grimes" in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the tray
+of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor,
+grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play
+tucked away somewhere. They tuck 'em in trays of trunks, trunks of
+trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults,
+handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call. They
+belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.
+
+But Bob Hart's sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called
+it "Mice Will Play." He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever since he
+wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of "Helen
+Grimes." And here was "Helen" herself, with all the innocent abandon,
+the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that his
+critical taste demanded.
+
+After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and got
+Cherry's address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty old
+house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.
+
+By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with her
+hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have
+been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon's daughter, in the
+great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.
+
+"I know your act, Mr. Hart," she said after she had looked over his card
+carefully. "What did you wish to see me about?"
+
+"I saw you work last night," said Hart. "I've written a sketch that I've
+been saving up. It's for two; and I think you can do the other part. I
+thought I'd see you about it."
+
+"Come in the parlor," said Miss Cherry. "I've been wishing for something
+of the sort. I think I'd like to act instead of doing turns."
+
+Bob Hart drew his cherished "Mice Will Play" from his pocket, and read
+it to her.
+
+"Read it again, please," said Miss Cherry.
+
+And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by
+introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the
+dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the
+pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen
+Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to
+all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on
+the sketch's weaker points. That was her woman's intuition that he had
+lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the judgment,
+experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that "Mice Will
+Play" would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of the
+circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings of her
+smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of
+a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.
+
+"Mr. Hart," said she, "I believe your sketch is going to win out. That
+Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a
+handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the
+Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers' Bazaar. And I've seen you
+work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is
+business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?"
+
+"Two hundred," answered Hart.
+
+"I get one hundred for mine," said Cherry. "That's about the natural
+discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every
+week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all
+right. I love it; but there's something else I love better--that's a
+little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six ducks
+wandering around the yard.
+
+"Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me
+to play the opposite part in your sketch, I'll do it. And I believe we
+can make it go. And there's something else I want to say: There's no
+nonsense in my make-up; I'm _on the level_, and I'm on the stage for
+what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I'm
+going to save my money to keep me when I'm past doing my stunts. No Old
+Ladies' Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.
+
+"If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
+nonsense cut out of it, I'm in on it. I know something about vaudeville
+teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want
+you to know that I'm on the stage for what I can cart away from it every
+pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where
+the cashier has licked the flap. It's kind of a hobby of mine to want to
+cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to
+know just how I am. I don't know what an all-night restaurant looks
+like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance
+in my life, and I've got money in five savings banks."
+
+"Miss Cherry," said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, "you're in
+on your own terms. I've got 'strictly business' pasted in my hat and
+stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a
+five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking
+clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to
+the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side
+porch, reading Stanley's 'Explorations into Africa.' And nobody else
+around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?"
+
+"Not any," said Cherry. "What I'm going to do with my money is to bank
+it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I've been
+earning, I've figured out that in ten years I'd have an income of about
+$50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest some of
+the principal in a little business--say, trimming hats or a beauty
+parlor, and make more."
+
+"Well," said Hart, "You've got the proper idea all right, all right,
+anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who
+couldn't fix themselves for the wet days to come if they'd save their
+money instead of blowing it. I'm glad you've got the correct business
+idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch
+will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped
+up."
+
+The subsequent history of "Mice Will Play" is the history of all
+successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,
+remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and
+business, changed the lines, restored 'em, added more, cut 'em out,
+renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger
+for the pistol, restored the pistol--put the sketch through all the
+known processes of condensation and improvement.
+
+They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely
+used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would
+occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded
+revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of
+the sketch.
+
+Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a
+real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen
+Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and
+daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private
+secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,
+"Arapahoe" Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch
+that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,
+L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow
+Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving
+you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case
+may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should
+want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in 'em.
+
+Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of
+play, whether we admit it or not--something along in between "Bluebeard,
+Jr.," and "Cymbeline" played in the Russian.
+
+There were only two parts and a half in "Mice Will Play." Hart and
+Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always
+played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a
+panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn
+down the gas fire in the grate by the manager's orders.
+
+There was another girl in the sketch--a Fifth Avenue society
+swelless--who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine
+when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost
+his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic
+state--Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan--of the
+Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.
+
+And now for the thriller. Old "Arapahoe" Grimes dies of angina pectoris
+one night--so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the
+footlights--while only his secretary was present. And that same day he
+was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just
+received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts
+for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.
+Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his
+(alleged) croak.
+
+"Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed--" you sabe, don't
+you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue
+Girl--who doesn't come on the stage--and can we blame her, with the
+vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be buttoned
+in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?
+
+But, wait. Here's the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,
+is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine
+is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop
+$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like
+the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to make
+any perfect lady mad. So, then!
+
+They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk
+heads (didn't the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the
+denouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a
+play unless it be when the prologue ends.
+
+Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?
+The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra hadn't
+left their seats; and no man could get past "Old Jimmy," the stage
+door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as a
+guarantee of eligibility.
+
+Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine:
+"Robber and thief--and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this
+should be your fate!"
+
+With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.
+
+"But I will be merciful," goes on Helen. "You shall live--that will be
+your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to the
+death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the mantel. I will
+send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have pierced
+your craven heart."
+
+And she does it. And there's no fake blank cartridges or assistants
+pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet--the actual bullet--goes
+through the face of the photograph--and then strikes the hidden spring
+of the sliding panel in the wall--and lo! the panel slides, and there is
+the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.
+It's great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a
+target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the
+sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,
+covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the
+same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same spot,
+and she had to shoot steady and true every time.
+
+Of course old "Arapahoe" had tucked the funds away there in the secret
+place; and, of course, Jack hadn't taken anything except his salary
+(which really might have come under the head of "obtaining money under";
+but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York girl
+was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and,
+necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson--and there you are.
+
+After Hart and Cherry had gotten "Mice Will Play" flawless, they had a
+try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house
+wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a
+theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,
+being dressed for it, swam in tears.
+
+After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed
+fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was what
+it panned out.
+
+That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good night
+at her boarding-house door.
+
+"Mr. Hart," said she thoughtfully, "come inside just a few minutes.
+We've got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to do
+is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can."
+
+"Right," said Bob. "It's business with me. You've got your scheme for
+banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap
+cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net
+receipts will engage my attention."
+
+"Come inside just a few minutes," repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.
+"I've got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a
+lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine--and
+all on business principles."
+
+
+"Mice Will Play" had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten
+weeks--rather neat for a vaudeville sketch--and then it started on the
+circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid
+drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.
+
+Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor's New York houses, said of Hart &
+Cherry:
+
+"As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.
+It's a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard
+workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,
+straight home after their act, and each of 'em as gentlemanlike as a
+lady. I don't expect to handle any attractions that give me less trouble
+or more respect for the profession."
+
+And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of the
+story:
+
+At the end of its second season "Mice Will Play" came back to New York
+for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never
+any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his
+bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank
+books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment
+plan to hold them.
+
+I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can't believe it,
+that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
+ambitions--just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
+grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious
+to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
+allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they
+often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.
+
+But, listen.
+
+At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
+Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When
+she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the
+bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk,
+went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck. Not expecting to get
+it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic
+manner.
+
+The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy
+in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great
+enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the
+curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and more
+or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The next turn
+went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.
+
+The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
+waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The doctor
+examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.
+
+"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been
+two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
+far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,
+you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any
+one of the girls' Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the
+parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse
+me; I've got a serious case outside to look after."
+
+After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay
+came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn
+man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple
+sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played. Vincente
+had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their
+peripatetic friend.
+
+"Bob," said Vincente in his serious way, "I'm glad it's no worse. The
+little lady is wild about you."
+
+"Who?" asked Hart.
+
+"Cherry," said the juggler. "We didn't know how bad you were hurt; and
+we kept her away. It's taking the manager and three girls to hold her."
+
+"It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She
+wasn't feeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no
+hard feelings. She's strictly business. The doctor says I'll be on the
+job again in three days. Don't let her worry."
+
+"Man," said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,
+"are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry's crying her
+heart out for you--calling 'Bob, Bob,' every second, with them holding
+her hands and keeping her from coming to you."
+
+"What's the matter with her?" asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. "The
+sketch'll go on again in three days. I'm not hurt bad, the doctor says.
+She won't lose out half a week's salary. I know it was an accident.
+What's the matter with her?"
+
+"You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool," said Vincente. "The girl
+loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What's the matter with
+_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you."
+
+"Loves me?" asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which he
+lay. "Cherry loves me? Why, it's impossible."
+
+"I wish you could see her and hear her," said Griggs.
+
+"But, man," said Bob Hart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's
+impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing."
+
+"No human being," said the Tramp Juggler, "could mistake it. She's wild
+for love of you. How have you been so blind?"
+
+"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's _too late_. It's
+too late, I tell you, Sam; _it's too late_. It can't be. You must be
+wrong. It's _impossible_. There's some mistake.
+
+"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you she's
+fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare to raise
+the curtain. Wake up, man."
+
+"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell you
+it's too late? It's too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married
+two years!_"
+
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+
+
+A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
+you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
+Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not
+gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his
+bottle of testing acid.
+
+Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George
+the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
+quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you
+can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I walks."
+
+Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets
+where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical
+warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is "El
+Refugio," a cafe and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from
+the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of
+Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the
+cloaked and sombreroed senores, who are scattered like burning lava by
+the political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to
+lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist
+filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at
+long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.
+
+In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the
+palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the story
+thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the Gallic
+chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a fish--bluefish,
+shad or pompano from the Gulf--baked after the Spanish method. Tomatoes
+give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon
+it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and
+mystery, and--but its crowning glory deserves a new sentence. Around
+it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity--but never in it--hovers an
+ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that only the
+Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not say that
+garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than as if the
+spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that lingers in the
+parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life, "by hopeless
+fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And then, when Conchito, the
+waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and a carafe of wine that
+has never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio--ah, Dios!
+
+One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen. Perrico
+Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The General
+was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist
+and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache of
+a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas
+congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.
+
+Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire
+his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that
+neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that
+read, "Hotel Espanol." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se
+habla Espanol." The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
+
+In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had
+blond--oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,
+and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with
+his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables
+sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of
+a bunch.
+
+"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, pleasantly.
+
+"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly. "I speak the
+Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
+here. How is that?"
+
+"Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam. "I'm sure I
+can't."
+
+At the Hotel Espanol General Falcon engaged rooms and established
+himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders
+of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the
+wonderful golden hair of Mme. O'Brien. "It is here," said the General
+to himself, no doubt in his own language, "that one shall find the most
+beautiful senoras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among
+our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to
+think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion."
+
+At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became
+involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset
+him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an
+inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He
+scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle
+of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. "Valgame Dios! What
+devil's city is this?"
+
+As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded
+snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was
+"Bully" McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm
+and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of
+the asphalt was "Spider" Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.
+
+In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the
+quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.
+
+"G'wan!" he commanded harshly. "I saw it first." McGuire slunk away,
+awed by superior intelligence.
+
+"Pardon me," said Mr. Kelley, to the General, "but you got balled up in
+the shuffle, didn't you? Let me assist you." He picked up the General's
+hat and brushed the dust from it.
+
+The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered
+and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a
+caballero with a most disinterested heart.
+
+"I have a desire," said the General, "to return to the hotel of O'Brien,
+in which I am stop. Caramba! senor, there is a loudness and rapidness of
+going and coming in the city of this Nueva York."
+
+Mr. Kelley's politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to
+brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel
+Espanol they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the
+street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to
+whom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a "Dago
+joint." All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of
+"Dagoes" and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
+thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.
+
+An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in
+the conspirator's corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were between
+them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his mission
+to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase arms--2,000
+stands of Winchester rifles--for the Colombian revolutionists. He
+had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York
+correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were
+shouting their political secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was
+as loud as the General. He pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine;
+he roared to his friend that his errand was a secret one, and not to be
+hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley himself was stirred to
+sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General's hand across the table.
+
+"Monseer," he said, earnestly, "I don't know where this country of yours
+is, but I'm for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United States,
+though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us Columbia, too,
+sometimes. It's a lucky thing for you that you butted into me to-night.
+I'm the only man in New York that can get this gun deal through for you.
+The Secretary of War of the United States is me best friend. He's in the
+city now, and I'll see him for you to-morrow. In the meantime, monseer,
+you keep them drafts tight in your inside pocket. I'll call for you
+to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that ain't the District of
+Columbia you're talking about, is it?" concluded Mr. Kelley, with a
+sudden qualm. "You can't capture that with no 2,000 guns--it's been
+tried with more."
+
+"No, no, no!" exclaimed the General. "It is the Republic of Colombia--it
+is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.
+Yes."
+
+"All right," said Mr. Kelley, reassured. "Now suppose we trek along home
+and go by-by. I'll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date with
+him. It's a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky himself
+can't do it."
+
+They parted at the door of the Hotel Espanol. The General rolled his
+eyes at the moon and sighed.
+
+"It is a great country, your Nueva York," he said. "Truly the cars in
+the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly
+makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Senor Kelley--the senoras with hair
+of much goldness, and admirable fatness--they are magnificas! Muy
+magnificas!"
+
+Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary's cafe,
+far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.
+
+"Is that Jimmy Dunn?" asked Kelley.
+
+"Yes," came the answer.
+
+"You're a liar," sang back Kelley, joyfully. "You're the Secretary of
+War. Wait there till I come up. I've got the finest thing down here in
+the way of a fish you ever baited for. It's a Colorado-maduro, with a
+gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and a
+statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I'll be up on the next car."
+
+Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence
+line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout
+drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but
+the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing in
+New York. It was the ambition of "Spider" Kelley to elevate himself into
+Jimmy's class.
+
+These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary's. Kelley
+explained.
+
+"He's as easy as a gumshoe. He's from the Island of Colombia, where
+there's a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they've sent him
+up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He showed
+me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank here. 'S
+truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn't have it in
+thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now, we've
+got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us."
+
+They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; "Bring him to
+No. ---- Broadway, at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."
+
+In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Espanol for the General. He found
+the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs. O'Brien.
+
+"The Secretary of War is waitin' for us," said Kelley.
+
+The General tore himself away with an effort.
+
+"Ay, senor," he said, with a sigh, "duty makes a call. But, senor, the
+senoras of your Estados Unidos--how beauties! For exemplification, take
+you la Madame O'Brien--que magnifica! She is one goddess--one Juno--what
+you call one ox-eyed Juno."
+
+Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the fire
+of their own imagination.
+
+"Sure!" he said with a grin; "but you mean a peroxide Juno, don't you?"
+
+Mrs. O'Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye
+rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except
+in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.
+
+When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway
+address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then
+admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,
+with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to the
+Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known by his
+old friend, Mr. Kelley.
+
+"Ah--Colombia!" said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to
+understand; "I'm afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.
+The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the
+established government, while I--" the secretary gave the General a
+mysterious but encouraging smile. "You, of course, know, General Falcon,
+that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed requiring
+all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this country to pass
+through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be
+glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley. But it must be in
+absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard
+favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will
+have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now in the
+warehouse."
+
+The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T. on
+his cap stepped promptly into the room.
+
+"Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory," said the Secretary.
+
+The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied
+it closely.
+
+"I find," he said, "that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is
+shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the
+Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule
+is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.
+My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of
+arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer's price. And you will
+forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the
+Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!"
+
+As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his
+esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War was
+extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases and
+filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse rented
+for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to the
+Hotel Espanol, Mrs. O'Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from his
+lapel, and said:
+
+"Say, senor, I don't want to 'butt in,' but what does that monkey-faced,
+cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?"
+
+"Sangre de mi vida!" exclaimed the General. "Impossible it is that you
+speak of my good friend, Senor Kelley."
+
+"Come into the summer garden," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I want to have a talk
+with you."
+
+Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.
+
+"And you say," said the General, "that for the sum of $18,000 can be
+purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with
+this garden so lovely--so resembling unto the patios of my cara
+Colombia?"
+
+"And dirt cheap at that," sighed the lady.
+
+"Ah, Dios!" breathed General Falcon. "What to me is war and politics?
+This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to
+continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of
+mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel
+Espanol and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on
+guns."
+
+Mrs. O'Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the
+Colombian patriot.
+
+"Oh, senor," she sighed, happily, "ain't you terrible!"
+
+Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to
+the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented
+warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his
+friend Kelley to fetch the victim.
+
+Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Espanol. He found the
+General behind the desk adding up accounts.
+
+"I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day buy
+the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General
+Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O'Brien."
+
+Mr. Kelley almost strangled.
+
+"Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered, "you're
+a swindler--that's what you are! You've bought a boarding house with
+money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is."
+
+"Ah," said the General, footing up a column, "that is what you call
+politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best that
+one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to keep
+hotels and be with that Juno--that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of the
+gold it is that she have!"
+
+Mr. Kelley choked again.
+
+"Ah, Senor Kelley!" said the General, feelingly and finally, "is it that
+you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O'Brien she
+make?"
+
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+
+
+Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says
+to me once in Little Rock: "If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get
+too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the
+West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in
+chunks of roe--you can't count 'em!"
+
+Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of the
+Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I
+knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver's advice.
+
+I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And
+I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of
+haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his
+nails with a silk handkerchief.
+
+"Paresis or superannuated?" I asks him.
+
+"Hello, Billy," says Silver; "I'm glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me
+that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I've been
+saving New York for dessert. I know it's a low-down trick to take things
+from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and fro and
+think ever and anon. I'd hate for my mother to know I was skinning these
+weak-minded ones. She raised me better."
+
+"Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
+does skin grafting?" I asks.
+
+"Well, no," says Silver; "you needn't back Epidermis to win to-day.
+I've only been here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the members of
+Willie Manhattan's Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to
+contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well
+send their photos to the _Evening Daily_.
+
+"I've been studying the town," says Silver, "and reading the papers
+every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an
+O'Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when
+you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my
+room and I'll tell you. We'll work the town together, Billy, for the
+sake of old times."
+
+Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects
+lying about.
+
+"There's more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,"
+says Silver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They'll
+bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are
+in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn't
+a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller,
+Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's celebrated painting of the young Saint John!
+
+"You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's gold
+mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
+hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy
+it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,
+and then I took it off the market. I don't want people to give me their
+money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction
+to keep my pride from being hurt. I want 'em to guess the missing letter
+in Chic--go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of
+money.
+
+"Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit
+it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor
+on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I was Admiral
+Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but
+I didn't know my uncle's first name. It shows, though, what an easy town
+it is. As for burglars, they won't go in a house now unless there's a
+hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on 'em. They're
+slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess,
+taking the town from end to end, it's a plain case of assault and
+Battery."
+
+"Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattan
+correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only
+been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me that it's ours with a
+cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I'd be
+a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or more in
+their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms.
+They don't look easy to me."
+
+"You've got it, Billy," says Silver. "All emigrants have it. New York's
+bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You'll
+be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because
+they don't send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide
+sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears
+the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper's wife, and
+Bella, the Buncosteerer's bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than a
+blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I'll break
+the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of
+twenties."
+
+"I hope you are right, Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had
+been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of farmers
+is never so short out there but what you can get a few of 'em to sign
+a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200 at
+the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of
+self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured
+enough to tackle this game."
+
+"Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown
+correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River
+ain't a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway
+who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their lives!
+A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous enough here
+inside of three months to incur either Jerome's clemency or Lawson's
+displeasure."
+
+"Hyperbole aside," says I, "do you know of any immediate system of
+buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the
+Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould's doorsteps?"
+
+"Dozens of 'em," says Silver. "How much capital have you got, Billy?"
+
+"A thousand," I told him.
+
+"I've got $1,200," says he. "We'll pool and do a big piece of business.
+There's so many ways we can make a million that I don't know how to
+begin."
+
+The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and
+stirred with a kind of silent joy.
+
+"We're to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon," says he. "A man I know in
+the hotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He says he likes
+to meet people from the West."
+
+"That sounds nice and plausible," says I. "I'd like to know Mr. Morgan."
+
+"It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few
+finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with
+strangers."
+
+The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o'clock Klein brought his
+Wall Street friend to see us in Silver's room. "Mr. Morgan" looked some
+like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left
+foot, and he walked with a cane.
+
+"Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud," says Klein. "It sounds superfluous," says
+he, "to mention the name of the greatest financial--"
+
+"Cut it out, Klein," says Mr. Morgan. "I'm glad to know you gents; I
+take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you're from Little Rock.
+I think I've a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of you
+guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I--"
+
+"Now, Pierpont," cuts in Klein, "you forget!"
+
+"Excuse me, gents!" says Morgan; "since I've had the gout so bad I
+sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never
+knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He
+lived in Seattle, New Mexico."
+
+Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane
+and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.
+
+"They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?"
+asks Klein, smiling.
+
+"Stocks! No!" roars Mr. Morgan. "It's that picture I sent an agent to
+Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it
+ain't to be found in all Italy. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for that
+picture--yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I
+cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to--"
+
+"Why, Mr. Morgan," says klein; "I thought you owned all of the De Vinchy
+paintings."
+
+"What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?" asks Silver. "It must be as big
+as the side of the Flatiron Building."
+
+"I'm afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver," says Morgan.
+"The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called 'Love's Idle Hour.' It
+represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank of a
+purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to this
+country. My collection will never be complete without that picture.
+Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours."
+
+Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked
+about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said what
+a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I said I
+thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a stroll
+after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue
+to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his
+admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while he buys 'em.
+
+After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me
+and waves his hands.
+
+"Did you see it?" says he. "Did you see it, Billy?"
+
+"What?" I asks.
+
+"Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It's hanging in that pawnshop,
+behind the desk. I didn't say anything because Klein was there. It's the
+article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can make
+them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any skirts, and
+they're doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with the blues.
+What did Mr. Morgan say he'd give for it? Oh, don't make me tell you.
+They can't know what it is in that pawnshop."
+
+When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing
+there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a drink.
+We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains.
+
+"That's a violent specimen of a chromo you've got up there," remarked
+Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse over the girl
+with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for it
+cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in hurrying
+it off the nail?"
+
+The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.
+
+"That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian
+gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called 'Love's Idle Hour,' and
+it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired, and it
+became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is worn a
+great deal now."
+
+At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and
+walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started
+for Morgan's office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two hours
+Silver comes back.
+
+"Did you see Mr. Morgan?" I asks. "How much did he pay you for it?"
+
+Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.
+
+"I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan," he says, "because Mr. Morgan's been
+in Europe for a month. But what's worrying me, Billy, is this: The
+department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for
+$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone--that's what I can't
+understand."
+
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+THE DAY RESURGENT
+
+
+I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes
+to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions
+of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.
+
+First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have
+free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper number
+of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the well-known
+model, will pose for it in the "Lethergogallagher," or whatever it was
+that Trilby called it.
+
+Second--the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.
+This is magazine-covery, but reliable.
+
+Third--Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.
+
+Fourth--Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy
+and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.
+
+Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the
+higher criticism has hard-boiled them.
+
+The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of
+all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception.
+It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back
+still further to the first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a
+new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_.
+
+Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth
+the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a
+holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in
+the footsteps of Danny McCree.
+
+Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the
+calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30
+Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his
+face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard,
+smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap,
+and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder
+between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in
+Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front
+room of the flat Danny's father sat by an open window smoking his pipe,
+with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still
+clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years
+before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without
+permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that
+they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to
+you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the
+headlines?
+
+"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.
+
+"Scramble mine," said Danny.
+
+After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of
+the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur--frock coat, striped
+trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest,
+and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein's
+(between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit stand) Saturday night sale.
+
+"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man McCree,
+a little wistfully. "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it's fine
+spring weather. I can feel it in the air."
+
+"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest
+tones. "Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my
+team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
+you've just eat, I'd like to know? Answer me that!"
+
+"All right, lad," said the old man. "I'm not complainin'. While me two
+eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a Sunday out.
+There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the windy. I have me
+tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your mother
+had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the hippopotamus--but
+let that be."
+
+"Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?" asked Danny
+of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. "Have you been taking
+him to the Zoo? And for what?"
+
+"I have not," said Mrs. McCree. "He sets by the windy all day. 'Tis
+little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I'm thinkin'
+they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without
+stoppin' for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there's lard burnin'
+in the fryin' pan. There is not. He says I do not understand. 'Tis weary
+days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny. There was
+no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes. 'Tis a fine
+day, son. Injoy yeself ag'inst the morning. There will be cold supper at
+six."
+
+"Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of Mike, the
+janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.
+
+"I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis the
+only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that
+I've not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or
+else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,
+then?"
+
+"It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny. "Likely there's
+nothing in it."
+
+Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into
+the heart of the district where Easter--modern Easter, in new, bright
+raiment--leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the
+blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving
+parterres of living flowers--so it seemed when your eye looked upon the
+Easter girl.
+
+Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the
+background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The
+windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent
+creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
+
+Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked
+Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
+
+"Why, Corrigan," he asked, "is Easter? I know it comes the first time
+you're full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March--but why?
+Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it
+out of politics?"
+
+"'Tis an annual celebration," said Corrigan, with the judicial air of
+the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, "peculiar to New York. It extends
+up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and
+Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion 'tis not political."
+
+"Thanks," said Danny. "And say--did you ever hear a man complain of
+hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean."
+
+"Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and there
+was wood alcohol in that."
+
+Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously
+a Sunday and a festival day was his.
+
+The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often
+that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made
+garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the
+griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the
+Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,
+attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,
+and took his pleasure sadly.
+
+The family entrance of Dugan's cafe was feasible; so Danny yielded to
+the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,
+linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the
+mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.
+
+"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"
+
+"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. "Is that a new one?
+All right. Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess. I give it up.
+What's the answer--two apples or a yard and a half?"
+
+From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in
+him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong
+diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.
+
+A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They
+pumped hands on the corner.
+
+"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's wrong?
+Come away with me to church and be cheerful."
+
+"What's doing at church?" asked Danny.
+
+"Why, it's Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin'
+you might come around to go."
+
+"What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily. "Nobody
+seems to know."
+
+"Nobody as blind as you," said Katy with spirit. "You haven't even
+looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it's when all the girls put on new
+spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?"
+
+"I will," said Danny. "If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought to
+be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain't a beauty. The
+green roses are great."
+
+At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke
+rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;
+but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his
+theme--resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of
+the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a
+wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth
+pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.
+
+After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique in
+her sky-blue eyes.
+
+"Are you coming along to the house?" she asked. "But don't mind me. I'll
+get there all right. You seem to be studyin' a lot about something. All
+right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr. McCree?"
+
+"I'll be around Wednesday night as usual," said Danny, turning and
+crossing the street.
+
+Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny
+stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,
+at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep
+in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening
+that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender
+than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and
+deeper-rooted than the love of woman--for had he not turned away from
+green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny
+did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his
+dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow
+the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.
+
+Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.
+
+"Hippopotamus!" he shouted to an elevated road pillar. "Well, how is
+that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was
+driving at now.
+
+"Hippopotamus! Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx! It's been a year
+since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far. We quit at 469
+B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn't have guessed
+what he was trying to get out of him."
+
+Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor
+supported.
+
+Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on
+the sill.
+
+"Will that be you, lad?" he asked.
+
+Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the
+outset of committing a good deed.
+
+"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" he
+snapped, viciously. "Have I no right to come in?"
+
+"Ye're a faithful lad," said old man McCree, with a sigh. "Is it evening
+yet?"
+
+Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt
+letters, "The History of Greece." Dust was on it half an inch thick. He
+laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper.
+And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:
+
+"Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?"
+
+"Did I hear ye open the book?" said old man McCree. "Many and weary be
+the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great
+likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. 'Tis a fine day outside,
+lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair
+by the windy and me pipe."
+
+"Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
+hippopotamus," said Danny. "The war began there. It kept something doing
+for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon,
+in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the
+battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I'll read it."
+
+With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree
+sat for an hour, listening.
+
+Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree
+was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man
+McCree's eyes.
+
+"Do you hear our lad readin' to me?" he said. "There is none finer in
+the land. My two eyes have come back to me again."
+
+After supper he said to Danny: "'Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now
+ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough."
+
+"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" said
+Danny, angrily. "Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is
+yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the
+kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire.
+Am I nothing in this house?"
+
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+THE FIFTH WHEEL
+
+
+The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They
+were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth
+Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked
+at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted
+them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues. The
+Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture looming
+mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood for the
+tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by the
+winged walking delegate of the Lord.
+
+Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the
+Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north
+wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a
+man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you
+credit.
+
+The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over
+the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and had assumed for
+himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box
+on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for
+other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,
+this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all
+might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and
+the rent man and business go to the deuce.
+
+The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
+dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth's
+monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with
+conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the
+Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
+coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad
+of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms
+beautifully devoid of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative
+monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must
+hear one phrase of the Preacher's--the one that formed his theme that
+night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in the
+world.
+
+_"No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky."_
+
+Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to the
+Potter's Field.
+
+A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
+emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his
+coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed
+signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling goose. But,
+conscientiously, I must warn the milliner's apprentice who reads this,
+expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no further. The
+young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for
+drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the
+one-night bed seekers.
+
+If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family
+carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage
+is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van
+Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year's Eve feather
+tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays
+and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady's maid. But it is
+one of the saddest things about romance that a tight shoe or an empty
+commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary heretic of any
+Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas's physical troubles were not few. Therefore,
+his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost lady's maid than it
+was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent things that his
+racked nerves almost convinced him were flying, dancing, crawling, and
+wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above and around the dismal
+campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of straight whisky and
+a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a
+psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by
+phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and intercourse.
+
+The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own
+age, shabby but neat.
+
+"What's the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?" asked Thomas, with the
+freemasonic familiarity of the damned--"Booze? That's mine. You don't
+look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the
+lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that ever
+made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how
+do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale."
+
+The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy
+ex-coachman.
+
+"No," said he, "mine isn't exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow that
+Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion of my
+unforgiving relatives. I've been out of work for a year because I don't
+know how to work; and I've been sick in Bellevue and other hospitals for
+months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I was turned out
+of the hospital yesterday. And I haven't a cent. That's my tale of woe."
+
+"Tough luck," said Thomas. "A man alone can pull through all right. But
+I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it."
+
+Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,
+so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that
+it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and
+pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.
+
+When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became
+loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake
+of the flying car.
+
+Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the
+Preacher's goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
+swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
+both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
+canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with
+the lost tire.
+
+One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand
+an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save
+his pride.
+
+Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
+chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
+sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.
+
+Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner
+and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be
+suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to
+higher denominations.
+
+But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received
+the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,
+and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
+
+"Strange--strange!" said he. "Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied
+that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?"
+
+Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful
+Thomas.
+
+"Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
+if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
+Washington Square North?"
+
+"Oughtn't I to?" replied Thomas. "I lived there. Wish I did yet."
+
+The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
+
+"Step in please," he said. "You have been expected."
+
+Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
+motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
+the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
+course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.
+
+"Maybe the guy hasn't got any change," was his diagnosis. "Lots of these
+swell rounders don't lug about any ready money. Guess he'll dump me out
+when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow,
+it's a cinch that I've got that open-air bed convention beat to a
+finish."
+
+Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself,
+to marvel at the surprises of life. "Wonderful! amazing! strange!" he
+repeated to himself constantly.
+
+When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
+a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front
+houses.
+
+"Be kind enough to enter my house with me," said the sealskinned
+gentleman when they had alighted. "He's going to dig up, sure,"
+reflected Thomas, following him inside.
+
+There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a door
+to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness.
+Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly in
+the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly
+appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy
+tales.
+
+The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
+fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
+portieres of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The
+furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman's feet
+sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three or
+four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet drapery.
+
+Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one
+eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor--to find that
+he had disappeared.
+
+"B'gee!" muttered Thomas, "this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn't
+wonder if it ain't one of these Moravian Nights' adventures that you
+read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy."
+
+Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated
+globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant
+electric glow.
+
+With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
+Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
+terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
+crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
+light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
+portieres parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the
+room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate
+taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy
+hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave
+him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive
+a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah's throne-room advancing to greet a
+visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his
+manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t's_ to be mindful of his
+_p's_ and _q's_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat
+terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.
+
+"Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap.
+I hope I didn't break anything. But I've nearly got the williwalloos,
+and when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a
+snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the
+sideboard."
+
+"That is merely a mechanical toy," said the gentleman with a wave of his
+hand. "May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you to
+my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with the
+psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to the
+point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know the
+Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North."
+
+"Any silver missing?" asked Thomas tartly. "Any joolry displaced? Of
+course I know 'em. Any of the old ladies' sunshades disappeared? Well,
+I know 'em. And then what?"
+
+The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.
+
+"Wonderful!" he murmured. "Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the
+Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you," he continued, "that
+there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you
+that very good fortune awaits you. We will see."
+
+"Do they want me back?" asked Thomas, with something of his old
+professional pride in his voice. "I'll promise to cut out the booze and
+do the right thing if they'll try me again. But how did you get wise,
+doc? B'gee, it's the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its
+flashlight owls and so forth."
+
+With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two
+minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the chauffeur,
+who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious apartment,
+he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by his witty and
+genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the cold streets
+from which he had been so recently and so singularly rescued. A servant
+brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a glass of miraculous
+wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop him. Thus half an
+hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned motor car at the
+door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with another soft
+petition for a brief absence.
+
+Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front
+door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall
+through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was
+screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double
+portieres. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely
+tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were
+scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or
+toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.
+
+The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She
+was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,
+took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an
+attendant might have done.
+
+"You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco," said the elder woman, wearily.
+"I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I've about
+lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to
+your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it."
+
+"Madam," said the professor, with his princeliest smile, "the true Art
+cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes
+requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the
+crystal, the stars, the magic formulae of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of
+Po. But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean
+Chiroscope has been successful in our search."
+
+The professor's voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in
+his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more
+interest.
+
+"Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on
+it," she said. "What do you mean?"
+
+"The words were these," said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full
+magnificent height: "_'By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall
+come.'_"
+
+"I haven't seen many chariots," said the lady, "but I never saw one with
+five wheels."
+
+"Progress," said the professor--"progress in science and mechanics has
+accomplished it--though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an
+extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I
+repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only answer
+the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before your
+eyes the proof thereof."
+
+And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.
+
+"O professor!" she cried anxiously--"When?--where? Has he been found? Do
+not keep me in suspense."
+
+"I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes," said Professor
+Cherubusco, "and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the
+true Art."
+
+Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl
+when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.
+
+"Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
+welcome and restoration to favor?" he asked, with his courteous, royal
+smile.
+
+"Do I look bughouse?" answered Thomas. "Enough of the footback life for
+me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways as
+a nut on a new axle."
+
+"My dear young man," said the other, "she has been searching for you
+everywhere."
+
+"Great!" said Thomas. "I'm on the job. That team of dropsical
+dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman
+like myself; but I'll take the job back, sure, doc. They're good people
+to be with."
+
+And now a change came o'er the suave countenance of the Caliph of
+Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.
+
+"May I ask what your name is?" he said shortly.
+
+"You've been looking for me," said Thomas, "and don't know my name?
+You're a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office
+gumshoers. I'm Thomas McQuade, of course; and I've been chauffeur of
+the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago
+for--well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on
+booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing
+in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.
+Now, what's the prize for the best answer to all this?"
+
+To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and
+dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was
+opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,
+disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian's shoe.
+
+As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he
+hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.
+
+"Crazy guy," was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. "Just
+wanted to have some fun kiddin', I guess. He might have dug up a dollar,
+anyhow. Now I've got to hurry up and get back to that gang of bum bed
+hunters before they all get preached to sleep."
+
+When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of
+the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the
+proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file
+in front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals and
+something of a wife and child.
+
+"Sorry to see you back again," said the young man, turning to speak to
+him. "I hoped you had struck something better than this."
+
+"Me?" said Thomas. "Oh, I just took a run around the block to keep warm!
+I see the public ain't lending to the Lord very fast to-night."
+
+"In this kind of weather," said the young man, "charity avails itself of
+the proverb, and both begins and ends at home."
+
+And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of
+petition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes
+still registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in.
+
+In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with
+wind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight
+toward him from the opposite sidewalk. "Annie!" he yelled, and ran
+toward her.
+
+"You fool, you fool!" she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging upon
+his neck, "why did you do it?"
+
+"The Stuff," explained Thomas briefly. "You know. But subsequently nit.
+Not a drop." He led her to the curb. "How did you happen to see me?"
+
+"I came to find you," said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. "Oh, you
+big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you here."
+
+"Professor Ch---- Don't know the guy. What saloon does he work in?"
+
+"He's a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found you
+with the Chaldean telescope, he said."
+
+"He's a liar," said Thomas. "I never had it. He never saw me have
+anybody's telescope."
+
+"And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something."
+
+"Annie," said Thoms solicitously, "you're giving me the wheels now. If
+I had a chariot I'd have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any
+singing and preaching for a nightcap, either."
+
+"Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she'll take you back. I begged
+her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;
+and your old room over the stable is ready."
+
+"Great!" said Thomas earnestly. "You are It, Annie. But when did these
+stunts happen?"
+
+"To-night at Professor Cherubusco's. He sent his automobile for the
+Missis, and she took me along. I've been there with her before."
+
+"What's the professor's line?"
+
+"He's a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows
+everything. But he hasn't done the Missis any good yet, though she's
+paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told him we
+could find you here."
+
+"What's the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?"
+
+"That's a family secret," said Annie. "And now you've asked enough
+questions. Come on home, you big fool."
+
+They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped.
+
+"Got any dough with you, Annie?" he asked.
+
+Annie looked at him sharply.
+
+"Oh, I know what that look means," said Thomas. "You're wrong. Not
+another drop. But there's a guy that was standing next to me in the bed
+line over there that's in bad shape. He's the right kind, and he's got
+wives or kids or something, and he's on the sick list. No booze. If you
+could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a decent bed I'd like
+it."
+
+Annie's fingers began to wiggle in her purse.
+
+"Sure, I've got money," said she. "Lots of it. Twelve dollars." And then
+she added, with woman's ineradicable suspicion of vicarious benevolence:
+"Bring him here and let me see him first."
+
+Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As
+the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:
+
+"Mr. Walter-- Oh--Mr. Walter!
+
+"Is that you, Annie?" said the young man meekly.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Walter!--and the Missis hunting high and low for you!"
+
+"Does mother want to see me?" he asked, with a flush coming out on his
+pale cheek.
+
+"She's been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see you.
+She wants you to come home. She's tried police and morgues and lawyers
+and advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she
+took up clearvoyants. You'll go right home, won't you, Mr. Walter?"
+
+"Gladly, if she wants me," said the young man. "Three years is a long
+time. I suppose I'll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars are
+giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of bays we
+used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?"
+
+"They have," said Thomas, feelingly. "And they'll have 'em ten years
+from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one
+hundred and forty-nine years. I'm the coachman. Just got my
+reappointment five minutes ago. Let's all ride up in a surface car--that
+is--er--if Annie will pay the fares."
+
+On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to
+pay the conductor.
+
+"Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of
+money around," said Thomas sarcastically.
+
+"In that purse," said Annie decidedly, "is exactly $11.85. I shall take
+every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the
+greatest man in the world."
+
+"Well," said Thomas, "I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe off
+things the way he does. I'm glad his spooks told him where you could
+find me. If you'll give me his address, some day I'll go up there,
+myself, and shake his hand."
+
+Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt an
+abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.
+
+"Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last dreams
+of booze, but I've a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile
+with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights.
+He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front
+steps. If it was the _d t's_, why am I so sore?"
+
+"Shut up, you fool," said Annie.
+
+"If I could find that funny guy's house," said Thomas, in conclusion,
+"I'd go up there some day and punch his nose for him."
+
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+
+
+The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion
+with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.
+
+It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
+song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
+
+When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak
+dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:
+
+"Too artificial."
+
+Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and
+swallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls.
+
+And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a
+well-arrived writer of fiction--a man who had trod on asphalt all his
+life, and who had never looked upon bucolic scenes except with
+sensations of disgust from the windows of express trains.
+
+Conant wrote a poem and called it "The Doe and the Brook." It was a
+fine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had
+strayed with Amaryllis only as far as the florist's windows, and whose
+sole ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter. Conant
+signed this poem, and we sent it to the same editor.
+
+But this has very little to do with the story.
+
+Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next
+morning, a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped slowly
+up Forty-second Street.
+
+The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and
+hair the exact color of the little orphan's (afterward discovered to be
+the earl's daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney's plays. His trousers were
+corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his
+back. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,
+though in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating
+the suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.
+In his hand was a valise--description of it is an impossible task; a
+Boston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office
+in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay--the rustic's
+letter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of the
+Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men.
+
+Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw
+stranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall buildings.
+At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been
+done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney
+"attraction" or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his
+memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the newsboys looked
+bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the way of cabs and
+street cars.
+
+At Eighth Avenue stood "Bunco Harry," with his dyed mustache and shiny,
+good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
+sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who
+had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his
+head.
+
+"Too thick, pal," he said, critically--"too thick by a couple of inches.
+I don't know what your lay is; but you've got the properties too thick.
+That hay, now--why, they don't even allow that on Proctor's circuit any
+more."
+
+"I don't understand you, mister," said the green one. "I'm not lookin'
+for any circus. I've just run down from Ulster County to look at the
+town, bein' that the hayin's over with. Gosh! but it's a whopper. I
+thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times
+as big."
+
+"Oh, well," said "Bunco Harry," raising his eyebrows, "I didn't mean
+to butt in. You don't have to tell. I thought you ought to tone down
+a little, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success at your graft,
+whatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow."
+
+"I wouldn't mind having a glass of lager beer," acknowledged the other.
+
+They went to a cafe frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty eyes,
+and sat at their drinks.
+
+"I'm glad I come across you, mister," said Haylocks. "How'd you like to
+play a game or two of seven-up? I've got the keerds."
+
+He fished them out of Noah's valise--a rare, inimitable deck, greasy
+with bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields.
+
+"Bunco Harry" laughed loud and briefly.
+
+"Not for me, sport," he said, firmly. "I don't go against that make-up
+of yours for a cent. But I still say you've overdone it. The Reubs
+haven't dressed like that since '79. I doubt if you could work Brooklyn
+for a key-winding watch with that layout."
+
+"Oh, you needn't think I ain't got the money," boasted Haylocks. He drew
+forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and laid it
+on the table.
+
+"Got that for my share of grandmother's farm," he announced. "There's
+$950 in that roll. Thought I'd come to the city and look around for a
+likely business to go into."
+
+"Bunco Harry" took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost
+respect in his smiling eyes.
+
+"I've seen worse," he said, critically. "But you'll never do it in them
+clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw
+hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and
+freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work
+off phony stuff like that."
+
+"What's his line?" asked two or three shifty-eyed men of "Bunco Harry"
+after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed.
+
+"The queer, I guess," said Harry. "Or else he's one of Jerome's men.
+Or some guy with a new graft. He's too much hayseed. Maybe that his--I
+wonder now--oh, no, it couldn't have been real money."
+
+Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived
+into a dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight
+of him their eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated
+rusticity became apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion.
+
+Haylocks swung his valise across the bar.
+
+"Keep that a while for me, mister," he said, chewing at the end of a
+virulent claybank cigar. "I'll be back after I knock around a spell. And
+keep your eye on it, for there's $950 inside of it, though maybe you
+wouldn't think so to look at me."
+
+Somewhere outside a phonograph struck up a band piece, and Haylocks was
+off for it, his coat-tail buttons flopping in the middle of his back.
+
+"Divvy, Mike," said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at one
+another.
+
+"Honest, now," said the bartender, kicking the valise to one side. "You
+don't think I'd fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he ain't no jay.
+One of McAdoo's come-on squad, I guess. He's a shine if he made himself
+up. There ain't no parts of the country now where they dress like that
+since they run rural free delivery to Providence, Rhode Island. If he's
+got nine-fifty in that valise it's a ninety-eight cent Waterbury that's
+stopped at ten minutes to ten."
+
+When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse he
+returned for his valise. And then down Broadway he gallivanted, culling
+the sights with his eager blue eyes. But still and evermore Broadway
+rejected him with curt glances and sardonic smiles. He was the oldest of
+the "gags" that the city must endure. He was so flagrantly impossible,
+so ultra rustic, so exaggerated beyond the most freakish products of the
+barnyard, the hayfield and the vaudeville stage, that he excited only
+weariness and suspicion. And the wisp of hay in his hair was so genuine,
+so fresh and redolent of the meadows, so clamorously rural that even a
+shell-game man would have put up his peas and folded his table at the
+sight of it.
+
+Haylocks seated himself upon a flight of stone steps and once more
+exhumed his roll of yellow-backs from the valise. The outer one, a
+twenty, he shucked off and beckoned to a newsboy.
+
+"Son," said he, "run somewhere and get this changed for me. I'm mighty
+nigh out of chicken feed. I guess you'll get a nickel if you'll hurry
+up."
+
+A hurt look appeared through the dirt on the newsy's face.
+
+"Aw, watchert'ink! G'wan and get yer funny bill changed yerself. Dey
+ain't no farm clothes yer got on. G'wan wit yer stage money."
+
+On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He saw
+Haylocks, and his expression suddenly grew cold and virtuous.
+
+"Mister," said the rural one. "I've heard of places in this here town
+where a fellow could have a good game of old sledge or peg a card at
+keno. I got $950 in this valise, and I come down from old Ulster to see
+the sights. Know where a fellow could get action on about $9 or $10? I'm
+goin' to have some sport, and then maybe I'll buy out a business of some
+kind."
+
+The steerer looked pained, and investigated a white speck on his left
+forefinger nail.
+
+"Cheese it, old man," he murmured, reproachfully. "The Central Office
+must be bughouse to send you out looking like such a gillie. You
+couldn't get within two blocks of a sidewalk crap game in them Tony
+Pastor props. The recent Mr. Scotty from Death Valley has got you beat
+a crosstown block in the way of Elizabethan scenery and mechanical
+accessories. Let it be skiddoo for yours. Nay, I know of no gilded halls
+where one may bet a patrol wagon on the ace."
+
+Rebuffed once again by the great city that is so swift to detect
+artificialities, Haylocks sat upon the curb and presented his thoughts
+to hold a conference.
+
+"It's my clothes," said he; "durned if it ain't. They think I'm a
+hayseed and won't have nothin' to do with me. Nobody never made fun of
+this hat in Ulster County. I guess if you want folks to notice you in
+New York you must dress up like they do."
+
+So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through their
+noses and rubbed their hands and ran the tape line ecstatically over the
+bulge in his inside pocket where reposed a red nubbin of corn with an
+even number of rows. And messengers bearing parcels and boxes streamed
+to his hotel on Broadway within the lights of Long Acre.
+
+At 9 o'clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom Ulster
+County would have foresworn. Bright tan were his shoes; his hat the
+latest block. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue
+silk handkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant English
+walking coat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond
+hair was trimmed close; the wisp of hay was gone.
+
+For an instant he stood, resplendent, with the leisurely air of a
+boulevardier concocting in his mind the route for his evening pleasures.
+And then he turned down the gay, bright street with the easy and
+graceful tread of a millionaire.
+
+But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in the
+city had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with gray
+eyes picked two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from the row
+of loungers in front of the hotel.
+
+"The juiciest jay I've seen in six months," said the man with gray eyes.
+"Come along."
+
+It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh
+Street Police Station with the story of his wrongs.
+
+"Nine hundred and fifty dollars," he gasped, "all my share of
+grandmother's farm."
+
+The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust
+Valley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the
+strong-arm gentlemen.
+
+When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was
+received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is
+decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown.
+
+"When I read the first line of 'The Doe and the Brook,'" said the
+editor, "I knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to
+heart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to that
+fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild, free
+child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and walk
+down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show."
+
+"Thanks," said Conant. "I suppose the check will be round on Thursday,
+as usual."
+
+The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your
+choice of "Stay on the Farm" or "Don't Write Poetry."
+
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+THE ROBE OF PEACE
+
+
+Mysteries follow one another so closely in a great city that the reading
+public and the friends of Johnny Bellchambers have ceased to marvel
+at his sudden and unexplained disappearance nearly a year ago. This
+particular mystery has now been cleared up, but the solution is so
+strange and incredible to the mind of the average man that only a select
+few who were in close touch with Bellchambers will give it full
+credence.
+
+Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically
+inner circle of the _elite_. Without any of the ostentation of the
+fashionable ones who endeavor to attract notice by eccentric display of
+wealth and show he still was _au fait_ in everything that gave deserved
+lustre to his high position in the ranks of society.
+
+Especially did he shine in the matter of dress. In this he was the
+despair of imitators. Always correct, exquisitely groomed, and possessed
+of an unlimited wardrobe, he was conceded to be the best-dressed man in
+New York, and, therefore, in America. There was not a tailor in Gotham
+who would not have deemed it a precious boon to have been granted the
+privilege of making Bellchambers' clothes without a cent of pay. As he
+wore them, they would have been a priceless advertisement. Trousers
+were his especial passion. Here nothing but perfection would he notice.
+He would have worn a patch as quickly as he would have overlooked a
+wrinkle. He kept a man in his apartments always busy pressing his ample
+supply. His friends said that three hours was the limit of time that he
+would wear these garments without exchanging.
+
+Bellchambers disappeared very suddenly. For three days his absence
+brought no alarm to his friends, and then they began to operate the
+usual methods of inquiry. All of them failed. He had left absolutely no
+trace behind. Then the search for a motive was instituted, but none was
+found. He had no enemies, he had no debts, there was no woman. There
+were several thousand dollars in his bank to his credit. He had never
+showed any tendency toward mental eccentricity; in fact, he was of a
+particularly calm and well-balanced temperament. Every means of tracing
+the vanished man was made use of, but without avail. It was one of those
+cases--more numerous in late years--where men seem to have gone out like
+the flame of a candle, leaving not even a trail of smoke as a witness.
+
+In May, Tom Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam, two of Bellchambers' old
+friends, went for a little run on the other side. While pottering around
+in Italy and Switzerland, they happened, one day, to hear of a monastery
+in the Swiss Alps that promised something outside of the ordinary
+tourist-beguiling attractions. The monastery was almost inaccessible to
+the average sightseer, being on an extremely rugged and precipitous spur
+of the mountains. The attractions it possessed but did not advertise
+were, first, an exclusive and divine cordial made by the monks that was
+said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse. Next a huge brass bell
+so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceased sounding since it
+was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it was asserted that no
+Englishman had ever set foot within its walls. Eyres and Gilliam decided
+that these three reports called for investigation.
+
+It took them two days with the aid of two guides to reach the monastery
+of St. Gondrau. It stood upon a frozen, wind-swept crag with the snow
+piled about it in treacherous, drifting masses. They were hospitably
+received by the brothers whose duty it was to entertain the infrequent
+guest. They drank of the precious cordial, finding it rarely potent and
+reviving. They listened to the great, ever-echoing bell, and learned
+that they were pioneer travelers, in those gray stone walls, over the
+Englishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly every corner of the
+earth.
+
+At three o'clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young Gothamites
+stood with good Brother Cristofer in the great, cold hallway of the
+monastery to watch the monks march past on their way to the refectory.
+They came slowly, pacing by twos, with their heads bowed, treading
+noiselessly with sandaled feet upon the rough stone flags. As the
+procession slowly filed past, Eyres suddenly gripped Gilliam by the arm.
+"Look," he whispered, eagerly, "at the one just opposite you now--the
+one on this side, with his hand at his waist--if that isn't Johnny
+Bellchambers then I never saw him!"
+
+Gilliam saw and recognized the lost glass of fashion.
+
+"What the deuce," said he, wonderingly, "is old Bell doing here? Tommy,
+it surely can't be he! Never heard of Bell having a turn for the
+religious. Fact is, I've heard him say things when a four-in-hand didn't
+seem to tie up just right that would bring him up for court-martial
+before any church."
+
+"It's Bell, without a doubt," said Eyres, firmly, "or I'm pretty badly
+in need of an oculist. But think of Johnny Bellchambers, the Royal High
+Chancellor of swell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here in cold
+storage doing penance in a snuff-colored bathrobe! I can't get it
+straight in my mind. Let's ask the jolly old boy that's doing the
+honors."
+
+Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the
+monks had passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one they
+referred. Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned their
+worldly names when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to speak
+with one of the brothers? If they would come to the refectory and
+indicate the one they wished to see, the reverend abbot in authority
+would, doubtless, permit it.
+
+Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother
+Cristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They
+saw his face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never
+looking up, eating broth from a coarse, brown bowl.
+
+Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two
+travelers by the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to
+come. When he did come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and
+Gilliam looked at him in perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny
+Bellchambers, but he had a different look. Upon his smooth-shaven face
+was an expression of ineffable peace, of rapturous attainment, of
+perfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly erect, his eyes
+shone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and well-groomed
+as in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now he
+seemed clothed in but a single garment--a long robe of rough brown
+cloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose
+folds nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old
+ease and grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that meeting
+it was not manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no seats;
+they stood to converse.
+
+"Glad to see you, old man," said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. "Wasn't
+expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all.
+Society's an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and
+retire to--er--contemplation and--er--prayer and hymns, and those
+things.
+
+"Oh, cut that, Tommy," said Bellchambers, cheerfully. "Don't be afraid
+that I'll pass around the plate. I go through these thing-um-bobs with
+the rest of these old boys because they are the rules. I'm Brother
+Ambrose here, you know. I'm given just ten minutes to talk to you
+fellows. That's rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn't it,
+Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?"
+
+"It's the same old Johnny," said Gilliam, joyfully. "What the devil--I
+mean why-- Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?"
+
+"Peel the bathrobe," pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, "and go back with
+us. The old crowd'll go wild to see you. This isn't in your line, Bell.
+I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you
+shook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a
+dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice
+factory. You'll get catarrh here, Johnny--and-- My God! you haven't any
+socks on!"
+
+Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled.
+
+"You fellows don't understand," he said, soothingly. "It's nice of you
+to want me to go back, but the old life will never know me again. I
+have reached here the goal of all my ambitions. I am entirely happy
+and contented. Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days. You
+see this robe that I wear?" Bellchambers caressingly touched the
+straight-hanging garment: "At last I have found something that will not
+bag at the knees. I have attained--"
+
+At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated
+through the monastery. It must have been a summons to immediate
+devotions, for Brother Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the
+chamber without another word. A slight wave of his hand as he passed
+through the stone doorway seemed to say a farewell to his old friends.
+They left the monastery without seeing him again.
+
+And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought back
+with them from their latest European tour.
+
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+
+
+The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is
+a conscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is
+the Western Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from
+speculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden
+toys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to a
+pulp.
+
+Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for
+a rest. He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the
+wilderness business is about as much rest and pleasure to him as sliding
+down the bumps at Coney would be to President Taft. "Give me," says
+Pogue, "a big city for my vacation. Especially New York. I'm not much
+fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the globe
+where I don't find any."
+
+While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places.
+One is a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads
+books about his hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at
+the other--his hall bedroom in Eighteenth Street--where he sat in his
+stocking feet trying to pluck "The Banks of the Wabash" out of a small
+zither. Four years he has practised this tune without arriving near
+enough to cast the longest trout line to the water's edge. On the
+dresser lay a blued-steel Colt's forty-five and a tight roll of tens and
+twenties large enough around to belong to the spring rattlesnake-story
+class. A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air fluttered nearby in the
+hall, unable to enter or to flee, scandalized by the stocking feet,
+aghast at the Colt's, yet powerless, with her metropolitan instincts,
+to remove herself beyond the magic influence of the yellow-hued roll.
+
+I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker
+or more candid in his conversation. Beside his expression the cry of
+Henry James for lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have
+seemed like a Chaldean cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession
+with pride, for he considered it an art. And I was curious enough to ask
+him whether he had known any women who followed it.
+
+"Ladies?" said Pogue, with Western chivalry. "Well, not to any great
+extent. They don't amount to much in special lines of graft, because
+they're all so busy in general lines. What? Why, they have to. Who's got
+the money in the world? The men. Did you ever know a man to give a woman
+a dollar without any consideration? A man will shell out his dust to
+another man free and easy and gratis. But if he drops a penny in one of
+the machines run by the Madam Eve's Daughters' Amalgamated Association
+and the pineapple chewing gum don't fall out when he pulls the lever you
+can hear him kick to the superintendent four blocks away. Man is the
+hardest proposition a woman has to go up against. He's the low-grade
+one, and she has to work overtime to make him pay. Two times out of
+five she's salted. She can't put in crushers and costly machinery. He'd
+notice 'em and be onto the game. They have to pan out what they get, and
+it hurts their tender hands. Some of 'em are natural sluice troughs and
+can carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones have to depend on
+signed letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo walk, cowhide whips,
+ability to cook, sentimental juries, conversational powers, silk
+underskirts, ancestry, rouge, anonymous letters, violet sachet powders,
+witnesses, revolvers, pneumatic forms, carbolic acid, moonlight, cold
+cream and the evening newspapers."
+
+"You are outrageous, Ferg," I said. "Surely there is none of this
+'graft' as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious matrimonial union!"
+
+"Well," said Pogue, "nothing that would justify you every time in
+calling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a
+vaudeville manager on a dead run. But it's this way: Suppose you're a
+Fifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and
+cappers.
+
+"You come home at night and bring a $9,000,000 diamond brooch to the
+lady who's staked you for a claim. You hand it over. She says, 'Oh,
+George!' and looks to see if it's backed. She comes up and kisses you.
+You've waited for it. You get it. All right. It's graft.
+
+"But I'm telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and she
+suggested corn in all of its phases. Her hair was as yellow as the silk;
+her form was as tall and graceful as a stalk in the low grounds during a
+wet summer; her eyes were as big and startling as bunions, and green was
+her favorite color.
+
+"On my last trip into the cool recesses of your sequestered city I met a
+human named Vaucross. He was worth--that is, he had a million. He told
+me he was in business on the street. 'A sidewalk merchant?' says I,
+sarcastic. 'Exactly,' says he, 'Senior partner of a paving concern.'
+
+"I kind of took to him. For this reason, I met him on Broadway one night
+when I was out of heart, luck, tobacco and place. He was all silk hat,
+diamonds and front. He was all front. If you had gone behind him you
+would have only looked yourself in the face. I looked like a cross
+between Count Tolstoy and a June lobster. I was out of luck. I had--but
+let me lay my eyes on that dealer again.
+
+"Vaucross stopped and talked to me a few minutes and then he took me to
+a high-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then some
+Beethoven, and Bordelaise sauce, and cussing in French, and frangipangi,
+and some hauteur and cigarettes. When I am flush I know them places.
+
+"I declare, I must have looked as bad as a magazine artist sitting there
+without any money and my hair all rumpled like I was booked to read a
+chapter from 'Elsie's School Days' at a Brooklyn Bohemian smoker. But
+Vaucross treated me like a bear hunter's guide. He wasn't afraid of
+hurting the waiter's feelings.
+
+"'Mr. Pogue,' he explains to me, 'I am using you.'
+
+"'Go on,' says I; 'I hope you don't wake up.'
+
+"And then he tells me, you know, the kind of man he was. He was a
+New Yorker. His whole ambition was to be noticed. He wanted to be
+conspicuous. He wanted people to point him out and bow to him, and tell
+others who he was. He said it had been the desire of his life always. He
+didn't have but a million, so he couldn't attract attention by spending
+money. He said he tried to get into public notice one time by planting
+a little public square on the east side with garlic for free use of
+the poor; but Carnegie heard of it, and covered it over at once with a
+library in the Gaelic language. Three times he had jumped in the way of
+automobiles; but the only result was five broken ribs and a notice in
+the papers that an unknown man, five feet ten, with four amalgam-filled
+teeth, supposed to be the last of the famous Red Leary gang had been run
+over.
+
+"'Ever try the reporters,' I asked him.
+
+"'Last month,' says Mr. Vaucross, 'my expenditure for lunches to
+reporters was $124.80.'
+
+"'Get anything out of that?' I asks.
+
+"'That reminds me,' says he; 'add $8.50 for pepsin. Yes, I got
+indigestion.'
+
+"'How am I supposed to push along your scramble for prominence?' I
+inquires. 'Contrast?'
+
+"'Something of that sort to-night,' says Vaucross. 'It grieves me; but
+I am forced to resort to eccentricity.' And here he drops his napkin in
+his soup and rises up and bows to a gent who is devastating a potato
+under a palm across the room.
+
+"'The Police Commissioner,' says my climber, gratified. 'Friend', says
+I, in a hurry, 'have ambitions but don't kick a rung out of your ladder.
+When you use me as a stepping stone to salute the police you spoil my
+appetite on the grounds that I may be degraded and incriminated. Be
+thoughtful.'
+
+"At the Quaker City squab en casserole the idea about Artemisia Blye
+comes to me.
+
+"'Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,' says I--'a column or
+two every day in all of 'em and your picture in most of 'em for a week.
+How much would it be worth to you?'
+
+"'Ten thousand dollars,' says Vaucross, warm in a minute. 'But no
+murder,' says he; 'and I won't wear pink pants at a cotillon.'
+
+"'I wouldn't ask you to,' says I. 'This is honorable, stylish and
+uneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and some other
+beans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.'
+
+"We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I
+telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple
+of photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth
+Presbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and $80.
+She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior and a
+valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage book
+and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.
+
+"The fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all decolletee
+and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to dinner in one of
+these New York feminine apartment houses where a man can't get in unless
+he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder cigarettes.
+
+"'She's a stunner,' says Vaucross when he saw her. 'They'll give her a
+two-column cut sure.'
+
+"This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business straight
+through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and display
+and emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to nothing as
+far as his ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a white tie
+and patent leather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large end of
+a cornucopia to purchase nutriment and heartsease for tall, willowy
+blondes in New York is as common a sight as blue turtles in delirium
+tremens. But he was to write her love letters--the worst kind of love
+letters, such as your wife publishes after you are dead--every day. At
+the end of the month he was to drop her, and she would bring suit for
+$100,000 for breach of promise.
+
+"Miss Artemisia was to get $10,000. If she won the suit that was all;
+and if she lost she was to get it anyhow. There was a signed contract to
+that effect.
+
+"Sometimes they had me out with 'em, but not often. I couldn't keep up
+to their style. She used to pull out his notes and criticize them like
+bills of lading.
+
+"'Say, you!' she'd say. 'What do you call this--letter to a Hardware
+Merchant from His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash? You
+Eastern duffers know as much about writing love letters as a Kansas
+grasshopper does about tugboats. "My dear Miss Blye!"--wouldn't that put
+pink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake? How long do
+you expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?
+You want to get down to business, and call me "Tweedlums Babe" and
+"Honeysuckle," and sign yourself "Mama's Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy" if
+you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs. Get
+sappy.'
+
+"After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His
+notes read like something or other in the original. I could see a jury
+sitting up, and women tearing one another's hats to hear 'em read. And I
+could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop
+Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever enjoyed. He
+seemed mighty pleased at the prospects.
+
+"They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn
+restaurant and watched 'em. A process-server walked in and handed
+Vaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at 'em; and he
+looked as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent
+cigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.
+
+"About two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood Vaucross
+and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging--yes, sir, clinging--to his
+arm. And they tells me they'd been out and got married. And they
+articulated some trivial cadences about love and such. And they laid
+down a bundle on the table and said 'Good night' and left.
+
+"And that's why I say," concluded Ferguson Pogue, "that a woman is too
+busy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft such as is
+given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great success
+in special lines."
+
+"What was in the bundle that they left?" I asked, with my usual
+curiosity.
+
+"Why," said Ferguson, "there was a scalper's railroad ticket as far as
+Kansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross's old pants."
+
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+THE CALL OF THE TAME
+
+
+When the inauguration was accomplished--the proceedings were made smooth
+by the presence of the Rough Riders--it is well known that a herd of
+those competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The
+newspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats
+and leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed
+with the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the
+wonderful plural "tenderfeet" in each of the scribe's stories. The
+Westerners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third
+story, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel
+corridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of Ye
+Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from his
+valet.
+
+Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy's Gentlemen of
+the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz.
+
+The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue's rush hour swept him away from the
+company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts
+filled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky
+deafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes
+confused his vision.
+
+The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier's first impulse
+was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the
+disturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with
+a grin into a doorway.
+
+The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West
+was not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their
+eyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the
+bright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar,
+pattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters
+on the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the
+out-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of
+the half-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the
+circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest
+sun of Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that
+unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they were
+being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity
+of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have not
+intruded upon him nearer than a day's ride--these brands of the West
+were set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat,
+gentle reader--just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail
+carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.
+
+Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan
+cattle, seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him
+a buffet upon his collar-bone that sent him reeling against a wall.
+
+The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who
+has suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But
+he looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration
+of love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its
+friends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its
+enemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the
+welcoming bullet demands.
+
+"God in the mountains!" cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg of
+his cull. "Can this be Longhorn Merritt?"
+
+The other man was--oh, look on Broadway any day for the
+pattern--business man--latest rolled-brim derby--good barber, business,
+digestion and tailor.
+
+"Greenbrier Nye!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten him.
+"My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to--oh, to be
+sure--the inaugural ceremonies--I remember you joined the Rough Riders.
+You must come and have luncheon with me, of course."
+
+Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the size,
+shape and color of a McClellan saddle.
+
+"Longy," he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic, "what
+have they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen. They done made
+you into an inmate of the city directory. You never made no such Johnny
+Branch execration of yourself as that out on the Gila. 'Come and have
+lunching with me!' You never defined grub by any such terms of reproach
+in them days."
+
+"I've been living in New York seven years," said Merritt. "It's been
+eight since we punched cows together in Old Man Garcia's outfit. Well,
+let's go to a cafe, anyhow. It sounds good to hear it called 'grub'
+again."
+
+They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by
+a natural law, to the bar.
+
+"Speak up," invited Greenbrier.
+
+"A dry Martini," said Merritt.
+
+"Oh, Lord!" cried Greenbrier; "and yet me and you once saw the same pink
+Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in Canon Diablo! A
+dry--but let that pass. Whiskey straight--and they're on you."
+
+Merritt smiled, and paid.
+
+They lunched in a small extension of the dining room that connected with
+the cafe. Merritt dexterously diverted his friend's choice, that hovered
+over ham and eggs, to a puree of celery, a salmon cutlet, a partridge
+pie and a desirable salad.
+
+"On the day," said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, "when I can't
+hold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I ain't seen in
+eight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o'clock on the
+third day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me forty times over a
+640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?"
+
+"Right, old man," laughed Merritt. "Waiter, bring an absinthe frappe
+and--what's yours, Greenbrier?"
+
+"Whiskey straight," mourned Nye. "Out of the neck of a bottle you used
+to take it, Longy--straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping
+pony--Arizona redeye, not this ab--oh, what's the use? They're on you."
+
+Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass.
+
+"All right. I suppose you think I'm spoiled by the city. I'm as good a
+Westerner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can't make up my mind
+to go back out there. New York is comfortable--comfortable. I make a
+good living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in
+snowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months
+for me. I reckon I'll hang out here in the future. We'll take in the
+theatre to-night, Greenbrier, and after that we'll dine at--"
+
+"I'll tell you what you are, Merritt," said Greenbrier, laying one elbow
+in his salad and the other in his butter. "You are a concentrated,
+effete, unconditional, short-sleeved, gotch-eared Miss Sally Walker. God
+made you perpendicular and suitable to ride straddle and use cuss words
+in the original. Wherefore you have suffered his handiwork to elapse
+by removing yourself to New York and putting on little shoes tied with
+strings, and making faces when you talk. I've seen you rope and tie a
+steer in 42 1/2. If you was to see one now you'd write to the Police
+Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks that you inoculate
+your system with--these little essences of cowslip with acorns in 'em,
+and paregoric flip--they ain't anyways in assent with the cordiality of
+manhood. I hate to see you this way."
+
+"Well, Mr. Greenbrier," said Merritt, with apology in his tone, "in a
+way you are right. Sometimes I do feel like I was being raised on the
+bottle. But, I tell you, New York is comfortable--comfortable. There's
+something about it--the sights and the crowds, and the way it changes
+every day, and the very air of it that seems to tie a one-mile-long
+stake rope around a man's neck, with the other end fastened somewhere
+about Thirty-fourth Street. I don't know what it is."
+
+"God knows," said Greenbrier sadly, "and I know. The East has gobbled
+you up. You was venison, and now you're veal. You put me in mind of a
+japonica in a window. You've been signed, sealed and diskivered.
+Requiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty."
+
+"A green chartreuse here," said Merritt to the waiter.
+
+"Whiskey straight," sighed Greenbrier, "and they're on you, you renegade
+of the round-ups."
+
+"Guilty, with an application for mercy," said Merritt. "You don't know
+how it is, Greenbrier. It's so comfortable here that--"
+
+"Please loan me your smelling salts," pleaded Greenbrier. "If I hadn't
+seen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an empty gun
+in Phoenix--"
+
+Greenbrier's voice died away in pure grief.
+
+"Cigars!" he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion.
+
+"A pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine," said Merritt.
+
+"They're on you," chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal his
+contempt.
+
+At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column.
+
+That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o'er
+fair women and br--let it go, anyhow--brave men. The orchestra played
+charmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a
+waiter when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you
+contributed to it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity.
+
+Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old
+friend, and he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail.
+
+"I take the horehound tea," said Greenbrier, "for old times' sake. But
+I'd prefer whiskey straight. They're on you."
+
+"Right!" said Merritt. "Now, run your eye down that bill of fare and see
+if it seems to hitch on any of these items."
+
+"Lay me on my lava bed!" said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. "All these
+specimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What's this? Horse with the
+heaves? I pass. But look along! Here's truck for twenty round-ups all
+spelled out in different directions. Wait till I see."
+
+The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list.
+
+"This Medoc isn't bad," he suggested.
+
+"You're the doc," said Greenbrier. "I'd rather have whiskey straight.
+It's on you."
+
+Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took
+dishes away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd
+enjoying itself.
+
+"How was the range when you left the Gila?" asked Merritt.
+
+"Fine," said Greenbrier. "You see that lady in the red speckled silk at
+that table. Well, she could warm over her beans at my campfire. Yes, the
+range was good. She looks as nice as a white mustang I see once on Black
+River."
+
+When the coffee came, Greenbrier put one foot on the seat of the chair
+next to him.
+
+"You said it was a comfortable town, Longy," he said, meditatively.
+"Yes, it's a comfortable town. It's different from the plains in a blue
+norther. What did you call that mess in the crock with the handle,
+Longy? Oh, yes, squabs in a cash roll. They're worth the roll. That
+white mustang had just such a way of turning his head and shaking his
+mane--look at her, Longy. If I thought I could sell out my ranch at a
+fair price, I believe I'd--
+
+"Gyar--song!" he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed every knife
+and fork in the restaurant.
+
+The waiter dived toward the table.
+
+"Two more of them cocktail drinks," ordered Greenbrier.
+
+Merritt looked at him and smiled significantly.
+
+"They're on me," said Greenbrier, blowing a puff of smoke to the
+ceiling.
+
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+
+
+The poet Longfellow--or was it Confucius, the inventor of
+wisdom?--remarked:
+
+ "Life is real, life is earnest;
+  And things are not what they seem."
+
+As mathematics are--or is: thanks, old subscriber!--the only just rule
+by which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means,
+adjust our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the
+great goddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures--unassailable sums in
+addition--shall be set over against whatever opposing element there
+may be.
+
+A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would
+say: "Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus--that is, that
+life is real--then things (all of which life includes) are real.
+Anything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the
+proposition that 'things are not what they seem,' why--"
+
+But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we
+would conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued,
+satisfying, mysterious X.
+
+Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an
+old New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that bread
+is made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flour
+crop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no perceptible
+effect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the flour market.
+
+The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never
+had to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought a
+five-cent loaf of bread you laid down an additional two cents, which
+went to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity.
+
+A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000
+prof--er--rake-off.
+
+Mr. Kinsolving's son Dan was at college when the mathematical experiment
+in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found the
+old gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading "Little Dorrit" on the
+porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He had
+retired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from bread
+buyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the earth
+and lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay.
+
+Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village
+to see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired
+Kenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical,
+studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of oligarchies.
+Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning watch-making in his
+father's jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial, easy-tempered and
+tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two foregathered joyously,
+being opposites. And then Dan went back to college, and Kenwitz to his
+mainsprings--and to his private library in the rear of the jewelry shop.
+
+Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the
+accumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took a
+filial look at Septimus Kinsolving's elaborate tombstone in Greenwood
+and a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the family
+lawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire,
+hurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue.
+
+Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parent
+from a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches for
+outdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington
+Square. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity
+that was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more
+intense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic.
+
+"I know about it now," said Dan, finally. "I pumped it out of the
+eminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad's collections
+of bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that
+he squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of
+bread at little bakeries around the corner. You've studied economics,
+Dan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses,
+and the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those things
+before. Football and trying to be white to my fellow-man were about the
+extent of my college curriculum.
+
+"But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I've been
+thinking. I'd like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to give
+up too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income
+for a good many yards; but I'd like to make it square with 'em. Is there
+any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?"
+
+Kenwitz's big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face
+took on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan's arm with the grip of a
+friend and a judge.
+
+"You can't do it!" he said, emphatically. "One of the chief punishments
+of you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find that
+you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I admire
+your good intentions, Dan, but you can't do anything. Those people were
+robbed of their precious pennies. It's too late to remedy the evil. You
+can't pay them back"
+
+"Of course," said Dan, lighting his pipe, "we couldn't hunt up every one
+of the duffers and hand 'em back the right change. There's an awful lot
+of 'em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have--I never cared
+for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the Roquefort.
+But we might find a few of 'em and chuck some of dad's cash back where
+it came from. I'd feel better if I could. It seems tough for people to be
+held up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn't mind standing a rise
+in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and think, Ken. I want
+to pay back all of that money I can."
+
+"There are plenty of charities," said Kenwitz, mechanically.
+
+"Easy enough," said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. "I suppose I could give
+the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don't
+want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold Peter.
+It's the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken."
+
+The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.
+
+"Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of
+consumers during that corner in flour?" he asked.
+
+"I do not." said Dan, stoutly. "My lawyer tells me that I have two
+millions."
+
+"If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn't
+repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You cannot
+conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.
+Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a
+thousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how
+hopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance
+can it be done."
+
+"Back up, philosopher!" said Dan. "The penny has no sorrow that the
+dollar cannot heal."
+
+"Not in one instance," repeated Kenwitz. "I will give you one, and let
+us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.
+He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he
+had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,
+Boyne's business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital--all he had in
+the world."
+
+Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
+
+"I accept the instance," he cried. "Take me to Boyne. I will repay his
+thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery."
+
+"Write your check," said Kenwitz, without moving, "and then begin to
+write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one
+for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the
+building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to
+that much. Boyne died in an asylum."
+
+"Stick to the instance," said Dan. "I haven't noticed any insurance
+companies on my charity list."
+
+"Draw your next check for $100,000," went on Kenwitz. "Boyne's son fell
+into bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He was
+acquitted last week after a three years' legal battle, and the state
+draws upon taxpayers for that much expense."
+
+"Back to the bakery!" exclaimed Dan, impatiently. "The Government
+doesn't need to stand in the bread line."
+
+"The last item of the instance is--come and I will show you," said
+Kenwitz, rising.
+
+The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by
+nature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath
+that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch
+needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.
+
+He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,
+poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid brick
+tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked on a
+door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.
+
+In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She
+nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of
+sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color
+of an ancient Tuscan's shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz
+and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.
+
+Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in
+heart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last
+item of the Instance.
+
+"How many this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker. A mountain of
+coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
+
+"Nearly thirty dozen," said the young woman cheerfully. "I've made
+almost $4. I'm improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so
+much money." Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A
+little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
+
+Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
+
+"Miss Boyne," he said, "let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the
+man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do
+something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act."
+
+The smile left the young woman's face. She rose and pointed her
+forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in
+the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
+
+The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism
+and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the
+moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to
+be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him
+warmly.
+
+"I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely--"a thousand times
+obliged."
+
+"Mein Gott! you are crazy!" cried the watchmaker, dropping his
+spectacles for the first time in years.
+
+Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway
+with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the
+proprietor.
+
+A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
+
+"These loaves are ten cents," said the clerk.
+
+"I always get them at eight cents uptown," said the lady. "You need not
+fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home."
+
+The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.
+
+"Mr. Kenwitz!" cried the lady, heartily. "How do you do?"
+
+Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension
+on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
+
+"Why, Miss Boyne!" he began.
+
+"Mrs. Kinsolving," she corrected. "Dan and I were married a month ago."
+
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+THE THING'S THE PLAY
+
+
+Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free
+passes, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the
+popular vaudeville houses.
+
+One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much
+past forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a
+taste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I
+regarded the man.
+
+"There was a story about that chap a month or two ago," said the
+reporter. "They gave me the assignment. It was to run a column and was
+to be on the extremely light and joking order. The old man seems to like
+the funny touch I give to local happenings. Oh, yes, I'm working on
+a farce comedy now. Well, I went down to the house and got all the
+details; but I certainly fell down on that job. I went back and turned
+in a comic write-up of an east side funeral instead. Why? Oh, I couldn't
+seem to get hold of it with my funny hooks, somehow. Maybe you could
+make a one-act tragedy out of it for a curtain-raiser. I'll give you the
+details."
+
+After the performance my friend, the reporter, recited to me the facts
+over the Wuerzburger.
+
+"I see no reason," said I, when he had concluded, "why that shouldn't
+make a rattling good funny story. Those three people couldn't have acted
+in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had been real actors in
+a real theatre. I'm really afraid that all the stage is a world, anyhow,
+and all the players men and women. 'The thing's the play,' is the way I
+quote Mr. Shakespeare."
+
+"Try it," said the reporter.
+
+"I will," said I; and I did, to show him how he could have made a
+humorous column of it for his paper.
+
+
+There stands a house near Abingdon Square. On the ground floor there has
+been for twenty-five years a little store where toys and notions and
+stationery are sold.
+
+One night twenty years ago there was a wedding in the rooms above the
+store. The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen was
+married to Frank Barry. John Delaney was best man. Helen was eighteen,
+and her picture had been printed in a morning paper next to the
+headlines of a "Wholesale Female Murderess" story from Butte, Mont. But
+after your eye and intelligence had rejected the connection, you seized
+your magnifying glass and read beneath the portrait her description as
+one of a series of Prominent Beauties and Belles of the lower west side.
+
+Frank Barry and John Delaney were "prominent" young beaux of the same
+side, and bosom friends, whom you expected to turn upon each other every
+time the curtain went up. One who pays his money for orchestra seats and
+fiction expects this. That is the first funny idea that has turned up in
+the story yet. Both had made a great race for Helen's hand. When Frank
+won, John shook his hand and congratulated him--honestly, he did.
+
+After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was
+getting married in a traveling dress. She and Frank were going to Old
+Point Comfort for a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering
+cave-dwellers were waiting with their hands full of old Congress gaiters
+and paper bags of hominy.
+
+Then there was a rattle of the fire-escape, and into her room jumps the
+mad and infatuated John Delaney, with a damp curl drooping upon his
+forehead, and made violent and reprehensible love to his lost one,
+entreating her to flee or fly with him to the Riviera, or the Bronx, or
+any old place where there are Italian skies and _dolce far niente_.
+
+It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him. With
+blazing and scornful eyes she fairly withered him by demanding whatever
+he meant by speaking to respectable people that way.
+
+In a few moments she had him going. The manliness that had possessed him
+departed. He bowed low, and said something about "irresistible impulse"
+and "forever carry in his heart the memory of"--and she suggested that
+he catch the first fire-escape going down.
+
+"I will away," said John Delaney, "to the furthermost parts of the
+earth. I cannot remain near you and know that you are another's. I will
+to Africa, and there amid other scenes strive to for--"
+
+"For goodness sake, get out," said Helen. "Somebody might come in."
+
+He knelt upon one knee, and she extended him one white hand that he
+might give it a farewell kiss.
+
+Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever
+vouchsafed you--to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the
+one you don't want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to
+you and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall
+forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to
+feel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky
+one, broken-hearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself
+as he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are well
+manicured--say, girls, it's galluptious--don't ever let it get by you.
+
+And then, of course--how did you guess it?--the door opened and in
+stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.
+
+The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen's hand, and out of the window
+and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.
+
+A little slow music, if you please--faint violin, just a breath in the
+clarinet and a touch of the 'cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot,
+with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing
+and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears
+them from his shoulders--once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and
+that--the stage manager will show you how--and throws her from him to
+the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he
+look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring
+groups of astonished guests.
+
+And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must
+stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray,
+rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which
+must precede the rising of the curtain again.
+
+Mrs. Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could
+have bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and
+general results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but
+she made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth balls,
+nor did she sell it to a magazine.
+
+One day a middle-aged money-making lawyer, who bought his legal cap and
+ink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him.
+
+"I'm really much obliged to you," said Helen, cheerfully, "but I married
+another man twenty years ago. He was more a goose than a man, but I
+think I love him yet. I have never seen him since about half an hour
+after the ceremony. Was it copying ink that you wanted or just writing
+fluid?"
+
+The lawyer bowed over the counter with old-time grace and left a
+respectful kiss on the back of her hand. Helen sighed. Parting salutes,
+however romantic, may be overdone. Here she was at thirty-eight,
+beautiful and admired; and all that she seemed to have got from her
+lovers were approaches and adieus. Worse still, in the last one she had
+lost a customer, too.
+
+Business languished, and she hung out a Room to Let card. Two large
+rooms on the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers
+came, and went regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode
+of neatness, comfort and taste.
+
+One day came Ramonti, the violinist, and engaged the front room above.
+The discord and clatter uptown offended his nice ear; so a friend had
+sent him to this oasis in the desert of noise.
+
+Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short,
+pointed, foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and
+his artist's temperament--revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic
+manner--was a welcome tenant in the old house near Abingdon Square.
+
+Helen lived on the floor above the store. The architecture of it was
+singular and quaint. The hall was large and almost square. Up one side
+of it, and then across the end of it ascended an open stairway to the
+floor above. This hall space she had furnished as a sitting room and
+office combined. There she kept her desk and wrote her business letters;
+and there she sat of evenings by a warm fire and a bright red light and
+sewed or read. Ramonti found the atmosphere so agreeable that he spent
+much time there, describing to Mrs. Barry the wonders of Paris, where he
+had studied with a particularly notorious and noisy fiddler.
+
+Next comes lodger No. 2, a handsome, melancholy man in the early 40's,
+with a brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes.
+He, too, found the society of Helen a desirable thing. With the eyes of
+Romeo and Othello's tongue, he charmed her with tales of distant climes
+and wooed her by respectful innuendo.
+
+From the first Helen felt a marvelous and compelling thrill in the
+presence of this man. His voice somehow took her swiftly back to the
+days of her youth's romance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to
+it, and it led her to an instinctive belief that he had been a factor
+in that romance. And then with a woman's reasoning (oh, yes, they do,
+sometimes) she leaped over common syllogisms and theory, and logic, and
+was sure that her husband had come back to her. For she saw in his eyes
+love, which no woman can mistake, and a thousand tons of regret and
+remorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously near to love requited,
+which is the _sine qua non_ in the house that Jack built.
+
+But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twenty
+years and then drops in again should not expect to find his slippers
+laid out too conveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar.
+There must be expiation, explanation, and possibly execration. A little
+purgatory, and then, maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be
+trusted with a harp and crown. And so she made no sign that she knew or
+suspected.
+
+And my friend, the reporter, could see nothing funny in this! Sent out
+on an assignment to write up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing
+story of--but I will not knock a brother--let us go on with the story.
+
+One evening Ramonti stopped in Helen's hall-office-reception-room and
+told his love with the tenderness and ardor of the enraptured artist.
+His words were a bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the heart
+of a man who is a dreamer and doer combined.
+
+"But before you give me an answer," he went on, before she could accuse
+him of suddenness, "I must tell you that 'Ramonti' is the only name I
+have to offer you. My manager gave me that. I do not know who I am or
+where I came from. My first recollection is of opening my eyes in a
+hospital. I was a young man, and I had been there for weeks. My life
+before that is a blank to me. They told me that I was found lying in the
+street with a wound on my head and was brought there in an ambulance.
+They thought I must have fallen and struck my head upon the stones.
+There was nothing to show who I was. I have never been able to remember.
+After I was discharged from the hospital, I took up the violin. I have
+had success. Mrs. Barry--I do not know your name except that--I love
+you; the first time I saw you I realized that you were the one woman in
+the world for me--and"--oh, a lot of stuff like that.
+
+Helen felt young again. First a wave of pride and a sweet little thrill
+of vanity went all over her; and then she looked Ramonti in the eyes,
+and a tremendous throb went through her heart. She hadn't expected that
+throb. It took her by surprise. The musician had become a big factor in
+her life, and she hadn't been aware of it.
+
+"Mr. Ramonti," she said sorrowfully (this was not on the stage,
+remember; it was in the old home near Abingdon Square), "I'm awfully
+sorry, but I'm a married woman."
+
+And then she told him the sad story of her life, as a heroine must do,
+sooner or later, either to a theatrical manager or to a reporter.
+
+Ramonti took her hand, bowed low and kissed it, and went up to his room.
+
+Helen sat down and looked mournfully at her hand. Well she might. Three
+suitors had kissed it, mounted their red roan steeds and ridden away.
+
+In an hour entered the mysterious stranger with the haunting eyes. Helen
+was in the willow rocker, knitting a useless thing in cotton-wool. He
+ricocheted from the stairs and stopped for a chat. Sitting across the
+table from her, he also poured out his narrative of love. And then he
+said: "Helen, do you not remember me? I think I have seen it in your
+eyes. Can you forgive the past and remember the love that has lasted
+for twenty years? I wronged you deeply--I was afraid to come back to
+you--but my love overpowered my reason. Can you, will you, forgive me?"
+
+Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a
+strong and trembling clasp.
+
+There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene
+like that and her emotions to portray.
+
+For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal
+love for her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory
+of her first choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure
+feeling. Honor and faith and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it. But
+the other half of her heart and soul was filled with something else--a
+later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against the new.
+
+And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,
+petitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the
+noblest. The daws may peck upon one's sleeve without injury, but whoever
+wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the neck.
+
+This music and the musician caller her, and at her side honor and the
+old love held her back.
+
+"Forgive me," he pleaded.
+
+"Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you
+love," she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
+
+"How could I tell?" he begged. "I will conceal nothing from you. That
+night when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark
+street I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had
+struck a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and
+jealousy. I hid near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although you
+married him, Helen--"
+
+"_Who Are You?_" cried the woman, with wide-open eyes, snatching her
+hand away.
+
+"Don't you remember me, Helen--the one who has always loved you best? I
+am John Delaney. If you can forgive--"
+
+But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs
+toward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for
+his in each of his two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed,
+cried and sang: "Frank! Frank! Frank!"
+
+Three mortals thus juggling with years as though they were billiard
+balls, and my friend, the reporter, couldn't see anything funny in it!
+
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+
+
+My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She
+left her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she
+plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of
+woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I had
+no cold. Next came her kiss of parting--the level kiss of domesticity
+flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the extemporaneous,
+of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft touch of long
+malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf pin; and then, as I
+closed the door, I heard her morning slippers pattering back to her
+cooling tea.
+
+When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur.
+The attack came suddenly.
+
+For many weeks I had been toiling, almost night and day, at a famous
+railroad law case that I won triumphantly but a few days previously. In
+fact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for
+many years. Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician,
+had warned me.
+
+"If you don't slacken up, Bellford," he said, "you'll go suddenly to
+pieces. Either your nerves or your brain will give way. Tell me,
+does a week pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of
+aphasia--of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his
+identity blotted out--and all from that little brain clot made by
+overwork or worry?"
+
+"I always thought," said I, "that the clot in those instances was really
+to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters."
+
+Doctor Volney shook his head.
+
+"The disease exists," he said. "You need a change or a rest. Court-room,
+office and home--there is the only route you travel. For recreation
+you--read law books. Better take warning in time."
+
+"On Thursday nights," I said, defensively, "my wife and I play cribbage.
+On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. That law
+books are not a recreation remains yet to be established."
+
+That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I was
+feeling as well as I usually did--possibly in better spirits than usual.
+
+
+I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the
+incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and
+tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: "I must have a name
+of some sort." I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a
+paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly
+$3,000 in bills of large denomination. "I must be some one, of course,"
+I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.
+
+The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must
+have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed
+in the best good humor and spirits. One of them--a stout, spectacled
+gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes--took the
+vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper.
+In the intervals between his periods of reading, we conversed, as
+travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the
+conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and
+by my companion said:
+
+"You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this
+time. I'm glad they held the convention in New York; I've never been
+East before. My name's R. P. Bolder--Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove,
+Missouri."
+
+Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it.
+Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent.
+My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of
+drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper,
+where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.
+
+"My name," said I, glibly, "is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and
+my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas."
+
+"I knew you were a druggist," said my fellow traveler, affably. "I saw
+the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle
+rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention."
+
+"Are all these men druggists?" I asked, wonderingly.
+
+"They are. This car came through from the West. And they're your
+old-time druggists, too--none of your patent tablet-and-granule
+pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk.
+We percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain't
+above handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side
+line of confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I've got an idea
+to spring on this convention--new ideas is what they want. Now, you
+know the shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot.
+Tart. and Sod. et Pot. Tart.--one's poison, you know, and the other's
+harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do
+druggists mostly keep 'em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different
+shelves. That's wrong. I say keep 'em side by side, so when you want
+one you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you
+catch the idea?"
+
+"It seems to me a very good one," I said.
+
+"All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We'll
+make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream professors
+that think they're the only lozenges in the market look like hypodermic
+tablets."
+
+"If I can be of any aid," I said, warming, "the two bottles of--er--"
+
+"Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash."
+
+"Shall henceforth sit side by side," I concluded, firmly.
+
+"Now, there's another thing," said Mr. Bolder. "For an excipient in
+manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer--the magnesia carbonate or
+the pulverised glycerrhiza radix?"
+
+"The--er--magnesia," I said. It was easier to say than the other word.
+
+Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
+
+"Give me the glycerrhiza," said he. "Magnesia cakes."
+
+"Here's another one of these fake aphasia cases," he said, presently,
+handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. "I
+don't believe in 'em. I put nine out of ten of 'em down as frauds. A man
+gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time.
+He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost
+his memory--don't know his own name, and won't even recognize the
+strawberry mark on his wife's left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why can't
+they stay at home and forget?"
+
+I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:
+
+
+   "DENVER, June 12.--Elwyn C. Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is
+   mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all
+   efforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known
+   citizen of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and
+   lucrative law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the
+   most extensive private library in the State. On the day of his
+   disappearance, he drew quite a large sum of money from his bank. No
+   one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford
+   was a man of singularly quiet and domestic tastes, and seemed to
+   find his happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at all
+   exists to his strange disappearance, it may be found in the fact
+   that for some months he has been deeply absorbed in an important
+   law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z. Railroad Company. It
+   is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort
+   is being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man."
+
+
+"It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder," I said,
+after I had read the despatch. "This has the sound, to me, of a genuine
+case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected,
+choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of
+memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name,
+a history or a home."
+
+"Oh, gammon and jalap!" said Mr. Bolder. "It's larks they're after.
+There's too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they
+use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it's all over they
+look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: 'He
+hypnotized me.'"
+
+Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and
+philosophy.
+
+We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel,
+and I wrote my name "Edward Pinkhammer" in the register. As I did so
+I felt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy--a sense of
+unlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born into
+the world. The old fetters--whatever they had been--were stricken from
+my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an
+infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man's
+learning and experience.
+
+I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no
+baggage.
+
+"The Druggists' Convention," I said. "My trunk has somehow failed to
+arrive." I drew out a roll of money.
+
+"Ah!" said he, showing an auriferous tooth, "we have quite a number of
+the Western delegates stopping here." He struck a bell for the boy.
+
+I endeavored to give color to my role.
+
+"There is an important movement on foot among us Westerners," I said,
+"in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles
+containing the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of
+sodium and potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf."
+
+"Gentleman to three-fourteen," said the clerk, hastily. I was whisked
+away to my room.
+
+The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life
+of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve
+problems of the past.
+
+It was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up to
+my lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to him
+who is able to bear them. You must be either the city's guest or its
+victim.
+
+The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet
+counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having
+come upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat
+entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens,
+that transported one into strange and delightful lands full of
+frolicsome music, pretty girls and grotesque drolly extravagant parodies
+upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will, bound by
+no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird cabarets, at
+weirder _tables d'hote_ to the sound of Hungarian music and the wild
+shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or, again, where the night
+life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic picture, and the
+millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they adorn,
+and the men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the
+spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that I have mentioned I
+learned one thing that I never knew before. And that is that the key to
+liberty is not in the hands of License, but Convention holds it. Comity
+has a toll-gate at which you must pay, or you may not enter the land
+of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming disorder, the parade, the
+abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail. Therefore,
+in Manhattan you must obey these unwritten laws, and then you will be
+freest of the free. If you decline to be bound by them, you put on
+shackles.
+
+Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly
+murmuring palm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate
+restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in
+steamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks
+and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there
+was always Broadway--glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable
+Broadway--growing upon one like an opium habit.
+
+One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a
+black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed
+around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.
+
+"Hello, Bellford!" he cried, loudly. "What the deuce are you doing in
+New York? Didn't know anything could drag you away from that old book
+den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,
+eh?"
+
+"You have made a mistake, sir," I said, coldly, releasing my hand from
+his grasp. "My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me."
+
+The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the
+clerk's desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about
+telegraph blanks.
+
+"You will give me my bill," I said to the clerk, "and have my baggage
+brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed
+by confidence men."
+
+I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on
+lower Fifth Avenue.
+
+There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be
+served almost _al fresco_ in a tropic array of screening flora. Quiet
+and luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to take
+luncheon or refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way to a
+table among the ferns when I felt my sleeve caught.
+
+"Mr. Bellford!" exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.
+
+I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone--a lady of about thirty,
+with exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been
+her very dear friend.
+
+"You were about to pass me," she said, accusingly. "Don't tell me you
+do not know me. Why should we not shake hands--at least once in fifteen
+years?"
+
+I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the
+table. I summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was
+philandering with an orange ice. I ordered a _creme de menthe_. Her hair
+was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you could not look
+away from her eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are conscious of
+sunset while you look into the profundities of a wood at twilight.
+
+"Are you sure you know me?" I asked.
+
+"No," she said, smiling. "I was never sure of that."
+
+"What would you think," I said, a little anxiously, "if I were to tell
+you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas?"
+
+"What would I think?" she repeated, with a merry glance. "Why, that you
+had not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I do wish
+you had. I would have liked to see Marian." Her voice lowered
+slightly--"You haven't changed much, Elwyn."
+
+I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
+
+"Yes, you have," she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in
+her latest tones; "I see it now. You haven't forgotten. You haven't
+forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could."
+
+I poked my straw anxiously in the _creme de menthe_.
+
+"I'm sure I beg your pardon," I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. "But
+that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I've forgotten everything."
+
+She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed
+to see in my face.
+
+"I've heard of you at times," she went on. "You're quite a big lawyer
+out West--Denver, isn't it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of
+you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You
+may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand
+dollars."
+
+She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
+
+"Would it be too late," I asked, somewhat timorously, "to offer you
+congratulations?"
+
+"Not if you dare do it," she answered, with such fine intrepidity that
+I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb
+nail.
+
+"Tell me one thing," she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly--"a
+thing I have wanted to know for many years--just from a woman's
+curiosity, of course--have you ever dared since that night to touch,
+smell or look at white roses--at white roses wet with rain and dew?"
+
+I took a sip of _creme de menthe_.
+
+"It would be useless, I suppose," I said, with a sigh, "for me to repeat
+that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory is
+completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it."
+
+The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained
+my words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She
+laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound--it was a laugh of
+happiness--yes, and of content--and of misery. I tried to look away from
+her.
+
+"You lie, Elwyn Bellford," she breathed, blissfully. "Oh, I know you
+lie!"
+
+I gazed dully into the ferns.
+
+"My name is Edward Pinkhammer," I said. "I came with the delegates to
+the Druggists' National Convention. There is a movement on foot for
+arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and
+tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little
+interest."
+
+A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her
+hand, and bowed.
+
+"I am deeply sorry," I said to her, "that I cannot remember. I could
+explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
+Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the--the roses and
+other things."
+
+"Good-by, Mr. Bellford," she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as
+she stepped into her carriage.
+
+I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet
+man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails
+with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
+
+ "Mr. Pinkhammer," he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his
+forefinger, "may I request you to step aside with me for a little
+conversation? There is a room here."
+
+"Certainly," I answered.
+
+He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman
+were there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually good-looking
+had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen worry and
+fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring and
+features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling dress;
+she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and pressed an
+unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started forward, but
+the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative motion of his
+hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of forty, a little
+gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful face.
+
+"Bellford, old man," he said, cordially, "I'm glad to see you again. Of
+course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you
+were overdoing it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in
+no time."
+
+I smiled ironically.
+
+"I have been 'Bellforded' so often," I said, "that it has lost its edge.
+Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to
+entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I
+never saw you before in my life?"
+
+Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She sprang
+past his detaining arm. "Elwyn!" she sobbed, and cast herself upon me,
+and clung tight. "Elwyn," she cried again, "don't break my heart. I am
+your wife--call my name once--just once. I could see you dead rather
+than this way."
+
+I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
+
+"Madam," I said, severely, "pardon me if I suggest that you accept a
+resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity," I went on, with an amused
+laugh, as the thought occurred to me, "that this Bellford and I could
+not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium
+and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the
+allusion," I concluded airily, "it may be necessary for you to keep an
+eye on the proceedings of the Druggists' National Convention."
+
+The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
+
+"What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?" she moaned.
+
+He led her to the door.
+
+"Go to your room for a while," I heard him say. "I will remain and talk
+with him. His mind? No, I think not--only a portion of the brain. Yes,
+I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him."
+
+The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still
+manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
+
+"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may," said
+the gentleman who remained.
+
+"Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take it
+comfortably; I am rather tired." I stretched myself upon a couch by a
+window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
+
+"Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly. "Your name is not
+Pinkhammer."
+
+"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly. "But a man must have a
+name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire
+the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self suddenly, the
+fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been
+Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer."
+
+"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford. You
+are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack
+of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of
+it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too
+bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the
+room is your wife."
+
+"She is what I would call a fine-looking woman," I said, after a
+judicial pause. "I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair."
+
+"She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two
+weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in
+New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from
+Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did
+not recognize him."
+
+"I think I remember the occasion," I said. "The fellow called me
+'Bellford,' if I am not mistaken. But don't you think it about time,
+now, for you to introduce yourself?"
+
+"I am Robert Volney--Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for
+twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford
+to trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man--try to
+remember!"
+
+"What's the use to try?" I asked, with a little frown. "You say you are
+a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it
+return slowly, or suddenly?"
+
+"Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it went."
+
+"Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?" I asked.
+
+"Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power, and will have
+done everything that science can do to cure you."
+
+"Very well," said I. "Then you will consider that I am your patient.
+Everything is in confidence now--professional confidence."
+
+"Of course," said Doctor Volney.
+
+I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the
+centre table--a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.
+I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the
+couch again.
+
+"It will be best, Bobby," I said, "to have this cure happen suddenly.
+I'm rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in.
+But, oh, Doc," I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin--"good
+old Doc--it was glorious!"
+
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+
+
+     The cities are full of pride,
+       Challenging each to each--
+     This from her mountainside,
+       That from her burthened beach.
+                               R. KIPLING.
+
+  Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,
+  Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States
+  that are "story cities"--New York, of course, New Orleans, and,
+  best of the lot, San Francisco.--FRANK NORRIS.
+
+
+East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.
+Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a
+State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less
+loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak
+of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into
+detail.
+
+Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half
+an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.
+But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness
+comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the
+Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation
+is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it
+is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town
+there can be no romance--what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and
+a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and
+McNally.
+
+
+  NASHVILLE--A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the
+  State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the
+  N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads.  This city is regarded
+  as the most important educational centre in the South.
+
+
+I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain
+for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the
+form of a recipe.
+
+Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;
+dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of
+honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.
+
+The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville
+drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup;
+but 'tis enough--'twill serve.
+
+I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for
+me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of
+Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and
+driven by something dark and emancipated.
+
+I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it
+the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).
+I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old
+"marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah."
+
+The hotel was one of the kind described as "renovated." That means
+$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass
+cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of
+Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management
+was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy,
+the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as
+Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There
+is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers _en
+brochette_.
+
+At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He
+pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't
+really reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown."
+
+Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long
+before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the
+streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.
+
+
+  It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted
+  by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.
+
+
+As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a
+company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with--no, I saw with
+relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan
+of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, "Kyar you
+anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned that I was
+merely a "fare" instead of a victim.
+
+I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those
+streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn't until they were
+"graded." On a few of the "main streets" I saw lights in stores here and
+there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon;
+saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of
+semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor.
+The streets other than "main" seemed to have enticed upon their borders
+houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights
+shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled
+orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little "doing."
+I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.
+
+
+  In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against
+  Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas.
+  The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a
+  terrible conflict.
+
+
+All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine
+marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the
+tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There
+were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the
+great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the
+crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a
+ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible
+battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.
+Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of
+Jefferson Brick! the tile floor--the beautiful tile floor! I could not
+avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my
+foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
+
+Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew
+him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat
+has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so
+well said almost everything:
+
+
+  Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,
+  And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
+
+
+Let us regard the word "British" as interchangeable _ad lib_. A rat
+is a rat.
+
+This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had
+forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage,
+red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.
+He possessed one single virtue--he was very smoothly shaven. The mark
+of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a
+stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have
+repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have
+been spared the addition of one murder.
+
+I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major
+Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive
+that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles;
+so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to
+apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he
+had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.
+
+I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by
+profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince
+Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug
+chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little
+lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another Wuerzburger
+and wish that Longstreet had--but what's the use?
+
+Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort
+Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to
+hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam
+was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.
+Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family
+matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and
+profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in
+the land of Nod.
+
+By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure
+by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that
+I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he
+crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another
+serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of him
+brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained my
+release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and
+showed a handful of silver money.
+
+When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: "If that
+man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint,
+we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any
+known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the
+time. But we don't seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him
+out legally."
+
+"Why, no," said I, after some reflection; "I don't see my way clear
+to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as
+asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town," I continued,
+"seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or
+excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?"
+
+"Well, sir," said the clerk, "there will be a show here next Thursday.
+It is--I'll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room
+with the ice water. Good night."
+
+After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about
+ten o'clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued,
+spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the
+Ladies' Exchange.
+
+"A quiet place," I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling
+of the occupant of the room beneath mine. "Nothing of the life here that
+gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a good,
+ordinary, humdrum, business town."
+
+
+  Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing
+  centres of the country.  It is the fifth boot and shoe market
+  in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing
+  city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods,
+  grocery, and drug business.
+
+
+I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the
+digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was
+traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a
+Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal
+connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea
+Adair.
+
+Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had
+sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors
+swear approvingly over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had
+commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or her
+output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten
+or twenty.
+
+At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken livers _en brochette_
+(try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle,
+which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner I came
+upon Uncle Caesar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids,
+with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second
+afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat
+that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his ankles and had
+once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and sun and age had so
+variegated it that Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale
+monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it has to do with the
+story--the story that is so long in coming, because you can hardly
+expect anything to happen in Nashville.
+
+Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it
+had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled
+magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead
+had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving "black mammy")
+new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine
+was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a
+substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking
+devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing
+frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all
+its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone
+remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the
+buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There
+was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many
+mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of
+yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine.
+
+This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have
+started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals
+hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a
+feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling
+tones:
+
+"Step right in, suh; ain't a speck of dust in it--jus' got back from a
+funeral, suh."
+
+I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra
+cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was
+little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked
+in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.
+
+"I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street," I said, and was about to step
+into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of
+the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of
+sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly
+returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: "What are you gwine there
+for, boss?"
+
+"What is it to you?" I asked, a little sharply.
+
+"Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome kind of part of town
+and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is
+clean--jes' got back from a funeral, suh."
+
+A mile and a half it must have been to our journey's end. I could hear
+nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick
+paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with
+coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms.
+All I could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim
+houses.
+
+
+  The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets,
+  of which 137 miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost
+  $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.
+
+
+Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards
+back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees
+and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid
+the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose
+that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when
+you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former
+grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside.
+
+When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came
+to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter,
+feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.
+
+"It's two dollars, suh," he said.
+
+"How's that?" I asked. "I plainly heard you call out at the hotel:
+'Fifty cents to any part of the town.'"
+
+"It's two dollars, suh," he repeated obstinately. "It's a long ways from
+the hotel."
+
+"It is within the city limits and well within them." I argued. "Don't
+think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills
+over there?" I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them,
+myself, for the drizzle); "well, I was born and raised on their other
+side. You old fool nigger, can't you tell people from other people when
+you see 'em?"
+
+The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. "Is you from the South, suh?
+I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin' sharp
+in the toes for a Southern gen'l'man to wear."
+
+"Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?" said I inexorably.
+
+His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned,
+remained ten seconds, and vanished.
+
+"Boss," he said, "fifty cents is right; but I _needs_ two dollars, suh;
+I'm _obleeged_ to have two dollars. I ain't _demandin'_ it now, suh;
+after I know whar you's from; I'm jus' sayin' that I _has_ to have two
+dollars to-night, and business is mighty po'."
+
+Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been
+luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn,
+ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.
+
+"You confounded old rascal," I said, reaching down to my pocket, "you
+ought to be turned over to the police."
+
+For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; _he knew_. HE KNEW.
+
+I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that
+one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was
+missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A
+strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its
+negotiability.
+
+Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted
+the rope and opened a creaky gate.
+
+The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in
+twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled
+it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that
+hugged it close--the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still
+drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and
+cold.
+
+Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the
+cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the
+cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a
+queen's, received me.
+
+The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in
+it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a
+cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two
+or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon
+drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of
+Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.
+
+Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated
+to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the
+sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid
+originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at
+home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from inference and
+by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists
+made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers, trying,
+unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the
+half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne
+and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly
+everybody nowadays knows too much--oh, so much too much--of real life.
+
+I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a
+dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to
+the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas
+in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like
+a harpsichord's, and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the
+presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower
+the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy after
+I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three
+o'clock of the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the business
+proposition.
+
+"Your town," I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the
+time for smooth generalities), "seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A
+home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever
+happen."
+
+
+  It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with
+  the West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity
+  of more than 2,000 barrels.
+
+
+Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.
+
+"I have never thought of it that way," she said, with a kind of sincere
+intensity that seemed to belong to her. "Isn't it in the still, quiet
+places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the
+earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one's window
+and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the
+everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world--I mean
+the building of the Tower of Babel--result in finally? A page and a half
+of Esperanto in the _North American Review_."
+
+"Of course," said I platitudinously, "human nature is the same
+everywhere; but there is more color--er--more drama and movement
+and--er--romance in some cities than in others."
+
+"On the surface," said Azalea Adair. "I have traveled many times around
+the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings--print and dreams. I
+have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring
+with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in
+public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets
+because his wife was going out with her face covered--with rice powder.
+In San Francisco's Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped
+slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would
+never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had
+reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville
+the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates
+and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The
+boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have
+seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh,
+yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud
+and lumber yards."
+
+Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair
+breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back
+in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and
+ten years lifted from her shoulders.
+
+"You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said, "and a sugar
+cake."
+
+She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl
+about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in
+mouth and bulging eyes.
+
+Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill,
+a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two
+pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It
+was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro--there was no doubt
+about it.
+
+"Go up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy," she said, handing the
+girl the dollar bill, "and get a quarter of a pound of tea--the kind he
+always sends me--and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The
+supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted," she explained to
+me.
+
+Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet
+had died away on the back porch, a wild shriek--I was sure it was
+hers--filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry
+man's voice mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible
+words.
+
+Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two
+minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man's voice; then something
+like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.
+
+"This is a roomy house," she said, "and I have a tenant for part of it.
+I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible
+to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr. Baker
+will be able to supply me."
+
+I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired
+concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on
+my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair's name. But
+to-morrow would do.
+
+That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this
+uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but
+in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an
+accomplice--after the fact, if that is the correct legal term--to a
+murder.
+
+As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the
+polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of
+his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his
+ritual: "Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean--jus' got back from a
+funeral. Fifty cents to any--"
+
+And then he knew me and grinned broadly. "'Scuse me, boss; you is de
+gen'l'man what rid out with me dis mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh."
+
+"I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three," said I,
+"and if you will be here, I'll let you drive me. So you know Miss
+Adair?" I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.
+
+"I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh," he replied.
+
+"I judge that she is pretty poor," I said. "She hasn't much money to
+speak of, has she?"
+
+For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King
+Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack
+driver.
+
+"She ain't gwine to starve, suh," he said slowly. "She has reso'ces,
+suh; she has reso'ces."
+
+"I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip," said I.
+
+"Dat is puffeckly correct, suh," he answered humbly. "I jus' _had_ to
+have dat two dollars dis mawnin', boss."
+
+I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: "A.
+Adair holds out for eight cents a word."
+
+The answer that came back was: "Give it to her quick you duffer."
+
+Just before dinner "Major" Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the
+greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so
+instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was
+standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the
+white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks,
+hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable,
+roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks
+attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.
+
+With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a
+pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the
+dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the
+middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar
+bill again. It could have been no other.
+
+I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary,
+eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that
+just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar
+bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective
+story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: "Seems as if a
+lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver's Trust. Pays dividends
+promptly, too. Wonder if--" Then I fell asleep.
+
+King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over
+the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I
+was ready.
+
+Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked
+on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per
+word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without
+much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa
+and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored
+Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him,
+he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the
+value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired
+and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight
+cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of
+mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old
+Negro.
+
+"Uncle Caesar," he said calmly, "Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to
+give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port
+wine. And hurry back. Don't drive--run. I want you to get back sometime
+this week."
+
+It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the
+speeding powers of the land-pirate's steeds. After Uncle Caesar was
+gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me
+over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he
+had decided that I might do.
+
+"It is only a case of insufficient nutrition," he said. "In other words,
+the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many
+devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept
+nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle Caesar, who was once owned by
+her family."
+
+"Mrs. Caswell!" said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract
+and saw that she had signed it "Azalea Adair Caswell."
+
+"I thought she was Miss Adair," I said.
+
+"Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir," said the doctor. "It
+is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant
+contributes toward her support."
+
+When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea
+Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that
+were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to
+her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart.
+Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere,
+and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power
+and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on
+future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.
+
+"By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had
+royalty for a coachman. Old Caesar's grandfather was a king in Congo.
+Caesar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed."
+
+As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Caesar's voice inside: "Did
+he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?"
+
+"Yes, Caesar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in
+and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the
+responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary
+formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Caesar drove me back
+to the hotel.
+
+Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The
+rest must be only bare statements of facts.
+
+At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Caesar was at his
+corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster
+and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to
+anywhere in the city--hack's puffickly clean, suh--jus' got back from a
+funeral--"
+
+And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His
+coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings
+were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button--the button of
+yellow horn--was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle Caesar!
+
+About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of
+a drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I
+wedged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs
+was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A
+doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was
+that it was conspicuous by its absence.
+
+The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by
+curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had
+been engaged in terrific battle--the details showed that. Loafer and
+reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had
+lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not
+be opened. The gentle citizens who had know him stood about and searched
+their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were possible, to
+speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought: "When 'Cas'
+was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in school."
+
+While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of "the man that was"
+which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped
+something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little
+later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last
+struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it
+in a death grip.
+
+At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the
+possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major
+Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners:
+
+"In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these
+no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon
+which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found
+the money was not on his person."
+
+I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing
+the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow
+horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends
+of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the
+slow, muddy waters below.
+
+_I wonder what's doing in Buffalo!_
+
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+
+
+If you are a philosopher you can do this thing: you can go to the top
+of a high building, look down upon your fellow-men 300 feet below, and
+despise them as insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on
+summer ponds, they crawl and circle and hustle about idiotically without
+aim or purpose. They do not even move with the admirable intelligence
+of ants, for ants always know when they are going home. The ant is of
+a lowly station, but he will often reach home and get his slippers on
+while you are left at your elevated station.
+
+Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a creeping,
+contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires, bootblacks, beauties,
+hod-carriers and politicians become little black specks dodging bigger
+black specks in streets no wider than your thumb.
+
+From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an
+unintelligible mass of distorted buildings and impossible perspectives;
+the revered ocean is a duck pond; the earth itself a lost golf ball. All
+the minutiae of life are gone. The philosopher gazes into the infinite
+heavens above him, and allows his soul to expand to the influence of
+his new view. He feels that he is the heir to Eternity and the child of
+Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his immortal heritage,
+and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind shall traverse
+those mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet. The tiny world
+beneath his feet upon which this towering structure of steel rests as a
+speck of dust upon a Himalayan mountain--it is but one of a countless
+number of such whirling atoms. What are the ambitions, the achievements,
+the paltry conquests and loves of those restless black insects below
+compared with the serene and awful immensity of the universe that lies
+above and around their insignificant city?
+
+It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They
+have been expressly compiled from the philosophies of the world and set
+down with the proper interrogation point at the end of them to represent
+the invariable musings of deep thinkers on high places. And when the
+philosopher takes the elevator down his mind is broader, his heart is at
+peace, and his conception of the cosmogony of creation is as wide as the
+buckle of Orion's summer belt.
+
+But if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an Eighth
+Avenue candy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet
+by eight, and earned $6 per week, and ate ten-cent lunches and were
+nineteen years old, and got up at 6.30 and worked till 9, and never had
+studied philosophy, maybe things wouldn't look that way to you from the
+top of a skyscraper.
+
+Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who
+kept the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a tool-box
+of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow's nest against a corner
+of a down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit, candies,
+newspapers, song books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season. When stern
+winter shook his congealed locks and Joe had to move himself and the
+fruit inside, there was exactly room in the store for the proprietor,
+his wares, a stove the size of a vinegar cruet, and one customer.
+
+Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues
+and fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and
+wanted Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her.
+
+"I got money saved up, Daisy," was his love song; "and you know how bad
+I want you. That store of mine ain't very big, but--"
+
+"Oh, ain't it?" would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one. "Why,
+I heard Wanamaker's was trying to get you to sublet part of your floor
+space to them for next year."
+
+Daisy passed Joe's corner every morning and evening.
+
+"Hello, Two-by-Four!" was her usual greeting. "Seems to me your store
+looks emptier. You must have sold a pack of chewing gum."
+
+"Ain't much room in here, sure," Joe would answer, with his slow grin,
+"except for you, Daise. Me and the store are waitin' for you whenever
+you'll take us. Don't you think you might before long?"
+
+"Store!"--a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy's uptilted nose--"sardine
+box! Waitin' for me, you say? Gee! you'd have to throw out about a
+hundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of it, Joe."
+
+"I wouldn't mind an even swap like that," said Joe, complimentary.
+
+Daisy's existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways
+between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall
+bedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were
+so near to one another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of
+noise. She could light the gas with one hand and close the door with the
+other without taking her eyes off the reflection of her brown pompadour
+in the mirror. She had Joe's picture in a gilt frame on the dresser, and
+sometimes--but her next thought would always be of Joe's funny little
+store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great building, and
+away would go her sentiment in a breeze of laughter.
+
+Daisy's other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board
+in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a
+philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like
+continental labels on a Passaic (N. J.) suit-case. Knowledge he had
+kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as
+for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without
+so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the
+proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the
+shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails
+required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the
+population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of Mr.
+H. McKay Twombly's second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel,
+the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office
+messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, Pa., and the number
+of bones in the foreleg of a cat.
+
+The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were
+the sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk
+that he would set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And
+again he used them as breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse.
+Firing at you a volley of figures concerning the weight of a lineal
+foot of bar-iron 5 x 2 3/4 inches, and the average annual rainfall at
+Fort Snelling, Minn., he would transfix with his fork the best piece of
+chicken on the dish while you were trying to rally sufficiently to ask
+him weakly why does a hen cross the road.
+
+Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good looks,
+of a hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon kind, it
+seems that Joe, of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival worthy of his
+steel. But Joe carried no steel. There wouldn't have been room in his
+store to draw it if he had.
+
+One Saturday afternoon, about four o'clock, Daisy and Mr. Dabster
+stopped before Joe's booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and--well, Daisy
+was a woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until Joe
+had seen it. A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible object
+of the call. Joe supplied it through the open side of his store. He did
+not pale or falter at sight of the hat.
+
+"Mr. Dabster's going to take me on top of the building to observe the
+view," said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. "I never was
+on a skyscraper. I guess it must be awfully nice and funny up there."
+
+"H'm!" said Joe.
+
+"The panorama," said Mr. Dabster, "exposed to the gaze from the top of
+a lofty building is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy has
+a decided pleasure in store for her."
+
+"It's windy up there, too, as well as here," said Joe. "Are you dressed
+warm enough, Daise?"
+
+"Sure thing! I'm all lined," said Daisy, smiling slyly at his clouded
+brow. "You look just like a mummy in a case, Joe. Ain't you just put in
+an invoice of a pint of peanuts or another apple? Your stock looks awful
+over-stocked."
+
+Daisy giggled at her favorite joke; and Joe had to smile with her.
+
+"Your quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.--er--er," remarked Dabster,
+"in comparison with the size of this building. I understand the area
+of its side to be about 340 by 100 feet. That would make you occupy
+a proportionate space as if half of Beloochistan were placed upon a
+territory as large as the United States east of the Rocky Mountains,
+with the Province of Ontario and Belgium added."
+
+"Is that so, sport?" said Joe, genially. "You are Weisenheimer on
+figures, all right. How many square pounds of baled hay do you think
+a jackass could eat if he stopped brayin' long enough to keep still a
+minute and five eighths?"
+
+A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to
+the top floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and out
+upon the roof. Dabster led her to the parapet so she could look down at
+the black dots moving in the street below.
+
+"What are they?" she asked, trembling. She had never been on a height
+like this before.
+
+And then Dabster must needs play the philosopher on the tower, and
+conduct her soul forth to meet the immensity of space.
+
+"Bipeds," he said, solemnly. "See what they become even at the small
+elevation of 340 feet--mere crawling insects going to and fro at
+random."
+
+"Oh, they ain't anything of the kind," exclaimed Daisy,
+suddenly--"they're folks! I saw an automobile. Oh, gee! are we that
+high up?"
+
+"Walk over this way," said Dabster.
+
+He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far
+below, starred here and there, early as it was, by the first beacon
+lights of the winter afternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south
+and east vanishing mysteriously into the sky.
+
+"I don't like it," declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes. "Say we go
+down."
+
+But the philosopher was not to be denied his opportunity. He would let
+her behold the grandeur of his mind, the half-nelson he had on the
+infinite, and the memory he had for statistics. And then she would
+nevermore be content to buy chewing gum at the smallest store in New
+York. And so he began to prate of the smallness of human affairs, and
+how that even so slight a removal from earth made man and his works look
+like one tenth part of a dollar thrice computed. And that one should
+consider the sidereal system and the maxims of Epictetus and be
+comforted.
+
+"You don't carry me with you," said Daisy. "Say, I think it's awful to
+be up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them we saw might have
+been Joe. Why, Jiminy! we might as well be in New Jersey! Say, I'm
+afraid up here!"
+
+The philosopher smiled fatuously.
+
+"The earth," said he, "is itself only as a grain of wheat in space. Look
+up there."
+
+Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short day was spent and the stars
+were coming out above.
+
+"Yonder star," said Dabster, "is Venus, the evening star. She is
+66,000,000 miles from the sun."
+
+"Fudge!" said Daisy, with a brief flash of spirit, "where do you think
+I come from--Brooklyn? Susie Price, in our store--her brother sent her
+a ticket to go to San Francisco--that's only three thousand miles."
+
+The philosopher smiled indulgently.
+
+"Our world," he said, "is 91,000,000 miles from the sun. There are
+eighteen stars of the first magnitude that are 211,000 times further
+from us than the sun is. If one of them should be extinguished it would
+be three years before we would see its light go out. There are six
+thousand stars of the sixth magnitude. It takes thirty-six years for the
+light of one of them to reach the earth. With an eighteen-foot telescope
+we can see 43,000,000 stars, including those of the thirteenth
+magnitude, whose light takes 2,700 years to reach us. Each of these
+stars--"
+
+"You're lyin'," cried Daisy, angrily. "You're tryin' to scare me. And
+you have; I want to go down!"
+
+She stamped her foot.
+
+"Arcturus--" began the philosopher, soothingly, but he was interrupted
+by a demonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was
+endeavoring to portray with his memory instead of his heart. For to the
+heart-expounder of nature the stars were set in the firmament expressly
+to give soft light to lovers wandering happily beneath them; and if you
+stand tiptoe some September night with your sweetheart on your arm you
+can almost touch them with your hand. Three years for their light to
+reach us, indeed!
+
+Out of the west leaped a meteor, lighting the roof of the skyscraper
+almost to midday. Its fiery parabola was limned against the sky toward
+the east. It hissed as it went, and Daisy screamed.
+
+"Take me down," she cried, vehemently, "you--you mental arithmetic!"
+
+Dabster got her to the elevator, and inside of it. She was wild-eyed,
+and she shuddered when the express made its debilitating drop.
+
+Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her.
+She vanished; and he stood, bewildered, without figures or statistics
+to aid him.
+
+Joe had a lull in trade, and by squirming among his stock succeeded in
+lighting a cigarette and getting one cold foot against the attenuated
+stove.
+
+The door was burst open, and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit
+and candies, tumbled into his arms.
+
+"Oh, Joe, I've been up on the skyscraper. Ain't it cozy and warm and
+homelike in here! I'm ready for you, Joe, whenever you want me."
+
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+
+
+Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al
+Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
+
+Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue--that street that the city seems
+to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue--born and bred in the
+Bowery--staggers northward full of good resolutions.
+
+Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly
+in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit
+mate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring,
+polyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and
+here the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling
+the tread of marching hosts--Hooray! But now come the silent and
+terrible mountains--buildings square as forts, high as the clouds,
+shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day.
+On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and book
+shops, where you see copies of "Littell's Living Age" and G. W. M.
+Reynold's novels in the windows. And next--poor Fourth Avenue!--the
+street glides into a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted
+to "Antiques."
+
+Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and
+menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and
+helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and
+the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully
+in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with
+Jack-o'-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound
+citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown
+that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the fighting
+dead. What street could live inclosed by these mortuary relics, and trod
+by these spectral citizens in whose sunken hearts scarce one good whoop
+or tra-la-la remained?
+
+Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the
+Little Rialto--not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There
+need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; 'tis but the suicide of a
+street. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the
+tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
+
+Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the modest
+restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its
+crumbling red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges,
+tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus--its papier-mache lobster
+and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce--if you care to
+sit at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the
+yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance--to sit
+there with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle
+from which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed
+charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the "Nobleman
+in India."
+
+Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a
+Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of
+the dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become
+a reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a
+restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave
+him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house
+bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other gave him
+the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg,
+the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave--the Caliph--the Prince
+of Bohemia--going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious,
+the inexplicable, the recondite.
+
+One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth
+upon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and
+the artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his
+short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward toward the more
+central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an
+assortment of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out of
+doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its face
+value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and coffee;
+others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of full
+meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in effect,
+meal tickets good for a week.
+
+Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph's
+heart--it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of
+Harun Al Rashid's. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put
+less warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars than had
+Quigg's beef stew among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of
+Manhattan.
+
+Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of
+distress that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd
+that whooped and fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and the
+crosstown street that he was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld
+a young man of an exceedingly melancholy and preoccupied demeanor
+engaged in the pastime of casting silver money from his pockets in the
+middle of the street. With each motion of the generous one's hand the
+crowd huddled upon the falling largesse with yells of joy. Traffic was
+suspended. A policeman in the centre of the mob stooped often to the
+ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
+
+The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after
+knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his
+way swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm. "Come with me at
+once," he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had
+learned to fear.
+
+"Pinched," remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionless
+eyes. "Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me
+gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?"
+
+Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed
+Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
+
+There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph's
+mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to
+know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving
+him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and
+stores.
+
+"I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn't
+I?" asked the young man.
+
+"You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to
+scramble after," said the Margrave.
+
+"That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw
+chicken feed to-- Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,
+roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!"
+
+"Young sir," said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, "though I do
+not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know
+humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist
+eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his
+bounty--through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure
+and distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated
+misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You may
+be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler, the
+Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among his
+people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so
+much of their distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I seek
+for romance and adventure in city streets--not in ruined castles or in
+crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those that
+take place in men's hearts when acted upon by the furious and diverse
+forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this evening
+I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper than the
+wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance the
+certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat--I invite your
+confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise. Will
+you not trust me?"
+
+"Gee, how you talk!" exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration
+supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. "You've got the
+Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that
+old Turk you speak of. I read 'The Arabian Nights' when I was a kid. He
+was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say,
+you might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon
+giants all night without ever touching me. My case won't yield to that
+kind of treatment."
+
+"If I could hear your story," said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious
+smile.
+
+"I'll spiel it in about nine words," said the young man, with a deep
+sigh, "but I don't think you can help me any. Unless you're a peach at
+guessing it's back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum."
+
+THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER'S RIDDLE
+
+"I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street.
+I've worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's enough to marry
+on, ain't it? Well, I'm not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is
+one of these funny Dutchmen--you know the kind--always getting off bum
+jokes. He's got about a million riddles and things that he faked from
+Rogers Brothers' great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and
+Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it?
+Well, jobs ain't to be picked off every Anheuser bush-- And then there's
+Laura.
+
+"What? The old man's daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About
+nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of
+the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of
+straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness
+blacking--think of that!
+
+"Me? well, it's either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill
+is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?--well, you saw me plating
+the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-night. That was on
+account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of
+what I wouldst.
+
+"How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: 'Boys,
+one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles
+antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide--is
+not that--hein?' And he hands us a riddle--a conundrum, some calls
+it--and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till to-morrow
+morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us
+guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o' Wednesday night to
+his daughter's birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us
+goes, for she's naturally aching for a husband, and it's either me or
+Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry
+somebody that'll carry on the business after he's stitched his last pair
+of traces.
+
+"The riddle? Why, it was this: 'What kind of a hen lays the longest?
+Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain't it like a
+Dutchman to risk a man's happiness on a fool proposition like that?
+Now, what's the use? What I don't know about hens would fill several
+incubators. You say you're giving imitations of the old Arab guy that
+gave away--libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy
+that'll solve this hen query, or not?"
+
+When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the
+park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave
+and impressive tones:
+
+"I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in
+search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered
+a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have
+overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their
+habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and
+cross-breedings, their span of life, their--"
+
+"Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!" interrupted the young man,
+flippantly. "Riddles--especially old Hildebrant's riddles--don't have
+to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and
+Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can't strike just
+the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well,
+Your Majesty, I'm glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time
+away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of
+his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I'll say good
+night. Peace fo' yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah."
+
+The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
+
+"I cannot express my regret," he said, sadly. "Never before have I
+found myself unable to assist in some way. 'What kind of a hen lays the
+longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called
+the Plymouth Rock that--"
+
+"Cut it out," said the young man. "The Caliph trade is a mighty serious
+one. I don't suppose you'd even see anything funny in a preacher's
+defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs."
+
+From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth
+a card and handed it to the young man.
+
+"Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow," he said. "The time may come
+when it might be of use to you."
+
+"Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name is
+Simmons."
+
+   *     *     *     *     *     *
+
+Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall altogether
+pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray
+if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser's heart would
+follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of
+Hildebrant, harness maker.
+
+Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw
+leather martingale.
+
+Bill Watson came in first.
+
+"Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the
+joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
+
+"Er--why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so,
+Mr. Hildebrant--the one that lives the longest-- Is that right?"
+
+"Nein!" said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. "You haf not
+guessed der answer."
+
+Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
+
+In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco--pale, melancholy,
+hopeless.
+
+"Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays
+der longest?'"
+
+Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this
+mountain of pernicious humor--curse him and die? Why should-- But there
+was Laura.
+
+Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood.
+His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's card. He drew
+it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling
+fly. There was written on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: "Good for one
+roast chicken to bearer."
+
+Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
+
+"A dead one!" said he.
+
+"Goot!" roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. "Dot is
+right! You gome at mine house at 8 o'clock to der party."
+
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+
+
+There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted;
+and newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young
+journalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic
+view of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced
+to very questionable sources--facts and philosophy. We will begin
+with--whichever you choose to call it.
+
+Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope
+under a bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish
+sorrows overwhelm them are we put to our wits' end. We exhaust our
+paltry store of consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep. Then
+we grovel in the dust of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we call
+out of the rat-trap. As for the children, no one understands them except
+old maids, hunchbacks, and shepherd dogs.
+
+Now comes the facts in the case of the Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion,
+and the Twenty-fifth of December.
+
+On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her
+rag-doll. There were many servants in the Millionaire's palace on the
+Hudson, and these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding
+the lost treasure. The child was a girl of five, and one of those
+perverse little beasts that often wound the sensibilities of wealthy
+parents by fixing their affections upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy
+instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and pony phaetons.
+
+The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the
+Millionaire, to whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as Bay
+State Gas; and to the Lady, the Child's mother, who was all form--that
+is, nearly all, as you shall see.
+
+The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed,
+spindling, and corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire
+smiled and tapped his coffers confidently. The pick of the output of
+the French and German toymakers was rushed by special delivery to the
+mansion; but Rachel refused to be comforted. She was weeping for her
+rag child, and was for a high protective tariff against all foreign
+foolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside manners and
+stop-watches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely about
+peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their
+stop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or
+place. Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon
+as possible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at
+therapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this
+time cablegrams were coming from Santa Claus saying that he would soon
+be here and enjoining us to show a true Christian spirit and let up on
+the pool-rooms and tontine policies and platoon systems long enough to
+give him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing
+itself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawn-brokers had doubled
+their gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red
+sleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you
+waited on one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows of
+the stores, they who had 'em were getting their furs. You hardly knew
+which was the best bet in balls--three, high, moth, or snow. It was no
+time at which to lose the rag-doll or your heart.
+
+If Doctor Watson's investigating friend had been called in to solve this
+mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the Millionaire's
+wall a copy of "The Vampire." That would have quickly suggested, by
+induction, "A rag and a bone and a hank of hair." "Flip," a Scotch
+terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child's heart, frisked through the
+halls. The hank of hair! Aha! X, the unfound quantity, represented the
+rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones they--Done! It were
+an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip's forefeet. Look, Watson!
+Earth--dried earth between the toes. Of course, the dog--but Sherlock
+was not there. Therefore it devolves. But topography and architecture
+must intervene.
+
+The Millionaire's palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a
+lawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man's face two days after a shave.
+At one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce
+trimmed to a leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had
+ravished the rag-doll from the nursery, dragged it to a corner of
+the lawn, dug a hole, and buried it after the manner of careless
+undertakers. There you have the mystery solved, and no checks to write
+for the hypodermical wizard or fi'-pun notes to toss to the sergeant.
+Then let's get down to the heart of the thing, tiresome readers--the
+Christmas heart of the thing.
+
+Fuzzy was drunk--not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or
+I might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes
+a gentleman down on his luck.
+
+Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the
+park bench, the kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary
+beds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly
+garnered largesse of great cities--these formed the chapters of his
+history.
+
+Fuzzy walked toward the river, down the street that bounded one side of
+the Millionaire's house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost
+rag-doll, protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputian murder mystery,
+from its untimely grave in a corner of the fence. He dragged forth the
+maltreated infant, tucked it under his arm, and went on his way crooning
+a road song of his brethren that no doll that has been brought up to the
+sheltered life should hear. Well for Betsy that she had no ears. And
+well that she had no eyes save unseeing circles of black; for the faces
+of Fuzzy and the Scotch terrier were those of brothers, and the heart of
+no rag-doll could withstand twice to become the prey of such fearsome
+monsters.
+
+Though you may not know it, Grogan's saloon stands near the river and
+near the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled. In Grogan's,
+Christmas cheer was already rampant.
+
+Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast of
+Saturn he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup.
+
+He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously,
+seasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as
+one entertaining his lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught
+the farce of it, and roared. The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many
+of us carry rag-dolls.
+
+"One for the lady?" suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another
+contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat.
+
+He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a
+success. Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.
+
+In a group near the stove sat "Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and
+"One-ear" Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring
+district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a
+newspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and
+blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed "One Hundred
+Dollars Reward." To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed,
+or stolen from the Millionaire's mansion. It seemed that grief still
+ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the
+terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to
+distract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking,
+mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The
+advertisement was a last resort.
+
+Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his
+one-sided parabolic way.
+
+The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his
+arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates
+elsewhere.
+
+"Say, 'Bo," said Black Riley to him, "where did you cop out dat doll?"
+
+"This doll?" asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure
+that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by
+the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country
+home in Newport. This doll--"
+
+"Cheese the funny business," said Riley. "You swiped it or picked it up
+at de house on de hill where--but never mind dat. You want to take fifty
+cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother's kid at home might be
+wantin' to play wid it. Hey--what?"
+
+He produced the coin.
+
+Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to
+the office of Sarah Bernhardt's manager and propose to him that she be
+released from a night's performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum
+and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy's laugh.
+
+Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler
+does. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine
+from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel
+unaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three inches
+of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy
+linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small,
+circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed
+the quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the
+moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without
+abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black
+Riley temporized.
+
+"Wot'll you take for it, den?" he asked.
+
+"Money," said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, "cannot buy her."
+
+He was intoxicated with the artist's first sweet cup of attainment.
+To set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic
+converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of
+plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in
+his honor--could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will
+perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament.
+
+Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other
+cafes to conquer.
+
+Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were
+beginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet.
+Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the
+hour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted
+red. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the
+Saturnalians.
+
+"Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and "One-ear" Mike held a hasty converse
+outside Grogan's. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings, not
+fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare than
+the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have eaten
+the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already
+doomed.
+
+They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan's Casino.
+They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy could
+read--and more.
+
+"Boys," said he, "you are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week to
+think it over."
+
+The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
+
+The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless,
+and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the
+morrow.
+
+"A cool hundred," said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
+
+"Boys," said he, "you are true friends. I'll go up and claim the reward.
+The show business is not what it used to be."
+
+Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot
+of the rise on which stood the Millionaire's house. There Fuzzy turned
+upon them acrimoniously.
+
+"You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds," he roared. "Go away."
+
+They went away--a little way.
+
+In "Pigeon" McCarthy's pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight
+inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.
+One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a
+slung-shot, being a conventional thug. "One-ear" Mike relied upon a
+pair of brass knucks--an heirloom in the family.
+
+"Why fetch and carry," said Black Riley, "when some one will do it for
+ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey--what?"
+
+"We can chuck him in the river," said "Pigeon" McCarthy, "with a stone
+tied to his feet."
+
+"Youse guys make me tired," said "One-ear" Mike sadly. "Ain't progress
+ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on 'im, and
+drop 'im on the Drive--well?"
+
+Fuzzy entered the Millionaire's gate and zigzagged toward the softly
+glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate
+and lingered--one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They
+fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.
+
+Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic
+instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he
+wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.
+
+The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces
+shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his passport,
+his card of admission, his surety of welcome--the lost rag-doll of the
+daughter of the house dangling under his arm.
+
+Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen
+lights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child.
+The doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling
+to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of
+childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious
+being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy
+wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic
+smile and blattering small talk that is supposed to charm the budding
+intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging
+her Betsy close.
+
+There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and
+worshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy's hand ten
+ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to
+James, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with
+the other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial
+regions.
+
+James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far
+as the front door.
+
+When the money touched fuzzy's dingy palm his first instinct was to take
+to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that blunder
+of etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It--and, oh, what an
+elysium it opened to the gaze of his mind's eye! He had tumbled to the
+foot of the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged, cold,
+drifting; and he held in his hand the key to a paradise of the mud-honey
+that he craved. The fairy doll had waved a wand with her rag-stuffed
+hand; and now wherever he might go the enchanted palaces with shining
+foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glassware would be open to
+him.
+
+He followed James to the door.
+
+He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for
+him to pass into the vestibule.
+
+Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his
+two pals casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably
+fatal weapons that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.
+
+Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire's door and bethought himself. Like
+little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green thoughts
+and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite drunk,
+mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths and
+festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall
+gay--where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known
+polished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and--and some one
+was singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before.
+Some one singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas--Fuzzy
+though he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that.
+
+And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of
+some impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white,
+transient, forgotten ghost--the spirit of _noblesse oblige_. Upon a
+gentleman certain things devolve.
+
+James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled
+walk to the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and "One-ear" Mike saw,
+and carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate.
+
+With a more imperious gesture than James's master had ever used or could
+ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a gentleman
+certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season.
+
+"It is cust--customary," he said to James, the flustered, "when a
+gentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the season
+with the lady of the house. You und'stand? I shall not move shtep till
+I pass compl'ments season with lady the house. Und'stand?"
+
+There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it
+through the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He was
+simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.
+
+A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy
+in the hall. James explained somewhere to some one.
+
+Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.
+
+The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than
+any picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a
+doll. Fuzzy didn't understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.
+
+A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped
+sterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to
+Fuzzy.
+
+As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities dropped
+from him for one brief moment. He straightened himself; and Time, so
+disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate Fuzzy.
+
+Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most
+opulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan's whisky. What
+had the Millionaire's mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia
+hall, where the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl, drinking
+the ancient toast of the House? And why should the patter of the cab
+horses' hoofs on the frozen street be in any wise related to the sound
+of the saddled hunters stamping under the shelter of the west veranda?
+And what had Fuzzy to do with any of it?
+
+The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile
+fade away like a false dawn. Her eyes turned serious. She saw something
+beneath the rags and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not
+understand. But it did not matter.
+
+Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly.
+
+"P-pardon, lady," he said, "but couldn't leave without exchangin'
+comp'ments sheason with lady th' house. 'Gainst princ'ples gen'leman do
+sho."
+
+And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the
+House when men wore lace ruffles and powder.
+
+"The blessings of another year--"
+
+Fuzzy's memory failed him. The Lady prompted:
+
+"--Be upon this hearth."
+
+"--The guest--" stammered Fuzzy.
+
+"--And upon her who--" continued the Lady, with a leading smile.
+
+"Oh, cut it out," said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly. "I can't remember. Drink
+hearty."
+
+Fuzzy had shot his arrow. They drank. The Lady smiled again the smile of
+her caste. James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front door.
+The harp music still softly drifted through the house.
+
+Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate.
+
+"I wonder," said the Lady to herself, musing, "who--but there were so
+many who came. I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing to them
+after they have fallen so low."
+
+Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door. The Lady called: "James!"
+
+James stalked back obsequiously, leaving Fuzzy waiting unsteadily, with
+his brief spark of the divine fire gone.
+
+Outside, Black Riley stamped his cold feet and got a firmer grip on his
+section of gas-pipe.
+
+"You will conduct this gentleman," said the lady, "Downstairs. Then tell
+Louis to get out the Mercedes and take him to whatever place he wishes
+to go."
+
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+
+
+The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces,
+bazaars, khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers
+disguises, seeking diversion and victims for their unbridled generosity.
+You can scarcely find a poor beggar whom they are willing to let enjoy
+his spoils unsuccored, nor a wrecked unfortunate upon whom they will not
+reshower the means of fresh misfortune. You will hardly find anywhere a
+hungry one who has not had the opportunity to tighten his belt in gift
+libraries, nor a poor pundit who has not blushed at the holiday basket
+of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly through his door by the
+eleemosynary press.
+
+So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed
+calenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber's Sixth Brother, hoping
+to escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans.
+
+Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories
+of those who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of the
+Faithful. Until dawn you might sit on the enchanted rug and listen to
+such stories as are told of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent the
+Forty Thieves to soak up the oil plant of Ali Baba; of the good Caliph
+Kar-Neg-Ghe, who gave away palaces; of the Seven Voyages of Sailbad, the
+Sinner, who frequented wooden excursion steamers among the islands; of
+the Fisherman and the Bottle; of the Barmecides' Boarding house; of
+Aladdin's rise to wealth by means of his Wonderful Gas-meter.
+
+But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too
+valuable to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of
+narrative languishes. And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy
+poor and the resigned unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap
+upon them strange mercies and mysterious benefits, too often comes the
+report from Arabian headquarters that the captive refused "to talk."
+
+This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of
+their philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the
+shortcomings of this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called
+
+THE STORY OF THE CALIPH WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water
+at his $1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its
+imbibition, for immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak
+soundly with his fist and shouted to the empty dining room:
+
+"By the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If
+I can get that squared, it'll do the trick."
+
+Thus, by the commonest artifice of the trade, having gained your
+interest, the action of the story will now be suspended, leaving you
+grumpily to consider a sort of dull biography beginning fifteen years
+before.
+
+When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania
+coal mine. I don't know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems
+to be standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have
+his picture taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But,
+instead of dying of overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents
+and brothers at the mercy of the union strikers' reserve fund, he
+hitched up his galluses, put a dollar or two in a side proposition now
+and then, and at forty-five was worth $20,000,000.
+
+There now! it's over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I've seen
+biographies that--but let us dissemble.
+
+I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at
+the seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble
+origin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth,
+capitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh,
+caliph; eighth, _x_. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher
+mathematics.
+
+At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a
+czar was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil,
+railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched
+Jacob's hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully
+cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage
+of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private
+secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot
+fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the
+mantle of the late H. A. Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob
+slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand, and
+became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.
+
+When a man's income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends
+him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul's
+salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be
+forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his
+wealth. The trust magnate "estimates" it. The rich malefactor hands you
+a cigar and denies that he has bought the P. D. & Q. The caliph merely
+smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a
+record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a "Where-to-Dine-Well"
+tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being
+that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher
+than did her future _divorce_. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar
+quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in
+his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human--Count
+Tolstoi, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.
+
+Don't lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort
+of moral essay for intellectual readers.
+
+There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.
+
+When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels
+in the Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send
+a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the
+Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed
+warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is neither
+here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his favor of
+the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double line, but
+still mighty close to the matter under the caption of "Oddities of the
+Day's News" in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read that one "Jasper
+Spargyous" had "donated $100,000 to the U. B. A. of G." A camel may have
+a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him
+whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he
+have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem to have been inserted in
+the eye of a needle by that effort of that rich man to enter the K. of
+H. The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, S. Peter,
+secretary and gatekeeper.
+
+Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and
+presented it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain
+a scientific course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate
+lavatory instead, which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever
+discovered.
+
+The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C
+degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added
+the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.
+
+While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw
+two professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor
+acoustics, undesignedly reached his ear.
+
+"There goes the latest _chevalier d'industrie_," said one of them, "to
+buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree to-morrow."
+
+"_In foro conscientiae_," said the other. "Let's 'eave 'arf a brick at
+'im."
+
+Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for
+him. There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that he
+had bought. That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs Act.
+
+Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale.
+
+"If I could see folks made happier," he said to himself--"If I could see
+'em myself and hear 'em express their gratitude for what I done for 'em
+it would make me feel better. This donatin' funds to institutions and
+societies is about as satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot
+machine."
+
+So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to the
+homes of the poorest.
+
+"The very thing!" said Jacob. "I will charter two river steamboats, pack
+them full of these unfortunate children and--say ten thousand dolls and
+drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a delightful
+outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to blow the
+taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than I can work
+it off my mind."
+
+Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense
+person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a
+"Drop Letters Here" sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him
+in a space between a barber's pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came
+out of the post-office slit--smooth, husky words with gloves on 'em, but
+sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.
+
+"Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O'Grady's
+district you're buttin' into--see? Mike's got de stomach-ache privilege
+for every kid in dis neighborhood--see? And if dere's any picnics or red
+balloons to be dealt out here, Mike's money pays for 'em--see? Don't
+you butt in, or something'll be handed to you. Youse d---- settlers and
+reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have
+got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students
+and professors rough-housing de soda-water stands and dem rubber-neck
+coaches fillin' de streets, de folks down here are 'fraid to go out of
+de houses. Now, you leave 'em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows
+how to handle 'em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser
+now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit' Mike O'Grady for de Santa Claus
+belt in dis district?"
+
+Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph
+Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side.
+To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized
+charity, presented the Y. M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000
+collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers
+in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth
+for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring
+peace to the caliph's heart. He tried to get a personal note into his
+benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got
+well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with
+respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out
+an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the
+star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of
+his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to
+write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while
+his capital still kept piling up, and his _optikos needleorum
+camelibus_--or rich man's disease--was unrelieved.
+
+In Caliph Spraggins's $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who
+used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in
+Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two
+fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back
+from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors
+in the restaurant languages and those etudes and things.
+
+Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist's delineation of her charms
+on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized
+description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful,
+brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a
+perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain
+food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too
+much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth
+that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the
+slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep
+this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.
+
+Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the
+grocer's young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged
+in conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the
+ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse
+should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid
+eggs out of the wagon.
+
+Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer's young man
+yourself. But you wouldn't have given him your heart, because you are
+saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid
+liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I
+know about it. So I am glad the grocer's young man was for Celia, and
+not for you.
+
+The grocer's young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy
+in his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the
+new frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the
+back of his head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his
+sunburned face looked like one that smiled a good deal when he was not
+preaching the doctrine of everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon
+horses. He slung imported A1 fancy groceries about as though they were
+only the stuff he delivered at boarding-houses; and when he picked up
+his whip, your mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the
+buttonless foils.
+
+Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the house.
+The grocer's wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days Celia
+watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time to
+admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing around
+the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories. Then she
+consulted Annette.
+
+To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a
+paragraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novels
+which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of
+the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia's side-kicker and
+chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn't know it, you may hazard a bean or
+two.
+
+"Oh, canary-bird seed!" exclaimed Annette. "Ain't it a corkin'
+situation? You a heiress, and fallin' in love with him on sight! He's a
+sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain't susceptible like
+the common run of grocer's assistants. He never pays no attention to
+me."
+
+"He will to me," said Celia.
+
+"Riches--" began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine
+sting.
+
+"Oh, you're not so beautiful," said Celia, with her wide, disarming
+smile. "Neither am I; but he sha'n't know that there's any money mixed
+up with my looks, such as they are. That's fair. Now, I want you to lend
+me one of your caps and an apron, Annette."
+
+"Oh, marshmallows!" cried Annette. "I see. Ain't it lovely? It's just
+like 'Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker's Wrongs.' I'll
+bet he'll turn out to be a count."
+
+There was a long hallway (or "passageway," as they call it in the land
+of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the
+house. The grocer's young man went through this to deliver his goods.
+One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow
+complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid's cap and apron. But
+as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy
+tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most
+expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of the
+maids.
+
+But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling
+"Fisher's Hornpipe" so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the
+world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for
+shame.
+
+The grocer's young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on
+his collar button behind.
+
+"That's out o' sight, Kid," said he.
+
+"My name is Celia, if you please," said the whistler, dazzling him with
+a three-inch smile.
+
+That's all right. I'm Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you work
+in?"
+
+"I'm the--the second parlor maid."
+
+"Do you know the 'Falling Waters'?"
+
+"No," said Celia, "we don't know anybody. We got rich too quick--that
+is, Mr. Spraggins did."
+
+"I'll make you acquainted," said Thomas McLeod. "It's a strathspey--the
+first cousin to a hornpipe."
+
+If Celia's whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas McLeod's
+surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could actually
+whistle _bass_.
+
+When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and ride
+with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of the
+Charon line.
+
+"I'll be around to-morrow at 10:15," said Thomas, "with some spinach and
+a case of carbonic."
+
+"I'll practice that what-you-may-call-it," said Celia. "I can whistle a
+fine second."
+
+The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general
+literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements
+of iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman's Auxiliary of
+the Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a
+description of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon
+the province of the X-ray or of park policemen.
+
+A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the
+latticed "passage."
+
+"Sixteen a week isn't much," said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his
+shoulder blades.
+
+Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march.
+Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for
+a dozen handkerchiefs.
+
+"Maybe I'll get a raise next month," said Thomas. "I'll be around
+to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap."
+
+"All right," said Celia. "Annette's married cousin pays only $20 a month
+for a flat in the Bronx."
+
+Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt
+Henrietta's invincible pride of caste and pa's mightiness as a Colossus
+of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her
+grocer's young man might go whistle for a living.
+
+Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with
+"The Devil's Dream," whistled keenly between his teeth.
+
+"Raised to eighteen a week yesterday," he said. "Been pricing flats
+around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and
+unpinning that cap, old girl."
+
+"Oh, Tommy!" said Celia, with her broadest smile. "Won't that be enough?
+I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess we could
+call it a flat pudding if we wanted to."
+
+"And tell no lie," said Thomas.
+
+"And I can sweep and polish and dust--of course, a parlor maid learns
+that. And we could whistle duets of evenings."
+
+"The old man said he'd raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan couldn't
+think of any harder name to call a Republican than a 'postponer,'" said
+the grocer's young man.
+
+"I can sew," said Celia; "and I know that you must make the gas
+company's man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and I
+know how to put up quince jam and window curtains."
+
+"Bully! you're all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off on
+eighteen."
+
+As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved discovery
+by running swiftly to the gate.
+
+"And, oh, Tommy, I forgot," she called, softly. "I believe I could make
+your neckties."
+
+"Forget it," said Thomas decisively.
+
+"And another thing," she continued. "Sliced cucumbers at night will
+drive away cockroaches."
+
+"And sleep, too, you bet," said Mr. McLeod. "Yes, I believe if I have a
+delivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I'll look in at a
+furniture store I know over there."
+
+It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck
+the sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about
+ten thousand dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the
+reflection that some stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into
+wells, move around in circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light
+on Jacob's words.
+
+The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor
+coal-digger (ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and
+bought a small tract of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise
+corn. Not a nubbin. Jacob, whose nose was a divining-rod, told him there
+was a vein of coal beneath. He bought the land from the miner for $125
+and sold it a month afterward for $10,000. Luckily the miner had enough
+left of his sale money to drink himself into a black coat opening in the
+back, as soon as he heard the news.
+
+And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the
+sudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money
+to the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe might
+be his.
+
+And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand
+words and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle
+cracked.
+
+Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any
+existed, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
+
+Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going
+to be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold
+back your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so
+people can stop reading there if they want to.
+
+After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand
+dollars--I mean miles--they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his
+confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there
+were no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one
+morning in one of their offices.
+
+Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked straight
+at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap over the top
+of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
+
+There was a slight flaw in Jacob's system of restitution. He did not
+consider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he
+represented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who had
+sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
+
+"Well, sir," said Thomas, "this sounds to me like an illustrated
+post-card from South Boston with 'We're having a good time here' written
+on it. I don't know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars money, or do
+I have to save so many coupons to get it?"
+
+Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
+
+That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully
+into his pocket.
+
+"Grandfather's best thanks," he said, "to the party who sends it."
+
+Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure
+time, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas,
+the better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so
+frank and wholesome.
+
+"I would like to have you visit my house," he said. "I might help you in
+investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have a
+daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are
+not many young men I would care to have call on her."
+
+"I'm obliged," said Thomas. "I'm not much at making calls. It's
+generally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I'm engaged to a
+girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She's a
+parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won't be working
+there much longer, though. Say, don't forget to give your friend my
+grandfather's best regards. You'll excuse me now; my wagon's outside
+with a lot of green stuff that's got to be delivered. See you again,
+sir."
+
+At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the
+Spraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back,
+he took out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them
+carelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the
+cook.
+
+"I told you he was a count," she said, after relating. "He never would
+carry on with me."
+
+"But you say he showed money," said the cook.
+
+"Hundreds of thousands," said Annette. "Carried around loose in his
+pockets. And he never would look at me."
+
+"It was paid to me to-day," Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. "It
+came from my grandfather's estate. Say, Cele, what's the use of waiting
+now? I'm going to quit the job to-night. Why can't we get married next
+week?"
+
+"Tommy," said Celia. "I'm no parlor maid. I've been fooling you. I'm
+Miss Spraggins--Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I'll be worth forty
+million dollars some day."
+
+Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time since
+we have known him.
+
+"I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me
+next week. But you _can_ whistle."
+
+"No," said Celia, "I'll not be marrying you next week. My father would
+never let me marry a grocer's clerk. But I'll marry you to-night, Tommy,
+if you say so."
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make
+of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized
+fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage
+and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had
+bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her say what a kind,
+thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
+
+There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,
+glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy
+and histrionics.
+
+"Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just
+this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be
+married. I couldn't stop her, sir. They went in a cab."
+
+"What young man?" roared old Jacob.
+
+"A millionaire, if you please, sir--a rich nobleman in disguise. He
+carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only
+to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me."
+
+Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been
+delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
+
+"Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the
+corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run
+it down."
+
+There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes
+half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly
+crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it.
+
+"What t'ell you doin'?" yelled the cabman.
+
+"Pa!" shrieked Celia.
+
+"Grandfather's remorseful friend's agent!" said Thomas. "Wonder what's
+on his conscience now."
+
+"A thousand thunders," said Gaston, or Mike. "I have no other match."
+
+"Young man," said old Jacob, severely, "how about that parlor maid you
+were engaged to?"
+
+
+A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his
+private secretary.
+
+"The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000
+toward the conversion of the Koreans," said the secretary.
+
+"Pass 'em up," said Jacob.
+
+"The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
+$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due."
+
+"Tell 'em it's been cut out."
+
+"The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
+buy alcohol to preserve specimens."
+
+"Waste basket."
+
+"The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants
+$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course."
+
+"Tell 'em to see an undertaker."
+
+"Cut 'em all out," went on Jacob. "I've quit being a good thing. I need
+every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors
+of every company that I'm interested in and recommend a 10 per cent. cut
+in salaries. And say--I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of
+the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about
+waste. I've got no money to throw away. And say--we've got vinegar
+pretty well in hand, haven't we?'
+
+"The Globe Spice & Seasons Company," said secretary, "controls the
+market at present."
+
+"Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches."
+
+Suddenly Jacob Spraggins's plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He
+walked over to the secretary's desk and showed a small red mark on his
+thick forefinger.
+
+"Bit it," he said, "darned if he didn't, and he ain't had the tooth
+three weeks--Jaky McLeod, my Celia's kid. He'll be worth a hundred
+millions by the time he's twenty-one if I can pile it up for him."
+
+As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
+
+"Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I'll be back
+in an hour and sign the letters."
+
+
+The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the
+end of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded
+all his former favorites and companions of his "Arabian Nights" rambles.
+Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only death warrant
+the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a tradesman's bill.
+
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+
+
+HABIT--a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent
+repetition.
+
+
+The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that
+one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters
+of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we
+strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate
+Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving
+Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us
+of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart--and they
+said something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew
+or--er--yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the
+inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,
+we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable
+vade mecum--the unabridged dictionary.
+
+Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle's. Hinkle's is one of the big
+downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the "financial
+district." Each day from 12 o'clock to 2 Hinkle's was full of hungry
+customers--messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
+stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending--and also people with
+money.
+
+The cashiership at Hinkle's was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted
+and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched
+(as good a word as "dined") many more. It might be said that Hinkle's
+breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted
+to a horde.
+
+Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a
+strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at
+the bottom you thrust your waiter's check and the money, while your
+heart went pit-a-pat.
+
+For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of
+a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could--Next!--lost
+your chance--please don't shove. She could keep cool and collected while
+she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
+indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better
+than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper
+an egg with one of Hinkle's casters.
+
+There is an old and dignified allusion to the "fierce light that beats
+upon a throne." The light that beats upon the young lady cashier's cage
+is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang.
+
+Every male patron of Hinkle's, from the A. D. T. boys up to the
+curbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks
+they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid's art. Between the meshes
+of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows,
+invitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that
+was wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.
+
+There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young
+lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she
+is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin,
+leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a
+Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the cheery
+word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and
+you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the brass-bound
+inaccessibility multiplies her charms--anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted
+angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready,
+alert--Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your
+circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
+
+The young men who broke bread at Hinkle's never settled with the cashier
+without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went
+to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets
+and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms,
+generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem
+flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss
+Merriam more regularly than he ate.
+
+During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam's conversation, while she took
+money for checks, would run something like this:
+
+"Good morning, Mr. Haskins--sir?--it's natural, thank you--don't be
+quite so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny--ten, fifteen, twenty--chase along
+now or they'll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon--count
+it again, please--Oh, don't mention it . . . Vaudeville?--thanks;
+not on your moving picture--I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on
+Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons . . . 'Scuse me, I thought that
+was a quarter . . . Twenty-five and seventy-five's a dollar--got
+that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you
+addressing?--say--you'll get all that's coming to you in a
+minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett--you're always fooling--no--?
+Well, maybe I'll marry you some day--three, four and sixty-five
+is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
+please . . . Ten cents?--'scuse me; the check calls for seventy--well,
+maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that
+way, Mr. Saunders?--some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de
+Merody does suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike
+along there, buddy; don't take this for a Coney Island ticket
+booth . . . Huh?--why, Macy's--don't it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn't too
+cool--these light-weight fabrics is all the go this season . . . Come
+again, please--that's the third time you've tried to--what?--forget
+it--that lead quarter is an old friend of mine . . . Sixty-five?--must
+have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth
+Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De Forest--swell?--oh, my!--who
+is she? . . . What's the matter with it?--why, it ain't
+money--what?--Columbian half?--well, this ain't South
+America . . . Yes, I like the mixed best--Friday?--awfully
+sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday--Thursday,
+then . . . Thanks--that's sixteen times I've been told that this
+morning--I guess I must be beautiful . . . Cut that out, please--who
+do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr. Westbrook--do you really think
+so?--the idea!--one--eighty and twenty's a dollar--thank you ever so
+much, but I don't ever go automobile riding with gentlemen--your
+aunt?--well, that's different--perhaps . . . Please don't get
+fresh--your check was fifteen cents, I believe--kindly step aside and
+let . . . Hello, Ben--coming around Thursday evening?--there's a
+gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
+and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . ."
+
+About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo--whose other
+name is Fortune--suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
+while he was walking past Hinkle's, on his way to a street car. A
+wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is--move up,
+please; there are others.
+
+A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the
+spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle's restaurant.
+When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a
+beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing
+his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frappe
+out of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed
+with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered
+consciousness.
+
+To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker
+McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward
+Miss Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with
+interest--not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.
+The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple
+were childless--they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.
+
+To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts
+of the good old couple. They came to Hinkle's again and again; they
+invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East
+Seventies. Miss Merriam's winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
+impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
+Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
+matron, nee Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
+of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
+smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of the
+fatuity of parents.
+
+A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she
+stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
+
+"They're going to adopt me," she told the bereft restaurateur. "They're
+funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
+Say, Hinkle, there isn't any use of talking--I'm on the a la carte to
+wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
+Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I've been cashiering
+so long I feel funny doing anything else. I'll miss joshing the fellows
+awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and. But I can't let
+this chance slide. And they're awfully good, Hinkle; I know I'll have a
+swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for the week. Cut out
+the half if it hurts you, Hinkle."
+
+And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced the
+transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to
+the skin. Nerve--but just here will you oblige by perusing again the
+quotation with which this story begins?
+
+The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their
+adopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
+Miss--er--McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle's.
+To give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle's
+did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.
+
+Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
+Seventy---- Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without
+debts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember
+the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the
+W----f-A----a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie
+on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that--you did not?
+Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.
+
+At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer--er--McRamsey was
+exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
+her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity bazaar
+the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a finish. An
+earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be lower, but his
+outstanding accounts are also lower.
+
+Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
+sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
+proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
+the slums a Christmas din----Say! did you ever wonder where they get the
+other 364?
+
+Miss McRamsey--beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
+radiant--fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
+a little arched opening, fenced her in.
+
+Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring--admiring
+greatly, and faced the open wicket.
+
+"You look chawming, you know--'pon my word you do--my deah," he said,
+beguilingly.
+
+Miss McRamsey whirled around.
+
+"Cut that joshing out," she said, coolly and briskly. "Who do you think
+you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!--"
+
+Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
+certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond
+and puzzled whisker.
+
+"Miss McRamsey has fainted," some one explained.
+
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+
+
+Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the _Minerva
+Magazine_, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his
+favorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office
+when his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette. Which
+is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street,
+safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and
+meandered along the walks of budding Madison Square.
+
+The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a
+pastoral; the color motif was green--the presiding shade at the creation
+of man and vegetation.
+
+The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a
+poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had
+breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree
+buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the
+garnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above
+was of that pale aquamarine tint that ballroom poets rhyme with "true"
+and "Sue" and "coo." The one natural and frank color visible was the
+ostensible green of the newly painted benches--a shade between the color
+of a pickled cucumber and that of a last year's fast-black cravenette
+raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape
+appeared a masterpiece.
+
+And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle
+concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of
+the editor's mind.
+
+Editor Westbrook's spirit was contented and serene. The April number of
+the _Minerva_ had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the
+month--a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty
+copies more if he had 'em. The owners of the magazine had raised his
+(the editor's) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a
+recently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning
+papers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers'
+banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a
+splendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he
+left his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic
+interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When
+he had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly
+hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic
+medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards
+of the convalescent city.
+
+While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches
+(already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood)
+he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be
+panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his
+captor was--Dawe--Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel
+scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
+
+While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight
+biography of Dawe is offered.
+
+He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances.
+At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had
+some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near
+Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners
+together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became "dearest" friends.
+Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself,
+ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park
+neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's
+trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble
+mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live
+by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many
+to Westbrook. The _Minerva_ printed one or two of them; the rest were
+returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter
+with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons
+for considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear
+conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was
+mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food
+that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to
+her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they sat
+down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp.
+Dawe commented.
+
+"It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe. "It may not be art, but I do
+wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella
+Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry."
+
+As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor
+Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor
+had seen Dawe in several months.
+
+"Why, Shack, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the
+form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance.
+
+"Sit down for a minute," said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. "This is my
+office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down--you won't
+be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take
+you for a swell porch-climber. They won't know you are only an editor."
+
+"Smoke, Shack?" said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the
+virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield.
+
+Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl
+pecks at a chocolate cream.
+
+"I have just--" began the editor.
+
+"Oh, I know; don't finish," said Dawe. "Give me a match. You have just
+ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and
+invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that
+couldn't read the 'Keep off the Grass' signs."
+
+"How goes the writing?" asked the editor.
+
+"Look at me," said Dawe, "for your answer. Now don't put on that
+embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don't get a job
+as a wine agent or a cab driver. I'm in the fight to a finish. I know I
+can write good fiction and I'll force you fellows to admit it yet. I'll
+make you change the spelling of 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm
+done with you."
+
+Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly
+sorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression--the
+copyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable
+contributor.
+
+"Have you read the last story I sent you--'The Alarum of the Soul'?"
+asked Dawe.
+
+"Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had
+some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it
+goes back to you. I regret--"
+
+"Never mind the regrets," said Dawe, grimly. "There's neither salve nor
+sting in 'em any more. What I want to know is _why_. Come now; out with
+the good points first."
+
+"The story," said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh, "is
+written around an almost original plot. Characterization--the best you
+have done. Construction--almost as good, except for a few weak joints
+which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good
+story, except--"
+
+"I can write English, can't I?" interrupted Dawe.
+
+"I have always told you," said the editor, "that you had a style."
+
+"Then the trouble is--"
+
+"Same old thing," said Editor Westbrook. "You work up to your climax
+like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don't
+know what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what you
+do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison
+with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its
+impossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth.
+But you spoil every denouement by those flat, drab, obliterating strokes
+of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would rise to
+the literary pinnacle of your dramatic senses, and paint them in the
+high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer bulky,
+self-addressed envelopes at your door."
+
+"Oh, fiddles and footlights!" cried Dawe, derisively. "You've got that
+old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black
+mustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother
+kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: 'May high heaven
+witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless
+villain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another's
+vengeance!'"
+
+Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious complacency.
+
+"I think," said he, "that in real life the woman would express herself
+in those words or in very similar ones."
+
+"Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere but on the stage," said Dawe
+hotly. "I'll tell you what she'd say in real life. She'd say: 'What!
+Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after
+another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station.
+Why wasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake,
+get out of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat--the brown one
+with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she's usually shy of
+strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm upset!'
+
+"That's the way she'd talk," continued Dawe. "People in real life don't
+fly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can't
+do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same
+vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas
+a little more, that's all."
+
+"Shack," said Editor Westbrook impressively, "did you ever pick up the
+mangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street
+car, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted
+mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and
+despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?"
+
+"I never did," said Dawe. "Did you?"
+
+"Well, no," said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. "But I can well
+imagine what she would say."
+
+"So can I," said Dawe.
+
+And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the
+oracle and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an
+unarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and
+heroines of the _Minerva Magazine_, contrary to the theories of the
+editor thereof.
+
+"My dear Shack," said he, "if I know anything of life I know that every
+sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an
+apposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of
+feeling. How much of this inevitable accord between expression and
+feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of
+art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of the
+lioness that has been deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far above
+her customary whine and purr as the kingly and transcendent utterances
+of Lear are above the level of his senile vaporings. But it is also true
+that all men and women have what may be called a sub-conscious dramatic
+sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep and powerful emotion--a
+sense unconsciously acquired from literature and the stage that prompts
+them to express those emotions in language befitting their importance
+and histrionic value."
+
+"And in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius,
+where did the stage and literature get the stunt?" asked Dawe.
+
+"From life," answered the editor, triumphantly.
+
+The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but
+dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately his
+dissent.
+
+On a bench nearby a frowzy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that
+his moral support was due a downtrodden brother.
+
+"Punch him one, Jack," he called hoarsely to Dawe. "W'at's he come
+makin' a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen'lemen that comes in
+the square to set and think?"
+
+Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure.
+
+"Tell me," asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, "what especial faults in
+'The Alarum of the Soul' caused you to throw it down?"
+
+"When Gabriel Murray," said Westbrook, "goes to his telephone and is
+told that his fiancee has been shot by a burglar, he says--I do not
+recall the exact words, but--"
+
+"I do," said Dawe. "He says: 'Damn Central; she always cuts me off.'
+(And then to his friend) 'Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a
+big hole? It's kind of hard luck, ain't it? Could you get me a drink
+from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.'"
+
+"And again," continued the editor, without pausing for argument, "when
+Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has
+fled with the manicure girl, her words are--let me see--"
+
+"She says," interposed the author: "'Well, what do you think of that!'"
+
+"Absurdly inappropriate words," said Westbrook, "presenting an
+anti-climax--plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they
+mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms
+when confronted by sudden tragedy."
+
+"Wrong," said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. "I say no man
+or woman ever spouts 'high-falutin' talk when they go up against a real
+climax. They talk naturally and a little worse."
+
+The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside
+information.
+
+"Say, Westbrook," said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, "would you have
+accepted 'The Alarum of the Soul' if you had believed that the actions
+and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story
+that we discussed?"
+
+"It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way," said the
+editor. "But I have explained to you that I do not."
+
+"If I could prove to you that I am right?"
+
+"I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't time to argue any further
+just now."
+
+"I don't want to argue," said Dawe. "I want to demonstrate to you from
+life itself that my view is the correct one."
+
+"How could you do that?" asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
+
+"Listen," said the writer, seriously. "I have thought of a way. It is
+important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as
+correct by the magazines. I've fought for it for three years, and I'm
+down to my last dollar, with two months' rent due."
+
+"I have applied the opposite of your theory," said the editor, "in
+selecting the fiction for the _Minerva Magazine_. The circulation has
+gone up from ninety thousand to--"
+
+"Four hundred thousand," said Dawe. "Whereas it should have been boosted
+to a million."
+
+"You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory."
+
+"I will. If you'll give me about half an hour of your time I'll prove to
+you that I am right. I'll prove it by Louise."
+
+"Your wife!" exclaimed Westbrook. "How?"
+
+"Well, not exactly by her, but _with_ her," said Dawe. "Now, you know
+how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I'm the only
+genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor's signature.
+She's been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I've been cast for
+the neglected genius part."
+
+"Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion," agreed the
+editor. "I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once
+were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring
+Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we'll have one of those informal
+chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much."
+
+"Later," said Dawe. "When I get another shirt. And now I'll tell you my
+scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast--if you can call
+tea and oatmeal breakfast--Louise told me she was going to visit her
+aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three o'clock.
+She is always on time to a minute. It is now--"
+
+Dawe glanced toward the editor's watch pocket.
+
+"Twenty-seven minutes to three," said Westbrook, scanning his
+time-piece.
+
+"We have just enough time," said Dawe. "We will go to my flat at once. I
+will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where she
+will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room
+concealed by the portieres. In that note I'll say that I have fled from
+her forever with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic
+soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and
+hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one--yours
+or mine."
+
+"Oh, never!" exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. "That would be
+inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe's feelings
+played upon in such a manner."
+
+"Brace up," said the writer. "I guess I think as much of her as you do.
+It's for her benefit as well as mine. I've got to get a market for my
+stories in some way. It won't hurt Louise. She's healthy and sound. Her
+heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It'll last for only a
+minute, and then I'll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to
+me to give me the chance, Westbrook."
+
+Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in
+the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all
+of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place.
+Pity 'tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go
+around.
+
+The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and
+then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood.
+Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat
+of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside
+the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone
+gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the
+vanished quality. _Sic transit gloria urbis_.
+
+A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again
+eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow
+flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated facade. To the fifth
+story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door
+of one of the front flats.
+
+When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how
+meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
+
+"Get a chair, if you can find one," said Dawe, "while I hunt up pen and
+ink. Hello, what's this? Here's a note from Louise. She must have left
+it there when she went out this morning."
+
+He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.
+He began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having
+begun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words
+that Editor Westbrook heard:
+
+
+   "Dear Shackleford:
+
+    "By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and
+   still a-going. I've got a place in the chorus of the Occidental
+   Opera Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o'clock. I
+   didn't want to starve to death, and so I decided to make my own
+   living. I'm not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She
+   said she was tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg
+   and dictionary, and she's not coming back, either. We've been
+   practising the songs and dances for two months on the quiet. I hope
+   you will be successful, and get along all right! Good-bye.
+
+   "Louise."
+
+
+Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and
+cried out in a deep, vibrating voice:
+
+_"My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,
+then let Thy Heaven's fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting
+by-words of traitors and fiends!"_
+
+Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand
+fumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted between his pale lips:
+
+_"Say, Shack, ain't that a hell of a note? Wouldn't that knock you off
+your perch, Shack? Ain't it hell, now, Shack--ain't it?"_
+
+
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+PAST ONE AT ROONEY'S
+
+
+Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet and
+Montagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If
+you but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have
+work cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a
+dozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but in
+the domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the
+niceties of deportment to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch of
+elbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house and
+kin.
+
+So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted
+into Dutch Mike's for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of
+Montagus making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest
+parliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his
+thirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where the
+mirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy's movements that his
+indifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that the
+finger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at Dutch
+Mike's that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio,
+companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the Mulberry
+Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P's and Q's so
+solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and the other
+on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom to seek
+safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival associations
+congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
+
+But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry
+Docks. We must to Rooney's, where, on the most blighted dead branch of
+the tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
+
+Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first
+overstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were
+immediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like
+swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane deck.
+But McManus's simile must be the torpedo. He glided in under the guns
+and slipped a scant three inches of knife blade between the ribs of the
+Mulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a devotee to strategy,
+had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch of the
+electrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire alone.
+Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying for the
+watch instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian shindy.
+
+The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by three
+distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the ethics of
+the gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no Capulet to be
+seen.
+
+"Raus mit der interrogatories," said Buck Malone to the officer. "Sure I
+know who done it. I always manages to get a bird's eye view of any guy
+that comes up an' makes a show case for a hardware store out of me. No.
+I'm not telling you his name. I'll settle with um meself. Wow--ouch!
+Easy, boys! Yes, I'll attend to his case meself. I'm not making any
+complaint."
+
+At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Side
+dock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick Cleary
+drifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. "He'll maybe
+not croak," said Brick; "and he won't tell, of course. But Dutch Mike
+did. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up. It's
+unhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan's in Europe for a week's end with
+Kings. He'll be back on the _Kaiser Williams_ next Friday. You'll have
+to duck out of sight till then. Tim'll fix it up all right for us when
+he comes back."
+
+This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney's one night and
+there looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the first
+time in his precarious career.
+
+Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princes
+and hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe for
+Cork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the high
+rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing the
+slow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_.
+
+It was on Thursday evening that Cork's seclusion became intolerable to
+him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool touch
+of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the hollow
+of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and repartee
+along and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the district where
+he was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere, for news was
+scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the failure of the
+police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back,
+the big white finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then.
+But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would be
+small danger in a little excursion that night among the crass pleasures
+that represented life to him.
+
+At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street looking
+up at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent lights against
+a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the place
+as a tough "hang-out"; with its frequenters and its locality he was
+unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all such
+resorts, he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over the
+cafe.
+
+Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled
+with Rooney's guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human
+pianola with drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furious
+unprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak a
+song--songs full of "Mr. Johnsons" and "babes" and "coons"--historical
+word guaranties of the genuineness of African melodies composed by red
+waistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the cotton fields and rice
+swamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.
+
+For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives,
+seats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He
+has Wellington's nose, Dante's chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois,
+the smile of Talleyrand, Corbett's foot work, and the poise of an
+eleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assisted
+by a lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who
+goes among the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now,
+what is there about Rooney's to inspire all this pother? It is more
+respectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens and
+bundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and a
+chat. Even by gaslight the diversions are melancholy i' the mouth--drink
+and rag-time, and an occasional surprise when the waiter swabs the suds
+from under your sticky glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! The
+soul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed doublet
+to a kindred home under Rooney's visible plaid waistcoat. Rooney's is
+twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has removed the embargo. Rooney
+has spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of public opinion, and any
+Elizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as another. Attend to
+the revelation of the secret. In Rooney's ladies may smoke!
+
+McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer
+that he ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his
+brick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and
+heaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his innermost
+soul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his taste. The sham
+gaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious,
+joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving the
+hour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presence
+of well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney's removal of the
+restrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked
+lemon peel, flat beer, and _peau d'Espagne_--all these were manna to
+Cork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet's high
+rear room.
+
+A girl, alone, entered Rooney's, glanced around with leisurely
+swiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested upon
+him for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres all men
+whom she for the first time confronts. In that space of time she will
+decide upon one of two things--either to scream for the police, or that
+she may marry him later on.
+
+Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn red
+morocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed lace
+handkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a small
+beer from the immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of cigarettes
+and lighted one with slightly exaggerated ease of manner. Then she
+looked again in the eyes of Cork McManus and smiled.
+
+Instantly the doom of each was sealed.
+
+The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for a
+woman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among
+that humble portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or
+coats-of-arms or Shaw's plays. Love at first sight has occurred a time
+or two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be found
+among unsophisticated creatures such as the dove, the blue-tailed
+dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk. Poets, subscribers to all
+fiction magazines, and schatchens, take notice.
+
+With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each of
+them the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which is
+the worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as love.
+
+"Have another beer?" suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was
+considered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and
+references.
+
+"No, thanks," said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her
+conventional words carefully. "I--merely dropped in for--a slight
+refreshment." The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require
+explanation. "My aunt is a Russian lady," she concluded, "and we often
+have a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home."
+
+"Cheese it!" said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. "Your fingers are
+as yellow as mine."
+
+"Say," said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,
+"what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?
+What?"
+
+She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and
+bright. Under her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, her
+crinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in a
+thick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still lingered in
+her chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.
+She looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.
+Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below her
+black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk underskirt.
+
+"Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't mean
+anything. Sure, it's no harm to smoke, Maudy."
+
+"Rooney's," said the girl, softened at once by his amends, "is the only
+place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain't a nice habit, but
+aunty lets us at home. And my name ain't Maudy, if you please; it's Ruby
+Delamere."
+
+"That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine's
+McManus--Cor--er--Eddie McManus."
+
+"Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize."
+
+Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl's
+ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
+
+"I know it's late," she said, reaching for her bag; "but you know how
+you want a smoke when you want one. Ain't Rooney's all right? I never
+saw anything wrong here. This is twice I've been in. I work in a
+bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been working
+overtime three nights a week. They won't let you smoke there, of course.
+I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain't it all right in
+here? If it ain't, I won't come any more."
+
+"It's a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere," said Cork.
+"I'm not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don't want to
+have your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday School
+teacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home."
+
+"But I don't know you," said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. "I don't
+accept the company of gentlemen I ain't acquainted with. My aunt never
+would allow that."
+
+"Why," said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, "I'm the latest thing in
+suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin' a
+lady. You bet you'll find me all right, Ruby. And I'll give you a tip as
+to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the Wall
+Street push. Morgan's cab horse casts a shoe every time the old man
+sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I'm in trainin' down the
+Street. The old man's goin' to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in my
+stockin' my next birthday. But it all sounds like a lemon to me. What I
+like is golf and yachtin' and--er--well, say a corkin' fast ten-round
+bout between welter-weights with walkin' gloves."
+
+"I guess you can walk to the door with me," said the girl hesitatingly,
+but with a certain pleased flutter. "Still I never heard anything extra
+good about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights,
+either. Ain't you got any other recommendations?"
+
+"I think you're the swellest looker I've had my lamps on in little old
+New York," said Cork impressively.
+
+"That'll be about enough of that, now. Ain't you the kidder!" She
+modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished
+look at her cavalier. "We'll drink our beer before we go, ha?"
+
+A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in
+spirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended
+fogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.
+Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney's liquids and
+Rooney's gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine.
+
+One o'clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and
+locking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows
+carefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front
+door, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforth
+whoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar to
+Rooney's hawk's eye--the countenance of a true sport.
+
+Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their
+elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,
+scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.
+Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney's had become
+renovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,
+but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The flattest
+glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punch
+struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial company
+became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of one
+in such places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had,
+drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.
+It is the law.
+
+"Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent
+chest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you workin' in the
+bookbindery and livin' at home--and just happenin' in here--and--and
+all that spiel you gave me?"
+
+"Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you think?
+Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask 'em. I handed
+it to you on the level."
+
+"On the dead level?" said Cork. "That's the way I want it; because--"
+
+"Because what?"
+
+"I throw up my hands," said Cork. "You've got me goin'. You're the girl
+I've been lookin' for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?"
+
+"Would you like me to--Eddie?"
+
+"Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about--about yourself, you
+know. When a fellow had a girl--a steady girl--she's got to be all
+right, you know. She's got to be straight goods."
+
+"You'll find I'll be straight goods, Eddie."
+
+"Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can't blame me
+for wantin' to find out. You don't see many girls smokin' cigarettes in
+places like Rooney's after midnight that are like you."
+
+The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," she
+said meekly. "I didn't know how bad it looked. But I won't do it any
+more. And I'll go straight home every night and stay there. And I'll
+give up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie--I'll cut 'em out from this
+minute on."
+
+Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.
+"A lady can smoke," he decided, slowly, "at times and places. Why?
+Because it's bein' a lady that helps her pull it off."
+
+"I'm going to quit. There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flicked
+the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
+
+"At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you of
+evenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a
+puff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock--see?"
+
+"Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searched his hard but frank
+features eagerly with anxious eyes.
+
+"On the dead level."
+
+"When are you coming to see me--where I live?"
+
+"Thursday--day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?"
+
+"Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with me
+to-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now. And don't
+you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you will,
+though."
+
+"On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-dolls to
+me. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the dead level, I do."
+
+Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.
+The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a
+policeman's foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney
+jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric
+lights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except
+for the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of
+crashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring
+panic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring,
+could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table
+to table.
+
+"All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise!
+Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm. We'll
+take care of you all."
+
+Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers. "Are
+you afraid, Eddie?" she whispered. "Are you afraid you'll get a free
+ride?"
+
+"Nothin' doin' in the teeth-chatterin' line," said Cork. "I guess
+Rooney's been slow with his envelope. Don't you worry, girly; I'll look
+out for you all right."
+
+Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the police
+looking everywhere for Buck Malone's assailant, and with Corrigan still
+on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would mean
+an ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high rear room
+of the true Capulet reading the pink extras.
+
+Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the police
+in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their voices
+came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of himself at
+the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the extreme rear
+of the room and lighted a dim gas jet.
+
+"This way, everybody!" he called sharply. "In a hurry; but no noise,
+please!"
+
+The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney's lieutenant swung
+open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder
+already placed for the escape.
+
+"Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less talking,
+please! Don't crowd! There's no danger."
+
+Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.
+Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
+
+"Before we go out," she whispered in his ear--"before anything happens,
+tell me again, Eddie, do you l--do you really like me?"
+
+"On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm, "when it
+comes to you, I'm all in."
+
+When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last
+of the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they
+bore the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an
+adjoining low building over the roof of which their only route to
+safety.
+
+"We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will stand
+the cops off, anyhow."
+
+They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
+
+A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. One
+of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the electric
+light. The other man was a cop of the old regime--a big cop, a thick
+cop, a fuming, abrupt cop--not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair at
+the table and sneered familiarly at the girl.
+
+"What are youse doin' in here?" he asked.
+
+"Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly.
+
+"Had any drinks?"
+
+"Not later than one o'clock."
+
+"Get out--quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he countermanded.
+
+He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Your
+name's McManus."
+
+"Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson."
+
+"Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a knife
+into a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago."
+
+"Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
+officer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's."
+
+"Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be looked
+over. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted his fingers
+under Cork's collar. "Come on!" he ordered roughly.
+
+Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered.
+Her quick eye danced from one man's face to the other as they spoke or
+moved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking--Corrigan on the briny; and
+Ruby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station
+would recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck!
+
+But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms
+extended against the cop. His hold on Cork's collar was loosened and he
+stumbled back two or three paces.
+
+"Don't go so fast, Maguire!" she cried in shrill fury. "Keep your hands
+off my man! You know me, and you know I'm givin' you good advice. Don't
+you touch him again! He's not the guy you are lookin' for--I'll stand
+for that."
+
+"See here, Fanny," said the Cop, red and angry, "I'll take you, too, if
+you don't look out! How do you know this ain't the man I want? What are
+you doing in here with him?"
+
+"How do I know?" said the girl, flaming red and white by turns. "Because
+I've known him a year. He's mine. Oughtn't I to know? And what am I
+doin' here with him? That's easy."
+
+She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted
+draperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the
+table toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened
+itself with little leisurely jerks.
+
+"Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin' the
+usual dividends, Maguire," she said to the officer. "You had your usual
+five-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten."
+
+"A lie!" said the cop, turning purple. "You go on my beat again and I'll
+arrest you every time I see you."
+
+"No, you won't," said the girl. "And I'll tell you why. Witnesses saw me
+give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I've been getting fixed
+for you."
+
+Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: "Come on,
+Fanny; let's have some chop suey before we go home."
+
+"Clear out, quick, both of you, or I'll--"
+
+The cop's bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
+
+At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the
+money without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her
+hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered
+Rooney's that night--she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion
+and sullen wonder.
+
+"I guess I might as well say good-bye here," she said dully. "You won't
+want to see me again, of course. Will you--shake hands--Mr. McManus."
+
+"I mightn't have got wise if you hadn't give the snap away," said Cork.
+"Why did you do it?"
+
+"You'd have been pinched if I hadn't. That's why. Ain't that reason
+enough?" Then she began to cry. "Honest, Eddie, I was goin' to be the
+best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was
+ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from
+everybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I'd
+make you believe I was good, and I was goin' to be good. When you asked
+to come to my house and see me, why, I'd have died rather than do
+anything wrong after that. But what's the use of talking about it? I'll
+say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus."
+
+Cork was pulling at his ear. "I knifed Malone," said he. "I was the one
+the cop wanted."
+
+"Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make any
+difference about that."
+
+"That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don't do nothin' but hang out
+with a tough gang on the East Side."
+
+"That was all right, too," repeated the girl. "It didn't make any
+difference."
+
+Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. "I could get a
+job at O'Brien's," he said aloud, but to himself.
+
+"Good-by," said the girl.
+
+"Come on," said Cork, taking her arm. "I know a place."
+
+Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house
+facing a little park.
+
+"What house is this?" she asked, drawing back. "Why are you going in
+there?"
+
+A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at
+one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps.
+"Read that," said he.
+
+She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a
+scream. "No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won't let you do that--not
+now! Let me go! You shan't do that! You can't--you mus'n't! Not after
+you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!"
+
+Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork's
+right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
+
+Another cop--how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the
+wing!--came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are you
+doing with that girl?" he called gruffly.
+
+"She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork. "It's a straight deal."
+
+"Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with true
+detective cunning.
+
+"Correct," said Cork. "On the dead level, we're goin' to get married."
+
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+THE VENTURERS
+
+
+Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the _Non Sequitur_
+Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation
+car "_Raison d'etre_" for one moment. It is for no longer than to
+consider a brief essay on the subject--let us call it: "What's Around
+the Corner."
+
+_Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est_--men who wear rubbers and pay
+poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more
+continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and
+the poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be
+paralleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.
+
+Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the
+dictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a
+prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk
+in the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and
+alluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance is
+the beautiful countenance--perfect because vague and dream-born--that we
+see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and
+toast.
+
+The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and wayside
+groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the
+difference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit
+was the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it
+happened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is
+disturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and
+city-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children
+and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the flickering
+gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of two modern
+followers of Chance.
+
+
+"Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?" asked
+Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate
+the interior of the Powhatan Club.
+
+"Doubtless," said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.
+
+Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long
+before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the
+air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted
+and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go
+away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,
+must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one
+else. (I had written that "somebody"; but an A. D. T. boy who once took
+a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the
+compound word. This is a vice versa case.)
+
+Forster's favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower of
+Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition
+and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied him
+full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares and
+many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life.
+But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew what was to be found
+at the end of every street. He knew from experience and logic almost
+precisely to what end each digression from routine must lead. He found a
+depressing monotony in all the variations that the music of his sphere
+had grafted upon the tune of life. He had not learned that, although the
+world was made round, the circle has been squared, and that it's true
+interest is to be in "What's Around the Corner."
+
+Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax
+either his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He
+would have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no
+hope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the
+Greater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan
+chair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,
+uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.
+
+At the end of an hour's stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,
+smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old
+hotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that
+he must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of his
+favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the service and
+so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger that must be
+appeased by the "dead perfection" of the place's cuisine. Even the music
+there seemed to be always playing _da capo_.
+
+Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,
+restaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all
+countries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorous
+American. Something might happen there out of the routine--he might come
+upon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a question
+without an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life's
+salt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business suit
+that would not be questioned even where the waiters served the spaghetti
+in their shirt sleeves.
+
+So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because
+the more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the
+thirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored
+carefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five
+figures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but--
+
+Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really
+regarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of
+thirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one waiting
+for a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So his
+proximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of the
+nature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker after
+"What's Around the Corner," instead of manifesting resentment he only
+turned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other's grin of amusement.
+
+"All in?" asked the intruder, drawing nearer.
+
+"Seems so," said Forster. "Now, I thought there was a dollar in--"
+
+"Oh, I know," said the other man, with a laugh. "But there wasn't. I've
+just been through the same process myself, as I was coming around the
+corner. I found in an upper vest pocket--I don't know how they got
+there--exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly two
+pennies will buy!"
+
+"You haven't dined, then?" asked Forster.
+
+"I have not. But I would like to. Now, I'll make you a proposition.
+You look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and
+respectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny
+of a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine
+together. We will choose from the menu like millionaires--or, if you
+prefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly
+for once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to
+see which of us will stand the brunt of the house's displeasure and
+vengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same station
+of life--before our money took wings."
+
+"You're on," said Forster, joyfully.
+
+Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious country
+of Chance--anyhow, it promised something better than the stale
+infestivity of a table d'hote.
+
+The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.
+Ives chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster.
+
+"Match for which of us gives the order," he said.
+
+Forster lost.
+
+Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with the
+absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born. Forster,
+listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.
+
+"I am a man," said Ives, during the oysters, "Who has made a lifetime
+search after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the ordinary
+adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like a gambler
+who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake. What I want
+is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion.
+It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its blindest
+manifestations. The world has come to run so much by rote and
+gravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance in
+which you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expect
+at its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who always
+complained bitterly when any one came in to ask information. 'He wanted
+to _know_, you know!' was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks. Well,
+I don't want to know, I don't want to reason, I don't want to guess--I
+want to bet my hand without seeing it."
+
+"I understand," said Forster delightedly. "I've often wanted the way I
+feel put into words. You've done it. I want to take chances on what's
+coming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course."
+
+"Agreed," said Ives. "I'm glad you catch my idea. It will increase the
+animosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, we
+will pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true venturer--one
+who does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.
+But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficult
+it is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee. In
+the Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from
+doors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle of
+a wall and 'get away with it.' Nowadays, if you speak disrespectfully to
+a policeman, all that is left to the most romantic fancy is to
+conjecture in what particular police station he will land you."
+
+"I know--I know," said Forster, nodding approval.
+
+"I returned to New York to-day," continued Ives, "from a three years'
+ramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad than they are
+at home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The only
+thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I've tried shooting big
+game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many yards;
+and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I enjoy it
+about as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a sum in
+long division on the blackboard."
+
+"I know--I know," said Forster.
+
+"There might be something in aeroplanes," went on Ives, reflectively.
+"I've tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried affair
+of wind and ballast."
+
+"Women," suggested Forster, with a smile.
+
+"Three months ago," said Ives. "I was pottering around in one of the
+bazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but with
+a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some amber and
+pearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an attendant--a big
+Nubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant drew nearer to me
+by degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand. I looked at it
+when I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in pencil: 'The arched
+gate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.' Does that appear to
+you to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?"
+
+"I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the
+property of an old Turk--a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Of
+course I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The same
+Nubian attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside and
+sat on a bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had quite
+an extended chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who was
+writing up the Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said she
+noticed the New York cut of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered if
+I couldn't work something into the metropolitan papers about it."
+
+"I see," said Forster. "I see."
+
+"I've canoed through Canada," said Ives, "down many rapids and over many
+falls. But I didn't seem to get what I wanted out of it because I knew
+there were only two possible outcomes--I would either go to the bottom
+or arrive at the sea level. I've played all games at cards; but the
+mathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the percentages.
+I've made acquaintances on trains, I've answered advertisements, I've
+rung strange door-bells, I've taken every chance that presented itself;
+but there has always been the conventional ending--the logical
+conclusion to the premise."
+
+"I know," repeated Forster. "I've felt it all. But I've had few
+chances to take my chance at chances. Is there any life so devoid of
+impossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad of
+opportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousand
+fails to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways and
+street cars disappointed one as seldom."
+
+"The sun has risen," said Ives, "on the Arabian nights. There are
+no more caliphs. The fisherman's vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,
+warranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours.
+Life moves by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no more
+opportunities such as Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster had.
+The only certain thing is that there is nothing uncertain."
+
+"Well," said Forster, "my experience has been the limited one of a city
+man. I haven't seen the world as you have; but it seems that we view
+it with the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even this
+little venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There may
+be at least one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner is
+presented. Perhaps, after all, the pilgrims who traveled without scrip
+or purse found a keener taste to life than did the knights of the Round
+Table who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur's certified checks
+in the lining of their helmets. And now, if you've finished your coffee,
+suppose we match one of your insufficient coins for the impending blow
+of Fate. What have I up?"
+
+"Heads," called Ives.
+
+"Heads it is," said Forster, lifting his hand. "I lose. We forgot to
+agree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when the
+waiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I will
+hold the fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hat
+and be off. I thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives,
+and wish we might have others."
+
+"If my memory is not at fault," said Ives, laughing, "the nearest police
+station is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too, let me
+assure you."
+
+Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotive
+effort that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism,
+glided to the table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser's
+cup. Forster took it up and added the figures with deliberate care. Ives
+leaned back comfortably in his chair.
+
+"Excuse me," said Forster; "but I thought you were going to ring Grimes
+about that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten about
+it?"
+
+"Oh," said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, "I can do that later
+on. Get me a glass of water, waiter."
+
+"Want to be in at the death, do you?" asked Forster.
+
+"I hope you don't object," said Ives, pleadingly. "Never in my life have
+I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling it out
+of a dinner."
+
+"All right," said Forster, calmly. "You are entitled to see a Christian
+die in the arena as your _pousse-cafe_."
+
+Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged
+air of an inexorable collector.
+
+Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his
+pocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and
+took it away.
+
+"The fact is," said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, "I doubt
+whether I'm what they call a 'game sport,' which means the same as a
+'soldier of Fortune.' I'll have to make a confession. I've been dining
+at this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I always
+sign my checks." And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice: "It
+was first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you knew I
+had no money, and that you might be scooped in, too."
+
+"I guess I'll confess, too," said Ives, with a grin. "I own the hotel.
+I don't run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor
+for my use when I happen to stray into town."
+
+He called a waiter and said: "Is Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? All
+right. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms made
+ready and aired."
+
+"Another venture cut short by the inevitable," said Forster. "Is there
+a conundrum without an answer in the next number? But let's hold to our
+subject just for a minute or two, if you will. It isn't often that I
+meet a man who understands the flaws I pick in existence. I am engaged
+to be married a month from to-day."
+
+"I reserve comment," said Ives.
+
+"Right; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond of
+the lady; but I can't decide whether to show up at the church or
+make a sneak for Alaska. It's the same idea, you know, that we were
+discussing--it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.
+Everybody knows the routine--you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea
+after breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress for
+dinner--theatre twice a week--bills--moping around most evenings trying
+to make conversation--a little quarrel occasionally--maybe sometimes a
+big one, and a separation--or else a settling down into a middle-aged
+contentment, which is worst of all."
+
+"I know," said Ives, nodding wisely.
+
+"It's the dead certainty of the thing," went on Forster, "that keeps me
+in doubt. There'll nevermore be anything around the corner."
+
+"Nothing after the 'Little Church,'" said Ives. "I know."
+
+"Understand," said Forster, "that I am in no doubt as to my feelings
+toward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there
+is something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out
+against any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I
+know that I want it. I'm talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I'm sure
+of what I mean."
+
+"I understand you," said Ives, with a slow smile. "Well, I think I will
+be going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one evening
+soon, Mr. Forster, I'd be glad."
+
+"Thursday?" suggested Forster.
+
+"At seven, if it's convenient," answered Ives.
+
+"Seven goes," assented Forster.
+
+At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in one
+of the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the reception
+room of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of Fortune, Chance
+and Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistler
+etchings, the steel engravings by Oh-what's-his-name?, the still-life
+paintings of the grapes and garden truck with the watermelon seeds
+spilled on the table as natural as life, and the Greuze head. It was
+a household. There was even brass andirons. On a table was an album,
+half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on the corners of the
+lids. A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, with a warning click at five
+minutes to nine. Ives looked at it curiously, remembering a time-piece
+in his grandmother's home that gave such a warning.
+
+And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was
+twenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this
+much--youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet
+eyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with
+the sweet cordiality of an old friendship.
+
+"You can't think what a pleasure it is," she said, "to have you drop in
+once every three years or so."
+
+For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the
+conversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library. When
+that part of it was over, Mary said:
+
+"And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?"
+
+"What I wanted?" said Ives.
+
+"Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn't play
+marbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water
+where you didn't know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. And
+when you grew up you were just the same. We've often talked about your
+peculiar ways."
+
+"I suppose I am an incorrigible," said Ives. "I am opposed to the
+doctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation, taxation,
+and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me something like
+a serial story would be if they printed above each instalment a synopsis
+of _succeeding_ chapters."
+
+Mary laughed merrily.
+
+"Bob Ames told us once," she said, "of a funny thing you did. It was
+when you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a town
+where you hadn't intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up a
+sign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it."
+
+"I remember," said Ives. "That 'next station' has been the thing I've
+always tried to get away from."
+
+"I know it," said Mary. "And you've been very foolish. I hope you didn't
+find what you wanted not to find, or get off at the station where there
+wasn't any, or whatever it was you expected wouldn't happen to you
+during the three years you've been away."
+
+"There was something I wanted before I went away," said Ives.
+
+Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweet
+smile.
+
+"There was," she said. "You wanted me. And you could have had me, as you
+very well know."
+
+Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There
+had been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years
+before. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind then.
+The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the everlasting
+hills. No change would ever come there except the inevitable ones
+wrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album would occupy that
+corner of that table, those pictures would hang on the walls, those
+chairs be found in their same places every morn and noon and night while
+the household hung together. The brass andirons were monuments to order
+and stability. Here and there were relics of a hundred years ago which
+were still living mementos and would be for many years to come. One
+going from and coming back to that house would never need to forecast or
+doubt. He would find what he left, and leave what he found. The veiled
+lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outer
+door.
+
+And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet
+and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass
+his life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he
+would never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her,
+and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the
+house itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was the
+knowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thus
+his thoughts ran.
+
+"I am going to be married soon," said Mary.
+
+On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive's hotel.
+
+"Old man," said he, "we'll have to put that dinner off for a year or so;
+I'm going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk we
+had the other night, and it decided me. I'm going to knock around the
+world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both you and
+me--the terrible dread of knowing what's going to happen. I've done one
+thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it's best for both
+of us. I've written to the lady to whom I was engaged and explained
+everything--told her plainly why I was leaving--that the monotony of
+matrimony would never do for me. Don't you think I was right?"
+
+"It is not for me to say," answered Ives. "Go ahead and shoot elephants
+if you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We've
+got to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,
+Forster, I've found the way. I've found out the biggest hazard in the
+world--a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end
+in the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge
+until the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know--not
+until his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage without
+a rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch,
+every day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found
+the VENTURE. Don't bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster.
+I married her yesterday at noon."
+
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+THE DUEL
+
+
+The gods, lying beside their nectar on 'Lympus and peeping over the edge
+of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would seem
+that to their vision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills
+without special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits
+of ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when
+coupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only
+solace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of
+villages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to
+many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among
+the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story
+addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet
+on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment
+while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I
+love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.
+
+New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus
+beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine's. They
+came here in various ways and for many reasons--Hendrik Hudson, the art
+schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers' convention, the
+Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates,
+brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight
+trains--all these have had a hand in making up the population.
+
+But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan
+has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his
+adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no
+rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.
+
+Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the
+ferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has
+conquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket
+or only the price of a week's lodging.
+
+The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn
+the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You
+cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against--lover or enemy--bosom
+friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only
+by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the
+subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse,
+Beethoven, chloral and John L. in his best days.
+
+In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long
+as you please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and
+be a citizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and
+without rebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but
+Knickerbocker's, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings,
+comparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair's residence in
+Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in
+New York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern Troy,
+concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism. And this
+dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant figures of
+William and Jack.
+
+They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They
+came to dig their fortunes out of the big city.
+
+Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander on
+the nose and the other an upper-cut with his left, just to let them know
+that the fight was on.
+
+William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and
+ambitious; so they countered and clinched. I think they were from
+Nebraska or possibly Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for
+success and scraps and scads, and they tackled the city like two
+Lochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at the City Hall.
+
+Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man
+blew in like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped into
+the chair that was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and had
+ordered as far as cheese before the artist had time to do more than nod.
+After the nod a humorous smile came into his eyes.
+
+"Billy," he said, "you're done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has
+taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand. You
+are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen to-day that you couldn't
+be picked out from them if it weren't for your laundry marks."
+
+"Camembert," finished William. "What's that? Oh, you've still
+got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old
+Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It's giving me mine.
+And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world--only
+slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell
+myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon,
+and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from
+the East. But I'd never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the
+rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard this
+fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife made me
+go. Give me May Irwin or E. S. Willard any time."
+
+"Poor Billy," said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. "You
+remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this
+great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it
+get the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had
+always been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man. You
+have changed from a maverick into a butterick."
+
+"Don't see exactly what you are driving at," said William. "I don't wear
+an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress
+occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a
+pattern--well, ain't the pattern all right? When you're in Rome you've
+got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged
+metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad
+schedule I've got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are
+asterisk stops--which means you wave a red flag and get on every other
+Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There's
+something or somebody doing all the time. I'm clearing $8,000 a year
+selling automatic pumps, and I'm living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I
+was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent's
+sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May
+play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke
+everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board
+sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There's
+only one thing in it that I don't care for, and that's a ferryboat."
+
+The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. "This
+town," said he, "is a leech. It drains the blood of the country. Whoever
+comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the figure of the
+leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence,
+the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute. Hand to hand
+every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You've lost, Billy. It
+shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or--the
+color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very vastness and
+power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the
+lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It
+has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its chariot wheels.
+It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars. Give me the
+domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or one ruled by
+an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest ingredients.
+Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its pre-eminence,
+it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is the
+narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country.
+I would go back there to-morrow if I could."
+
+"Don't you like this _filet mignon_?" said William. "Shucks, now, what's
+the use to knock the town! It's the greatest ever. I couldn't sell
+one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O'Keefe's saloon, in
+Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara Bernhardt
+in 'Andrew Mack' yet?"
+
+"The town's got you, Billy," said Jack.
+
+"All right," said William. "I'm going to buy a cottage on Lake
+Ronkonkoma next summer."
+
+At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it. He caught his
+breath at what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times.
+
+Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The
+irregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep
+gulches and winding streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long,
+desert canons. Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel,
+enchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city. But into this background
+were cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares
+through which glowed many colored lights. And out of the violet and
+purple depths ascended like the city's soul sounds and odors and
+thrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaiety
+unrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man can know.
+There below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from
+the four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich,
+despoil, elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it came
+up to him and went into his blood.
+
+There was a knock on his door. A telegram had come for him. It came from
+the West, and these were its words:
+
+  "Come back and the answer will be yes.
+
+                                   "DOLLY."
+
+He kept the boy waiting ten minutes, and then wrote the reply:
+"Impossible to leave here at present." Then he sat at the window again
+and let the city put its cup of mandragora to his lips again.
+
+After all it isn't a story; but I wanted to know which one of the heroes
+won the battle against the city. So I went to a very learned friend and
+laid the case before him. What he said was: "Please don't bother me; I
+have Christmas presents to buy."
+
+So there it rests; and you will have to decide for yourself.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+"WHAT YOU WANT"
+
+
+Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as
+Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour
+that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets,
+bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled
+with the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old
+friend, the late Mr. H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred
+years nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but they
+were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you could
+have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor,
+the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and Forty
+Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the
+old Arabian gang easily.
+
+But let us revenue to our lamb chops.
+
+Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks and
+bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph you
+must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.
+Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a
+Turkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and personal
+affairs, the police court'll get you.
+
+Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money
+and everything. That's what makes a caliph--you must get to despise
+everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want something
+that you can't pay for.
+
+"I'll take a little trot around town all by myself," thought old Tom,
+"and try if I can stir up anything new. Let's see--it seems I've read
+about a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to go
+about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he hadn't
+been introduced to. That don't listen like a bad idea. I certainly have
+got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I do know. That
+old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran upon 'em and give
+'em gold--sequins, I think it was--and make 'em marry or got 'em good
+Government jobs. Now, I'd like something of that sort. My money is as
+good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every month where I got
+it. Yes, I guess I'll do a little Cardiff business to-night, and see how
+it goes."
+
+Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and
+walked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,
+who holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all the
+enchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks away
+looked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.
+
+James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments
+on Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door
+open, and where they clean your hat while you wait--two days. James
+stood all day at an electric machine that turned hats around faster than
+the best brands of champagne ever could have done. Overlooking your mild
+impertinence in feeling a curiosity about the personal appearance of a
+stranger, I will give you a modified description of him. Weight, 118;
+complexion, hair and brain, light; height, five feet six; age, about
+twenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of greenish-blue serge; pockets
+containing two keys and sixty-three cents in change.
+
+But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a General
+Alarm that James was either lost or a dead one.
+
+_Allons!_
+
+James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremely
+susceptible to impositions being put upon or below them. All day long
+they burned and smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience.
+But he was earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support
+his feet whether his feet would support him or not.
+
+James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as you
+and I have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts and
+motor-cars and to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe at
+evenfall and watch a badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into their
+common prairie home one by one.
+
+James Turner's idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go
+directly to his boarding-house when his day's work was done. After his
+supper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples and
+infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall room.
+Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of his
+burning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark
+Russell's sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied to
+his smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never palled
+upon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his sole
+intellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James Turner
+taking his ease.
+
+When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of
+his way home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the
+sidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume
+of Clark Russell at half price.
+
+While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down
+miscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His
+discerning eye, made keen by twenty years' experience in the manufacture
+of laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly the poor
+and discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous mood. He
+descended the two shallow stone steps that led from the sidewalk, and
+addressed without hesitation the object of his designed munificence. His
+first words were no worse than salutatory and tentative.
+
+James Turner looked up coldly, with "Sartor Resartus" in one hand and
+"A Mad Marriage" in the other.
+
+"Beat it," said he. "I don't want to buy any coat hangers or town lots
+in Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with your Teddy bear."
+
+"Young man," said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat cleaner,
+"I observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is one of
+the finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth mentioning,
+but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West, where we imagine
+nothing but facts. Maybe I couldn't understand the poetry and allusions
+in them books you are picking over, but I like to see somebody else seem
+to know what they mean. I'm worth about $40,000,000, and I'm getting
+richer every day. I made the height of it manufacturing Aunt Patty's
+Silver Soap. I invented the art of making it. I experimented for three
+years before I got just the right quantity of chloride of sodium
+solution and caustic potash mixture to curdle properly. And after I had
+taken some $9,000,000 out of the soap business I made the rest in corn
+and wheat futures. Now, you seem to have the literary and scholarly
+turn of character; and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay for your
+education at the finest college in the world. I'll pay the expense of
+your rummaging over Europe and the art galleries, and finally set you up
+in a good business. You needn't make it soap if you have any objections.
+I see by your clothes and frazzled necktie that you are mighty poor; and
+you can't afford to turn down the offer. Well, when do you want to
+begin?"
+
+The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is an
+eye expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment suspended
+as high as Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of challenge,
+curiosity, defiance, cynicism, and, strange as you may think it, of a
+childlike yearning for friendliness and fellowship that must be hidden
+when one walks among the "stranger bands." For in New Bagdad one, in
+order to survive, must suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks, rides,
+walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair, house, booth, seat, path or room.
+
+"Say, Mike," said James Turner, "what's your line, anyway--shoe laces?
+I'm not buying anything. You better put an egg in your shoe and beat it
+before incidents occur to you. You can't work off any fountain pens,
+gold spectacles you found on the street, or trust company certificate
+house clearings on me. Say, do I look like I'd climbed down one of them
+missing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What's vitiating you, anyhow?"
+
+"Son," said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, "as I said, I'm
+worth $40,000,000. I don't want to have it all put in my coffin when I
+die. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over these
+here volumes of literature, and I thought I'd keep you. I've give the
+missionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing
+but a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of young
+man I'd like to take up and see what money could make of him."
+
+Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old
+Book Shop. And James Turner's smarting and aching feet did not tend to
+improve his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit
+equal to any caliph's.
+
+"Say, you old faker," he said, angrily, "be on your way. I don't know
+what your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill.
+Well, I don't carry that much around with me. But I do carry a pretty
+fair left-handed punch that you'll get if you don't move on."
+
+"You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup," said the caliph.
+
+Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the
+collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two
+bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A copy came up,
+took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house.
+"Fighting and disorderly conduct," said the cop to the sergeant.
+
+"Three hundred dollars bail," said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly
+and inquiringly.
+
+"Sixty-three cents," said James Turner with a harsh laugh.
+
+The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change
+amounting to four dollars.
+
+"I am worth," he said, "forty million dollars, but--"
+
+"Lock 'em up," ordered the sergeant.
+
+In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. "Maybe
+he's got the money, and maybe he ain't. But if he has or he ain't, what
+does he want to go 'round butting into other folks's business for? When
+a man knows what he wants, and can get it, it's the same as $40,000,000
+to him."
+
+Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.
+
+He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself
+out luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars
+of the cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his
+cot gave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a
+paper-covered volume by Clark Russell called "A Sailor's Sweetheart."
+He gave a great sigh of contentment.
+
+Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:
+
+"Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seems
+to have been the goods after all. He 'phoned to his friends, and he's
+out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman car
+pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him."
+
+"Tell him I ain't in," said James Turner.
+
+
+
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Strictly Business, by O. Henry
+(#7 in our series by O. Henry)
+
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
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+Title: Strictly Business
+
+Author: O. Henry
+
+Release Date: April, 2000  [EBook #2141]
+[This edition 11 was first posted on May 8, 2004]
+
+Edition: 11
+
+Language: English
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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, STRICTLY BUSINESS ***
+
+
+
+
+E-text prepared by anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteers and revised by
+Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+More Stories of the Four Million
+
+by
+
+O. HENRY
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+I.     STRICTLY BUSINESS
+II.    THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+III.   BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+IV.    THE DAY RESURGENT
+V.     THE FIFTH WHEEL
+VI.    THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+VII.   THE ROBE OF PEACE
+VIII.  THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+IX.    THE CALL OF THE TAME
+X.     THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+XI.    THE THING'S THE PLAY
+XII.   A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+XIII.  A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+XIV.   PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+XV.    A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+XVI.   COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+XVII.  A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+XIX.   PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+XX.    PAST ONE AT RODNEY'S
+XXI.   THE VENTURERS
+XXII.  THE DUEL
+XXIII. "WHAT YOU WANT"
+
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+STRICTLY BUSINESS
+
+
+I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You've been
+touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and
+the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the
+long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your
+ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like
+this:
+
+Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better
+than your own (madam) if they weren't padded. Chorus girls are
+inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back
+to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses
+reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their
+step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew's real name is Boyle O'Kelley. The
+ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first
+sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.
+Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.
+
+All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne
+and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures
+have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.
+
+Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the
+profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the
+players with an eye full of patronizing superiority--and we go home and
+practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking
+glasses.
+
+Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It
+seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians
+and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk, students and
+ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and
+conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a
+manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of
+the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.
+
+Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true
+one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little
+story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only
+the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of
+Keetor's old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of
+gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch--and where I
+last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time
+to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.
+
+The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had
+been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years
+with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes
+with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a
+buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the
+bass-viol player in more than one house--than which no performer ever
+received more satisfactory evidence of good work.
+
+The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful
+performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order to
+give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest Broadway
+corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a matin�e
+offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime of a
+minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with that
+most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles--the audible contact of the
+palm of one hand against the palm of the other.
+
+One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known
+vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got
+his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.
+
+A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed
+into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the
+audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, "All
+the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself," sat with his face as long and
+his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his
+grandmother to wind into a ball.
+
+But when H came on, "The Mustard" suddenly sat up straight. H was the
+happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs
+and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;
+but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to
+the old man's account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and
+ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed you
+ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old log
+school-house besides cipherin' and nouns, especially "When the Teach-er
+Kept Me in." Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings,
+she reappeared in considerably less than a "trice" as a fluffy
+"Parisienne"--so near does Art bring the old red mill to the Moulin
+Rouge. And then--
+
+But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else. He
+thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short order
+stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of "Helen
+Grimes" in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the tray
+of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor,
+grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play
+tucked away somewhere. They tuck 'em in trays of trunks, trunks of
+trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults,
+handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call. They
+belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.
+
+But Bob Hart's sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called
+it "Mice Will Play." He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever since he
+wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of "Helen
+Grimes." And here was "Helen" herself, with all the innocent abandon,
+the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that his
+critical taste demanded.
+
+After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and got
+Cherry's address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty old
+house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.
+
+By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with her
+hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have
+been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon's daughter, in the
+great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.
+
+"I know your act, Mr. Hart," she said after she had looked over his card
+carefully. "What did you wish to see me about?"
+
+"I saw you work last night," said Hart. "I've written a sketch that I've
+been saving up. It's for two; and I think you can do the other part. I
+thought I'd see you about it."
+
+"Come in the parlor," said Miss Cherry. "I've been wishing for something
+of the sort. I think I'd like to act instead of doing turns."
+
+Bob Hart drew his cherished "Mice Will Play" from his pocket, and read
+it to her.
+
+"Read it again, please," said Miss Cherry.
+
+And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by
+introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the
+dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the
+pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen
+Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to
+all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on
+the sketch's weaker points. That was her woman's intuition that he had
+lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the judgment,
+experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that "Mice Will
+Play" would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of the
+circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings of her
+smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of
+a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.
+
+"Mr. Hart," said she, "I believe your sketch is going to win out. That
+Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a
+handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the
+Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers' Bazaar. And I've seen you
+work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is
+business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?"
+
+"Two hundred," answered Hart.
+
+"I get one hundred for mine," said Cherry. "That's about the natural
+discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every
+week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all
+right. I love it; but there's something else I love better--that's a
+little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six ducks
+wandering around the yard.
+
+"Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me
+to play the opposite part in your sketch, I'll do it. And I believe we
+can make it go. And there's something else I want to say: There's no
+nonsense in my make-up; I'm _on the level_, and I'm on the stage for
+what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I'm
+going to save my money to keep me when I'm past doing my stunts. No Old
+Ladies' Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.
+
+"If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
+nonsense cut out of it, I'm in on it. I know something about vaudeville
+teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want
+you to know that I'm on the stage for what I can cart away from it every
+pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where
+the cashier has licked the flap. It's kind of a hobby of mine to want to
+cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to
+know just how I am. I don't know what an all-night restaurant looks
+like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance
+in my life, and I've got money in five savings banks."
+
+"Miss Cherry," said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, "you're in
+on your own terms. I've got 'strictly business' pasted in my hat and
+stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a
+five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking
+clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to
+the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side
+porch, reading Stanley's 'Explorations into Africa.' And nobody else
+around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?"
+
+"Not any," said Cherry. "What I'm going to do with my money is to bank
+it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I've been
+earning, I've figured out that in ten years I'd have an income of about
+$50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest some of
+the principal in a little business--say, trimming hats or a beauty
+parlor, and make more."
+
+"Well," said Hart, "You've got the proper idea all right, all right,
+anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who
+couldn't fix themselves for the wet days to come if they'd save their
+money instead of blowing it. I'm glad you've got the correct business
+idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch
+will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped
+up."
+
+The subsequent history of "Mice Will Play" is the history of all
+successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,
+remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and
+business, changed the lines, restored 'em, added more, cut 'em out,
+renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger
+for the pistol, restored the pistol--put the sketch through all the
+known processes of condensation and improvement.
+
+They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely
+used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would
+occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded
+revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of
+the sketch.
+
+Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a
+real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen
+Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and
+daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private
+secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,
+"Arapahoe" Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch
+that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,
+L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow
+Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving
+you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case
+may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should
+want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in 'em.
+
+Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of
+play, whether we admit it or not--something along in between "Bluebeard,
+Jr.," and "Cymbeline" played in the Russian.
+
+There were only two parts and a half in "Mice Will Play." Hart and
+Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always
+played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a
+panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn
+down the gas fire in the grate by the manager's orders.
+
+There was another girl in the sketch--a Fifth Avenue society
+swelless--who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine
+when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost
+his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic
+state--Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan--of the
+Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.
+
+And now for the thriller. Old "Arapahoe" Grimes dies of angina pectoris
+one night--so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the
+footlights--while only his secretary was present. And that same day he
+was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just
+received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts
+for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.
+Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his
+(alleged) croak.
+
+"Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed--" you sabe, don't
+you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue
+Girl--who doesn't come on the stage--and can we blame her, with the
+vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be buttoned
+in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?
+
+But, wait. Here's the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,
+is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine
+is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop
+$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like
+the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to make
+any perfect lady mad. So, then!
+
+They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk
+heads (didn't the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the
+d�nouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a
+play unless it be when the prologue ends.
+
+Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?
+The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra hadn't
+left their seats; and no man could get past "Old Jimmy," the stage
+door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as a
+guarantee of eligibility.
+
+Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine:
+"Robber and thief--and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this
+should be your fate!"
+
+With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.
+
+"But I will be merciful," goes on Helen. "You shall live--that will be
+your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to the
+death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the mantel. I will
+send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have pierced
+your craven heart."
+
+And she does it. And there's no fake blank cartridges or assistants
+pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet--the actual bullet--goes
+through the face of the photograph--and then strikes the hidden spring
+of the sliding panel in the wall--and lo! the panel slides, and there is
+the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.
+It's great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a
+target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the
+sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,
+covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the
+same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same spot,
+and she had to shoot steady and true every time.
+
+Of course old "Arapahoe" had tucked the funds away there in the secret
+place; and, of course, Jack hadn't taken anything except his salary
+(which really might have come under the head of "obtaining money under";
+but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York girl
+was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and,
+necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson--and there you are.
+
+After Hart and Cherry had gotten "Mice Will Play" flawless, they had a
+try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house
+wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a
+theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,
+being dressed for it, swam in tears.
+
+After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed
+fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was what
+it panned out.
+
+That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good night
+at her boarding-house door.
+
+"Mr. Hart," said she thoughtfully, "come inside just a few minutes.
+We've got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to do
+is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can."
+
+"Right," said Bob. "It's business with me. You've got your scheme for
+banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap
+cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net
+receipts will engage my attention."
+
+"Come inside just a few minutes," repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.
+"I've got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a
+lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine--and
+all on business principles."
+
+
+"Mice Will Play" had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten
+weeks--rather neat for a vaudeville sketch--and then it started on the
+circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid
+drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.
+
+Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor's New York houses, said of Hart &
+Cherry:
+
+"As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.
+It's a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard
+workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,
+straight home after their act, and each of 'em as gentlemanlike as a
+lady. I don't expect to handle any attractions that give me less trouble
+or more respect for the profession."
+
+And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of the
+story:
+
+At the end of its second season "Mice Will Play" came back to New York
+for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never
+any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his
+bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank
+books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment
+plan to hold them.
+
+I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can't believe it,
+that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
+ambitions--just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
+grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious
+to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
+allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they
+often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.
+
+But, listen.
+
+At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
+Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When
+she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the
+bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk,
+went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck. Not expecting to get
+it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic
+manner.
+
+The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy
+in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great
+enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the
+curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and more
+or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The next turn
+went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.
+
+The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
+waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The doctor
+examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.
+
+"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been
+two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
+far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,
+you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any
+one of the girls' Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the
+parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse
+me; I've got a serious case outside to look after."
+
+After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay
+came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn
+man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple
+sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played. Vincente
+had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their
+peripatetic friend.
+
+"Bob," said Vincente in his serious way, "I'm glad it's no worse. The
+little lady is wild about you."
+
+"Who?" asked Hart.
+
+"Cherry," said the juggler. "We didn't know how bad you were hurt; and
+we kept her away. It's taking the manager and three girls to hold her."
+
+"It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She
+wasn't feeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no
+hard feelings. She's strictly business. The doctor says I'll be on the
+job again in three days. Don't let her worry."
+
+"Man," said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,
+"are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry's crying her
+heart out for you--calling 'Bob, Bob,' every second, with them holding
+her hands and keeping her from coming to you."
+
+"What's the matter with her?" asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. "The
+sketch'll go on again in three days. I'm not hurt bad, the doctor says.
+She won't lose out half a week's salary. I know it was an accident.
+What's the matter with her?"
+
+"You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool," said Vincente. "The girl
+loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What's the matter with
+_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you."
+
+"Loves me?" asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which he
+lay. "Cherry loves me? Why, it's impossible."
+
+"I wish you could see her and hear her," said Griggs.
+
+"But, man," said Bob Hart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's
+impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing."
+
+"No human being," said the Tramp Juggler, "could mistake it. She's wild
+for love of you. How have you been so blind?"
+
+"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's _too late_. It's
+too late, I tell you, Sam; _it's too late_. It can't be. You must be
+wrong. It's _impossible_. There's some mistake.
+
+"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you she's
+fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare to raise
+the curtain. Wake up, man."
+
+"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell you
+it's too late? It's too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married
+two years!_"
+
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
+
+
+A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
+you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
+Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not
+gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his
+bottle of testing acid.
+
+Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George
+the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
+quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you
+can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I walks."
+
+Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets
+where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical
+warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is "El
+Refugio," a caf� and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from
+the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of
+Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the
+cloaked and sombreroed se�ores, who are scattered like burning lava by
+the political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to
+lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist
+filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at
+long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.
+
+In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the
+palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the story
+thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the Gallic
+chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a fish--bluefish,
+shad or pompano from the Gulf--baked after the Spanish method. Tomatoes
+give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon
+it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and
+mystery, and--but its crowning glory deserves a new sentence. Around
+it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity--but never in it--hovers an
+ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that only the
+Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not say that
+garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than as if the
+spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that lingers in the
+parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life, "by hopeless
+fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And then, when Conchito, the
+waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and a carafe of wine that
+has never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio--ah, Dios!
+
+One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen. Perrico
+Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The General
+was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist
+and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache of
+a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas
+congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.
+
+Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire
+his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that
+neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that
+read, "Hotel Espa�ol." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se
+habla Espa�ol." The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
+
+In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had
+blond--oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,
+and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with
+his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables
+sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of
+a bunch.
+
+"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, pleasantly.
+
+"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly. "I speak the
+Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
+here. How is that?"
+
+"Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam. "I'm sure I
+can't."
+
+At the Hotel Espa�ol General Falcon engaged rooms and established
+himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders
+of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the
+wonderful golden hair of Mme. O'Brien. "It is here," said the General
+to himself, no doubt in his own language, "that one shall find the most
+beautiful se�oras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among
+our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to
+think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion."
+
+At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became
+involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset
+him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an
+inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He
+scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle
+of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. "V�lgame Dios! What
+devil's city is this?"
+
+As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded
+snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was
+"Bully" McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm
+and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of
+the asphalt was "Spider" Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.
+
+In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the
+quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.
+
+"G'wan!" he commanded harshly. "I saw it first." McGuire slunk away,
+awed by superior intelligence.
+
+"Pardon me," said Mr. Kelley, to the General, "but you got balled up in
+the shuffle, didn't you? Let me assist you." He picked up the General's
+hat and brushed the dust from it.
+
+The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered
+and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a
+caballero with a most disinterested heart.
+
+"I have a desire," said the General, "to return to the hotel of O'Brien,
+in which I am stop. Caramba! se�or, there is a loudness and rapidness of
+going and coming in the city of this Nueva York."
+
+Mr. Kelley's politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to
+brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel
+Espa�ol they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the
+street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to
+whom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a "Dago
+joint." All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of
+"Dagoes" and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
+thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.
+
+An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in
+the conspirator's corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were between
+them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his mission
+to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase arms--2,000
+stands of Winchester rifles--for the Colombian revolutionists. He
+had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York
+correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were
+shouting their political secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was
+as loud as the General. He pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine;
+he roared to his friend that his errand was a secret one, and not to be
+hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley himself was stirred to
+sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General's hand across the table.
+
+"Monseer," he said, earnestly, "I don't know where this country of yours
+is, but I'm for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United States,
+though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us Columbia, too,
+sometimes. It's a lucky thing for you that you butted into me to-night.
+I'm the only man in New York that can get this gun deal through for you.
+The Secretary of War of the United States is me best friend. He's in the
+city now, and I'll see him for you to-morrow. In the meantime, monseer,
+you keep them drafts tight in your inside pocket. I'll call for you
+to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that ain't the District of
+Columbia you're talking about, is it?" concluded Mr. Kelley, with a
+sudden qualm. "You can't capture that with no 2,000 guns--it's been
+tried with more."
+
+"No, no, no!" exclaimed the General. "It is the Republic of Colombia--it
+is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.
+Yes."
+
+"All right," said Mr. Kelley, reassured. "Now suppose we trek along home
+and go by-by. I'll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date with
+him. It's a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky himself
+can't do it."
+
+They parted at the door of the Hotel Espa�ol. The General rolled his
+eyes at the moon and sighed.
+
+"It is a great country, your Nueva York," he said. "Truly the cars in
+the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly
+makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Se�or Kelley--the se�oras with hair
+of much goldness, and admirable fatness--they are magnificas! Muy
+magnificas!"
+
+Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary's caf�,
+far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.
+
+"Is that Jimmy Dunn?" asked Kelley.
+
+"Yes," came the answer.
+
+"You're a liar," sang back Kelley, joyfully. "You're the Secretary of
+War. Wait there till I come up. I've got the finest thing down here in
+the way of a fish you ever baited for. It's a Colorado-maduro, with a
+gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and a
+statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I'll be up on the next car."
+
+Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence
+line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout
+drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but
+the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing in
+New York. It was the ambition of "Spider" Kelley to elevate himself into
+Jimmy's class.
+
+These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary's. Kelley
+explained.
+
+"He's as easy as a gumshoe. He's from the Island of Colombia, where
+there's a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they've sent him
+up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He showed
+me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank here. 'S
+truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn't have it in
+thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now, we've
+got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us."
+
+They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; "Bring him to
+No. ---- Broadway, at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."
+
+In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Espa�ol for the General. He found
+the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs. O'Brien.
+
+"The Secretary of War is waitin' for us," said Kelley.
+
+The General tore himself away with an effort.
+
+"Ay, se�or," he said, with a sigh, "duty makes a call. But, se�or, the
+se�oras of your Estados Unidos--how beauties! For exemplification, take
+you la Madame O'Brien--que magnifica! She is one goddess--one Juno--what
+you call one ox-eyed Juno."
+
+Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the fire
+of their own imagination.
+
+"Sure!" he said with a grin; "but you mean a peroxide Juno, don't you?"
+
+Mrs. O'Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye
+rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except
+in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.
+
+When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway
+address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then
+admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,
+with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to the
+Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known by his
+old friend, Mr. Kelley.
+
+"Ah--Colombia!" said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to
+understand; "I'm afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.
+The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the
+established government, while I--" the secretary gave the General a
+mysterious but encouraging smile. "You, of course, know, General Falcon,
+that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed requiring
+all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this country to pass
+through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be
+glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley. But it must be in
+absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard
+favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will
+have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now in the
+warehouse."
+
+The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T. on
+his cap stepped promptly into the room.
+
+"Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory," said the Secretary.
+
+The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied
+it closely.
+
+"I find," he said, "that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is
+shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the
+Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule
+is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.
+My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of
+arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer's price. And you will
+forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the
+Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!"
+
+As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his
+esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War was
+extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases and
+filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse rented
+for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to the
+Hotel Espa�ol, Mrs. O'Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from his
+lapel, and said:
+
+"Say, se�or, I don't want to 'butt in,' but what does that monkey-faced,
+cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?"
+
+"Sangre de mi vida!" exclaimed the General. "Impossible it is that you
+speak of my good friend, Se�or Kelley."
+
+"Come into the summer garden," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I want to have a talk
+with you."
+
+Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.
+
+"And you say," said the General, "that for the sum of $18,000 can be
+purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with
+this garden so lovely--so resembling unto the patios of my cara
+Colombia?"
+
+"And dirt cheap at that," sighed the lady.
+
+"Ah, Dios!" breathed General Falcon. "What to me is war and politics?
+This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to
+continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of
+mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel
+Espa�ol and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on
+guns."
+
+Mrs. O'Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the
+Colombian patriot.
+
+"Oh, se�or," she sighed, happily, "ain't you terrible!"
+
+Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to
+the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented
+warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his
+friend Kelley to fetch the victim.
+
+Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Espa�ol. He found the
+General behind the desk adding up accounts.
+
+"I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day buy
+the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General
+Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O'Brien."
+
+Mr. Kelley almost strangled.
+
+"Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered, "you're
+a swindler--that's what you are! You've bought a boarding house with
+money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is."
+
+"Ah," said the General, footing up a column, "that is what you call
+politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best that
+one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to keep
+hotels and be with that Juno--that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of the
+gold it is that she have!"
+
+Mr. Kelley choked again.
+
+"Ah, Senor Kelley!" said the General, feelingly and finally, "is it that
+you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O'Brien she
+make?"
+
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+BABES IN THE JUNGLE
+
+
+Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says
+to me once in Little Rock: "If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get
+too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the
+West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in
+chunks of roe--you can't count 'em!"
+
+Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of the
+Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I
+knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver's advice.
+
+I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And
+I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of
+haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his
+nails with a silk handkerchief.
+
+"Paresis or superannuated?" I asks him.
+
+"Hello, Billy," says Silver; "I'm glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me
+that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I've been
+saving New York for dessert. I know it's a low-down trick to take things
+from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and fro and
+think ever and anon. I'd hate for my mother to know I was skinning these
+weak-minded ones. She raised me better."
+
+"Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
+does skin grafting?" I asks.
+
+"Well, no," says Silver; "you needn't back Epidermis to win to-day.
+I've only been here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the members of
+Willie Manhattan's Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to
+contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well
+send their photos to the _Evening Daily_.
+
+"I've been studying the town," says Silver, "and reading the papers
+every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an
+O'Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when
+you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my
+room and I'll tell you. We'll work the town together, Billy, for the
+sake of old times."
+
+Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects
+lying about.
+
+"There's more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,"
+says Silver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They'll
+bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are
+in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn't
+a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller,
+Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's celebrated painting of the young Saint John!
+
+"You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's gold
+mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
+hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy
+it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,
+and then I took it off the market. I don't want people to give me their
+money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction
+to keep my pride from being hurt. I want 'em to guess the missing letter
+in Chic--go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of
+money.
+
+"Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit
+it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor
+on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I was Admiral
+Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but
+I didn't know my uncle's first name. It shows, though, what an easy town
+it is. As for burglars, they won't go in a house now unless there's a
+hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on 'em. They're
+slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess,
+taking the town from end to end, it's a plain case of assault and
+Battery."
+
+"Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattan
+correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only
+been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me that it's ours with a
+cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I'd be
+a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or more in
+their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms.
+They don't look easy to me."
+
+"You've got it, Billy," says Silver. "All emigrants have it. New York's
+bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You'll
+be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because
+they don't send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide
+sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears
+the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper's wife, and
+Bella, the Buncosteerer's bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than a
+blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I'll break
+the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of
+twenties."
+
+"I hope you are right, Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had
+been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of farmers
+is never so short out there but what you can get a few of 'em to sign
+a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200 at
+the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of
+self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured
+enough to tackle this game."
+
+"Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown
+correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River
+ain't a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway
+who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their lives!
+A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous enough here
+inside of three months to incur either Jerome's clemency or Lawson's
+displeasure."
+
+"Hyperbole aside," says I, "do you know of any immediate system of
+buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the
+Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould's doorsteps?"
+
+"Dozens of 'em," says Silver. "How much capital have you got, Billy?"
+
+"A thousand," I told him.
+
+"I've got $1,200," says he. "We'll pool and do a big piece of business.
+There's so many ways we can make a million that I don't know how to
+begin."
+
+The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and
+stirred with a kind of silent joy.
+
+"We're to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon," says he. "A man I know in
+the hotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He says he likes
+to meet people from the West."
+
+"That sounds nice and plausible," says I. "I'd like to know Mr. Morgan."
+
+"It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few
+finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with
+strangers."
+
+The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o'clock Klein brought his
+Wall Street friend to see us in Silver's room. "Mr. Morgan" looked some
+like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left
+foot, and he walked with a cane.
+
+"Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud," says Klein. "It sounds superfluous," says
+he, "to mention the name of the greatest financial--"
+
+"Cut it out, Klein," says Mr. Morgan. "I'm glad to know you gents; I
+take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you're from Little Rock.
+I think I've a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of you
+guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I--"
+
+"Now, Pierpont," cuts in Klein, "you forget!"
+
+"Excuse me, gents!" says Morgan; "since I've had the gout so bad I
+sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never
+knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He
+lived in Seattle, New Mexico."
+
+Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane
+and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.
+
+"They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?"
+asks Klein, smiling.
+
+"Stocks! No!" roars Mr. Morgan. "It's that picture I sent an agent to
+Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it
+ain't to be found in all Italy. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for that
+picture--yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I
+cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to--"
+
+"Why, Mr. Morgan," says klein; "I thought you owned all of the De Vinchy
+paintings."
+
+"What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?" asks Silver. "It must be as big
+as the side of the Flatiron Building."
+
+"I'm afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver," says Morgan.
+"The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called 'Love's Idle Hour.' It
+represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank of a
+purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to this
+country. My collection will never be complete without that picture.
+Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours."
+
+Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked
+about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said what
+a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I said I
+thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a stroll
+after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue
+to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his
+admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while he buys 'em.
+
+After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me
+and waves his hands.
+
+"Did you see it?" says he. "Did you see it, Billy?"
+
+"What?" I asks.
+
+"Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It's hanging in that pawnshop,
+behind the desk. I didn't say anything because Klein was there. It's the
+article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can make
+them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any skirts, and
+they're doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with the blues.
+What did Mr. Morgan say he'd give for it? Oh, don't make me tell you.
+They can't know what it is in that pawnshop."
+
+When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing
+there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a drink.
+We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains.
+
+"That's a violent specimen of a chromo you've got up there," remarked
+Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse over the girl
+with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for it
+cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in hurrying
+it off the nail?"
+
+The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.
+
+"That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian
+gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called 'Love's Idle Hour,' and
+it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired, and it
+became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is worn a
+great deal now."
+
+At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and
+walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started
+for Morgan's office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two hours
+Silver comes back.
+
+"Did you see Mr. Morgan?" I asks. "How much did he pay you for it?"
+
+Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.
+
+"I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan," he says, "because Mr. Morgan's been
+in Europe for a month. But what's worrying me, Billy, is this: The
+department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for
+$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone--that's what I can't
+understand."
+
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+THE DAY RESURGENT
+
+
+I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes
+to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions
+of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.
+
+First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have
+free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper number
+of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the well-known
+model, will pose for it in the "Lethergogallagher," or whatever it was
+that Trilby called it.
+
+Second--the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.
+This is magazine-covery, but reliable.
+
+Third--Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.
+
+Fourth--Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy
+and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.
+
+Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the
+higher criticism has hard-boiled them.
+
+The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of
+all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception.
+It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back
+still further to the first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a
+new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_.
+
+Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth
+the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a
+holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in
+the footsteps of Danny McCree.
+
+Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the
+calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30
+Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his
+face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard,
+smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap,
+and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder
+between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in
+Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front
+room of the flat Danny's father sat by an open window smoking his pipe,
+with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still
+clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years
+before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without
+permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that
+they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to
+you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the
+headlines?
+
+"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.
+
+"Scramble mine," said Danny.
+
+After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of
+the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur--frock coat, striped
+trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest,
+and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein's
+(between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit stand) Saturday night sale.
+
+"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man McCree,
+a little wistfully. "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it's fine
+spring weather. I can feel it in the air."
+
+"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest
+tones. "Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my
+team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
+you've just eat, I'd like to know? Answer me that!"
+
+"All right, lad," said the old man. "I'm not complainin'. While me two
+eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a Sunday out.
+There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the windy. I have me
+tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your mother
+had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the hippopotamus--but
+let that be."
+
+"Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?" asked Danny
+of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. "Have you been taking
+him to the Zoo? And for what?"
+
+"I have not," said Mrs. McCree. "He sets by the windy all day. 'Tis
+little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I'm thinkin'
+they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without
+stoppin' for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there's lard burnin'
+in the fryin' pan. There is not. He says I do not understand. 'Tis weary
+days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny. There was
+no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes. 'Tis a fine
+day, son. Injoy yeself ag'inst the morning. There will be cold supper at
+six."
+
+"Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of Mike, the
+janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.
+
+"I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis the
+only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that
+I've not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or
+else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,
+then?"
+
+"It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny. "Likely there's
+nothing in it."
+
+Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into
+the heart of the district where Easter--modern Easter, in new, bright
+raiment--leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the
+blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving
+parterres of living flowers--so it seemed when your eye looked upon the
+Easter girl.
+
+Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the
+background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The
+windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent
+creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
+
+Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked
+Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
+
+"Why, Corrigan," he asked, "is Easter? I know it comes the first time
+you're full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March--but why?
+Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it
+out of politics?"
+
+"'Tis an annual celebration," said Corrigan, with the judicial air of
+the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, "peculiar to New York. It extends
+up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and
+Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion 'tis not political."
+
+"Thanks," said Danny. "And say--did you ever hear a man complain of
+hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean."
+
+"Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and there
+was wood alcohol in that."
+
+Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously
+a Sunday and a festival day was his.
+
+The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often
+that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made
+garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the
+griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the
+Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,
+attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,
+and took his pleasure sadly.
+
+The family entrance of Dugan's caf� was feasible; so Danny yielded to
+the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,
+linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the
+mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.
+
+"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"
+
+"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. "Is that a new one?
+All right. Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess. I give it up.
+What's the answer--two apples or a yard and a half?"
+
+From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in
+him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong
+diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.
+
+A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They
+pumped hands on the corner.
+
+"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's wrong?
+Come away with me to church and be cheerful."
+
+"What's doing at church?" asked Danny.
+
+"Why, it's Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin'
+you might come around to go."
+
+"What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily. "Nobody
+seems to know."
+
+"Nobody as blind as you," said Katy with spirit. "You haven't even
+looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it's when all the girls put on new
+spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?"
+
+"I will," said Danny. "If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought to
+be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain't a beauty. The
+green roses are great."
+
+At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke
+rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;
+but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his
+theme--resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of
+the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a
+wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth
+pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.
+
+After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique in
+her sky-blue eyes.
+
+"Are you coming along to the house?" she asked. "But don't mind me. I'll
+get there all right. You seem to be studyin' a lot about something. All
+right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr. McCree?"
+
+"I'll be around Wednesday night as usual," said Danny, turning and
+crossing the street.
+
+Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny
+stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,
+at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep
+in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening
+that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender
+than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and
+deeper-rooted than the love of woman--for had he not turned away from
+green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny
+did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his
+dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow
+the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.
+
+Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.
+
+"Hippopotamus!" he shouted to an elevated road pillar. "Well, how is
+that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was
+driving at now.
+
+"Hippopotamus! Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx! It's been a year
+since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far. We quit at 469
+B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn't have guessed
+what he was trying to get out of him."
+
+Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor
+supported.
+
+Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on
+the sill.
+
+"Will that be you, lad?" he asked.
+
+Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the
+outset of committing a good deed.
+
+"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" he
+snapped, viciously. "Have I no right to come in?"
+
+"Ye're a faithful lad," said old man McCree, with a sigh. "Is it evening
+yet?"
+
+Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt
+letters, "The History of Greece." Dust was on it half an inch thick. He
+laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper.
+And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:
+
+"Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?"
+
+"Did I hear ye open the book?" said old man McCree. "Many and weary be
+the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great
+likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. 'Tis a fine day outside,
+lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair
+by the windy and me pipe."
+
+"Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
+hippopotamus," said Danny. "The war began there. It kept something doing
+for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon,
+in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the
+battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I'll read it."
+
+With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree
+sat for an hour, listening.
+
+Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree
+was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man
+McCree's eyes.
+
+"Do you hear our lad readin' to me?" he said. "There is none finer in
+the land. My two eyes have come back to me again."
+
+After supper he said to Danny: "'Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now
+ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough."
+
+"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" said
+Danny, angrily. "Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is
+yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the
+kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire.
+Am I nothing in this house?"
+
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+THE FIFTH WHEEL
+
+
+The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They
+were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth
+Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked
+at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted
+them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues. The
+Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture looming
+mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood for the
+tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by the
+winged walking delegate of the Lord.
+
+Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the
+Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north
+wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a
+man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you
+credit.
+
+The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over
+the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and had assumed for
+himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box
+on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for
+other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,
+this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all
+might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and
+the rent man and business go to the deuce.
+
+The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
+dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth's
+monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with
+conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the
+Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
+coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad
+of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms
+beautifully devoid of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative
+monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must
+hear one phrase of the Preacher's--the one that formed his theme that
+night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in the
+world.
+
+_"No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky."_
+
+Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to the
+Potter's Field.
+
+A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
+emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his
+coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed
+signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling goose. But,
+conscientiously, I must warn the milliner's apprentice who reads this,
+expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no further. The
+young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for
+drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the
+one-night bed seekers.
+
+If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family
+carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage
+is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van
+Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year's Eve feather
+tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays
+and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady's maid. But it is
+one of the saddest things about romance that a tight shoe or an empty
+commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary heretic of any
+Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas's physical troubles were not few. Therefore,
+his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost lady's maid than it
+was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent things that his
+racked nerves almost convinced him were flying, dancing, crawling, and
+wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above and around the dismal
+campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of straight whisky and
+a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a
+psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by
+phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and intercourse.
+
+The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own
+age, shabby but neat.
+
+"What's the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?" asked Thomas, with the
+freemasonic familiarity of the damned--"Booze? That's mine. You don't
+look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the
+lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that ever
+made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how
+do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale."
+
+The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy
+ex-coachman.
+
+"No," said he, "mine isn't exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow that
+Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion of my
+unforgiving relatives. I've been out of work for a year because I don't
+know how to work; and I've been sick in Bellevue and other hospitals for
+months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I was turned out
+of the hospital yesterday. And I haven't a cent. That's my tale of woe."
+
+"Tough luck," said Thomas. "A man alone can pull through all right. But
+I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it."
+
+Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,
+so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that
+it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and
+pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.
+
+When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became
+loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake
+of the flying car.
+
+Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the
+Preacher's goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
+swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
+both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
+canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with
+the lost tire.
+
+One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand
+an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save
+his pride.
+
+Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
+chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
+sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.
+
+Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner
+and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be
+suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to
+higher denominations.
+
+But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received
+the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,
+and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
+
+"Strange--strange!" said he. "Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied
+that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?"
+
+Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful
+Thomas.
+
+"Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
+if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
+Washington Square North?"
+
+"Oughtn't I to?" replied Thomas. "I lived there. Wish I did yet."
+
+The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
+
+"Step in please," he said. "You have been expected."
+
+Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
+motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
+the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
+course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.
+
+"Maybe the guy hasn't got any change," was his diagnosis. "Lots of these
+swell rounders don't lug about any ready money. Guess he'll dump me out
+when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow,
+it's a cinch that I've got that open-air bed convention beat to a
+finish."
+
+Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself,
+to marvel at the surprises of life. "Wonderful! amazing! strange!" he
+repeated to himself constantly.
+
+When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
+a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front
+houses.
+
+"Be kind enough to enter my house with me," said the sealskinned
+gentleman when they had alighted. "He's going to dig up, sure,"
+reflected Thomas, following him inside.
+
+There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a door
+to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness.
+Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly in
+the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly
+appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy
+tales.
+
+The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
+fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
+porti�res of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The
+furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman's feet
+sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three or
+four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet drapery.
+
+Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one
+eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor--to find that
+he had disappeared.
+
+"B'gee!" muttered Thomas, "this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn't
+wonder if it ain't one of these Moravian Nights' adventures that you
+read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy."
+
+Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated
+globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant
+electric glow.
+
+With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
+Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
+terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
+crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
+light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
+porti�res parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the
+room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate
+taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy
+hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave
+him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive
+a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah's throne-room advancing to greet a
+visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his
+manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t's_ to be mindful of his
+_p's_ and _q's_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat
+terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.
+
+"Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap.
+I hope I didn't break anything. But I've nearly got the williwalloos,
+and when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a
+snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the
+sideboard."
+
+"That is merely a mechanical toy," said the gentleman with a wave of his
+hand. "May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you to
+my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with the
+psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to the
+point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know the
+Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North."
+
+"Any silver missing?" asked Thomas tartly. "Any joolry displaced? Of
+course I know 'em. Any of the old ladies' sunshades disappeared? Well,
+I know 'em. And then what?"
+
+The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.
+
+"Wonderful!" he murmured. "Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the
+Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you," he continued, "that
+there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you
+that very good fortune awaits you. We will see."
+
+"Do they want me back?" asked Thomas, with something of his old
+professional pride in his voice. "I'll promise to cut out the booze and
+do the right thing if they'll try me again. But how did you get wise,
+doc? B'gee, it's the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its
+flashlight owls and so forth."
+
+With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two
+minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the chauffeur,
+who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious apartment,
+he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by his witty and
+genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the cold streets
+from which he had been so recently and so singularly rescued. A servant
+brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a glass of miraculous
+wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop him. Thus half an
+hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned motor car at the
+door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with another soft
+petition for a brief absence.
+
+Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front
+door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall
+through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was
+screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double
+porti�res. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely
+tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were
+scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or
+toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.
+
+The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She
+was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,
+took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an
+attendant might have done.
+
+"You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco," said the elder woman, wearily.
+"I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I've about
+lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to
+your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it."
+
+"Madam," said the professor, with his princeliest smile, "the true Art
+cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes
+requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the
+crystal, the stars, the magic formul� of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of
+Po. But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean
+Chiroscope has been successful in our search."
+
+The professor's voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in
+his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more
+interest.
+
+"Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on
+it," she said. "What do you mean?"
+
+"The words were these," said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full
+magnificent height: "_'By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall
+come.'_"
+
+"I haven't seen many chariots," said the lady, "but I never saw one with
+five wheels."
+
+"Progress," said the professor--"progress in science and mechanics has
+accomplished it--though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an
+extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I
+repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only answer
+the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before your
+eyes the proof thereof."
+
+And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.
+
+"O professor!" she cried anxiously--"When?--where? Has he been found? Do
+not keep me in suspense."
+
+"I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes," said Professor
+Cherubusco, "and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the
+true Art."
+
+Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl
+when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.
+
+"Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
+welcome and restoration to favor?" he asked, with his courteous, royal
+smile.
+
+"Do I look bughouse?" answered Thomas. "Enough of the footback life for
+me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways as
+a nut on a new axle."
+
+"My dear young man," said the other, "she has been searching for you
+everywhere."
+
+"Great!" said Thomas. "I'm on the job. That team of dropsical
+dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman
+like myself; but I'll take the job back, sure, doc. They're good people
+to be with."
+
+And now a change came o'er the suave countenance of the Caliph of
+Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.
+
+"May I ask what your name is?" he said shortly.
+
+"You've been looking for me," said Thomas, "and don't know my name?
+You're a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office
+gumshoers. I'm Thomas McQuade, of course; and I've been chauffeur of
+the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago
+for--well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on
+booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing
+in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.
+Now, what's the prize for the best answer to all this?"
+
+To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and
+dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was
+opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,
+disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian's shoe.
+
+As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he
+hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.
+
+"Crazy guy," was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. "Just
+wanted to have some fun kiddin', I guess. He might have dug up a dollar,
+anyhow. Now I've got to hurry up and get back to that gang of bum bed
+hunters before they all get preached to sleep."
+
+When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of
+the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the
+proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file
+in front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals and
+something of a wife and child.
+
+"Sorry to see you back again," said the young man, turning to speak to
+him. "I hoped you had struck something better than this."
+
+"Me?" said Thomas. "Oh, I just took a run around the block to keep warm!
+I see the public ain't lending to the Lord very fast to-night."
+
+"In this kind of weather," said the young man, "charity avails itself of
+the proverb, and both begins and ends at home."
+
+And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of
+petition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes
+still registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in.
+
+In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with
+wind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight
+toward him from the opposite sidewalk. "Annie!" he yelled, and ran
+toward her.
+
+"You fool, you fool!" she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging upon
+his neck, "why did you do it?"
+
+"The Stuff," explained Thomas briefly. "You know. But subsequently nit.
+Not a drop." He led her to the curb. "How did you happen to see me?"
+
+"I came to find you," said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. "Oh, you
+big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you here."
+
+"Professor Ch---- Don't know the guy. What saloon does he work in?"
+
+"He's a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found you
+with the Chaldean telescope, he said."
+
+"He's a liar," said Thomas. "I never had it. He never saw me have
+anybody's telescope."
+
+"And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something."
+
+"Annie," said Thoms solicitously, "you're giving me the wheels now. If
+I had a chariot I'd have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any
+singing and preaching for a nightcap, either."
+
+"Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she'll take you back. I begged
+her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;
+and your old room over the stable is ready."
+
+"Great!" said Thomas earnestly. "You are It, Annie. But when did these
+stunts happen?"
+
+"To-night at Professor Cherubusco's. He sent his automobile for the
+Missis, and she took me along. I've been there with her before."
+
+"What's the professor's line?"
+
+"He's a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows
+everything. But he hasn't done the Missis any good yet, though she's
+paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told him we
+could find you here."
+
+"What's the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?"
+
+"That's a family secret," said Annie. "And now you've asked enough
+questions. Come on home, you big fool."
+
+They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped.
+
+"Got any dough with you, Annie?" he asked.
+
+Annie looked at him sharply.
+
+"Oh, I know what that look means," said Thomas. "You're wrong. Not
+another drop. But there's a guy that was standing next to me in the bed
+line over there that's in bad shape. He's the right kind, and he's got
+wives or kids or something, and he's on the sick list. No booze. If you
+could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a decent bed I'd like
+it."
+
+Annie's fingers began to wiggle in her purse.
+
+"Sure, I've got money," said she. "Lots of it. Twelve dollars." And then
+she added, with woman's ineradicable suspicion of vicarious benevolence:
+"Bring him here and let me see him first."
+
+Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As
+the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:
+
+"Mr. Walter-- Oh--Mr. Walter!
+
+"Is that you, Annie?" said the young man meekly.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Walter!--and the Missis hunting high and low for you!"
+
+"Does mother want to see me?" he asked, with a flush coming out on his
+pale cheek.
+
+"She's been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see you.
+She wants you to come home. She's tried police and morgues and lawyers
+and advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she
+took up clearvoyants. You'll go right home, won't you, Mr. Walter?"
+
+"Gladly, if she wants me," said the young man. "Three years is a long
+time. I suppose I'll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars are
+giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of bays we
+used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?"
+
+"They have," said Thomas, feelingly. "And they'll have 'em ten years
+from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one
+hundred and forty-nine years. I'm the coachman. Just got my
+reappointment five minutes ago. Let's all ride up in a surface car--that
+is--er--if Annie will pay the fares."
+
+On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to
+pay the conductor.
+
+"Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of
+money around," said Thomas sarcastically.
+
+"In that purse," said Annie decidedly, "is exactly $11.85. I shall take
+every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the
+greatest man in the world."
+
+"Well," said Thomas, "I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe off
+things the way he does. I'm glad his spooks told him where you could
+find me. If you'll give me his address, some day I'll go up there,
+myself, and shake his hand."
+
+Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt an
+abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.
+
+"Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last dreams
+of booze, but I've a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile
+with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights.
+He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front
+steps. If it was the _d t's_, why am I so sore?"
+
+"Shut up, you fool," said Annie.
+
+"If I could find that funny guy's house," said Thomas, in conclusion,
+"I'd go up there some day and punch his nose for him."
+
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE POET AND THE PEASANT
+
+
+The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion
+with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.
+
+It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
+song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
+
+When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak
+dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:
+
+"Too artificial."
+
+Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and
+swallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls.
+
+And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a
+well-arrived writer of fiction--a man who had trod on asphalt all his
+life, and who had never looked upon bucolic scenes except with
+sensations of disgust from the windows of express trains.
+
+Conant wrote a poem and called it "The Doe and the Brook." It was a
+fine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had
+strayed with Amaryllis only as far as the florist's windows, and whose
+sole ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter. Conant
+signed this poem, and we sent it to the same editor.
+
+But this has very little to do with the story.
+
+Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next
+morning, a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped slowly
+up Forty-second Street.
+
+The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and
+hair the exact color of the little orphan's (afterward discovered to be
+the earl's daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney's plays. His trousers were
+corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his
+back. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,
+though in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating
+the suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.
+In his hand was a valise--description of it is an impossible task; a
+Boston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office
+in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay--the rustic's
+letter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of the
+Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men.
+
+Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw
+stranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall buildings.
+At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been
+done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney
+"attraction" or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his
+memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the newsboys looked
+bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the way of cabs and
+street cars.
+
+At Eighth Avenue stood "Bunco Harry," with his dyed mustache and shiny,
+good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
+sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who
+had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his
+head.
+
+"Too thick, pal," he said, critically--"too thick by a couple of inches.
+I don't know what your lay is; but you've got the properties too thick.
+That hay, now--why, they don't even allow that on Proctor's circuit any
+more."
+
+"I don't understand you, mister," said the green one. "I'm not lookin'
+for any circus. I've just run down from Ulster County to look at the
+town, bein' that the hayin's over with. Gosh! but it's a whopper. I
+thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times
+as big."
+
+"Oh, well," said "Bunco Harry," raising his eyebrows, "I didn't mean
+to butt in. You don't have to tell. I thought you ought to tone down
+a little, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success at your graft,
+whatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow."
+
+"I wouldn't mind having a glass of lager beer," acknowledged the other.
+
+They went to a caf� frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty eyes,
+and sat at their drinks.
+
+"I'm glad I come across you, mister," said Haylocks. "How'd you like to
+play a game or two of seven-up? I've got the keerds."
+
+He fished them out of Noah's valise--a rare, inimitable deck, greasy
+with bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields.
+
+"Bunco Harry" laughed loud and briefly.
+
+"Not for me, sport," he said, firmly. "I don't go against that make-up
+of yours for a cent. But I still say you've overdone it. The Reubs
+haven't dressed like that since '79. I doubt if you could work Brooklyn
+for a key-winding watch with that layout."
+
+"Oh, you needn't think I ain't got the money," boasted Haylocks. He drew
+forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and laid it
+on the table.
+
+"Got that for my share of grandmother's farm," he announced. "There's
+$950 in that roll. Thought I'd come to the city and look around for a
+likely business to go into."
+
+"Bunco Harry" took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost
+respect in his smiling eyes.
+
+"I've seen worse," he said, critically. "But you'll never do it in them
+clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw
+hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and
+freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work
+off phony stuff like that."
+
+"What's his line?" asked two or three shifty-eyed men of "Bunco Harry"
+after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed.
+
+"The queer, I guess," said Harry. "Or else he's one of Jerome's men.
+Or some guy with a new graft. He's too much hayseed. Maybe that his--I
+wonder now--oh, no, it couldn't have been real money."
+
+Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived
+into a dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight
+of him their eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated
+rusticity became apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion.
+
+Haylocks swung his valise across the bar.
+
+"Keep that a while for me, mister," he said, chewing at the end of a
+virulent claybank cigar. "I'll be back after I knock around a spell. And
+keep your eye on it, for there's $950 inside of it, though maybe you
+wouldn't think so to look at me."
+
+Somewhere outside a phonograph struck up a band piece, and Haylocks was
+off for it, his coat-tail buttons flopping in the middle of his back.
+
+"Divvy, Mike," said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at one
+another.
+
+"Honest, now," said the bartender, kicking the valise to one side. "You
+don't think I'd fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he ain't no jay.
+One of McAdoo's come-on squad, I guess. He's a shine if he made himself
+up. There ain't no parts of the country now where they dress like that
+since they run rural free delivery to Providence, Rhode Island. If he's
+got nine-fifty in that valise it's a ninety-eight cent Waterbury that's
+stopped at ten minutes to ten."
+
+When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse he
+returned for his valise. And then down Broadway he gallivanted, culling
+the sights with his eager blue eyes. But still and evermore Broadway
+rejected him with curt glances and sardonic smiles. He was the oldest of
+the "gags" that the city must endure. He was so flagrantly impossible,
+so ultra rustic, so exaggerated beyond the most freakish products of the
+barnyard, the hayfield and the vaudeville stage, that he excited only
+weariness and suspicion. And the wisp of hay in his hair was so genuine,
+so fresh and redolent of the meadows, so clamorously rural that even a
+shell-game man would have put up his peas and folded his table at the
+sight of it.
+
+Haylocks seated himself upon a flight of stone steps and once more
+exhumed his roll of yellow-backs from the valise. The outer one, a
+twenty, he shucked off and beckoned to a newsboy.
+
+"Son," said he, "run somewhere and get this changed for me. I'm mighty
+nigh out of chicken feed. I guess you'll get a nickel if you'll hurry
+up."
+
+A hurt look appeared through the dirt on the newsy's face.
+
+"Aw, watchert'ink! G'wan and get yer funny bill changed yerself. Dey
+ain't no farm clothes yer got on. G'wan wit yer stage money."
+
+On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He saw
+Haylocks, and his expression suddenly grew cold and virtuous.
+
+"Mister," said the rural one. "I've heard of places in this here town
+where a fellow could have a good game of old sledge or peg a card at
+keno. I got $950 in this valise, and I come down from old Ulster to see
+the sights. Know where a fellow could get action on about $9 or $10? I'm
+goin' to have some sport, and then maybe I'll buy out a business of some
+kind."
+
+The steerer looked pained, and investigated a white speck on his left
+forefinger nail.
+
+"Cheese it, old man," he murmured, reproachfully. "The Central Office
+must be bughouse to send you out looking like such a gillie. You
+couldn't get within two blocks of a sidewalk crap game in them Tony
+Pastor props. The recent Mr. Scotty from Death Valley has got you beat
+a crosstown block in the way of Elizabethan scenery and mechanical
+accessories. Let it be skiddoo for yours. Nay, I know of no gilded halls
+where one may bet a patrol wagon on the ace."
+
+Rebuffed once again by the great city that is so swift to detect
+artificialities, Haylocks sat upon the curb and presented his thoughts
+to hold a conference.
+
+"It's my clothes," said he; "durned if it ain't. They think I'm a
+hayseed and won't have nothin' to do with me. Nobody never made fun of
+this hat in Ulster County. I guess if you want folks to notice you in
+New York you must dress up like they do."
+
+So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through their
+noses and rubbed their hands and ran the tape line ecstatically over the
+bulge in his inside pocket where reposed a red nubbin of corn with an
+even number of rows. And messengers bearing parcels and boxes streamed
+to his hotel on Broadway within the lights of Long Acre.
+
+At 9 o'clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom Ulster
+County would have foresworn. Bright tan were his shoes; his hat the
+latest block. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue
+silk handkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant English
+walking coat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond
+hair was trimmed close; the wisp of hay was gone.
+
+For an instant he stood, resplendent, with the leisurely air of a
+boulevardier concocting in his mind the route for his evening pleasures.
+And then he turned down the gay, bright street with the easy and
+graceful tread of a millionaire.
+
+But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in the
+city had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with gray
+eyes picked two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from the row
+of loungers in front of the hotel.
+
+"The juiciest jay I've seen in six months," said the man with gray eyes.
+"Come along."
+
+It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh
+Street Police Station with the story of his wrongs.
+
+"Nine hundred and fifty dollars," he gasped, "all my share of
+grandmother's farm."
+
+The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust
+Valley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the
+strong-arm gentlemen.
+
+When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was
+received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is
+decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown.
+
+"When I read the first line of 'The Doe and the Brook,'" said the
+editor, "I knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to
+heart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to that
+fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild, free
+child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and walk
+down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show."
+
+"Thanks," said Conant. "I suppose the check will be round on Thursday,
+as usual."
+
+The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your
+choice of "Stay on the Farm" or "Don't Write Poetry."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+THE ROBE OF PEACE
+
+
+Mysteries follow one another so closely in a great city that the reading
+public and the friends of Johnny Bellchambers have ceased to marvel
+at his sudden and unexplained disappearance nearly a year ago. This
+particular mystery has now been cleared up, but the solution is so
+strange and incredible to the mind of the average man that only a select
+few who were in close touch with Bellchambers will give it full
+credence.
+
+Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically
+inner circle of the _�lite_. Without any of the ostentation of the
+fashionable ones who endeavor to attract notice by eccentric display of
+wealth and show he still was _au fait_ in everything that gave deserved
+lustre to his high position in the ranks of society.
+
+Especially did he shine in the matter of dress. In this he was the
+despair of imitators. Always correct, exquisitely groomed, and possessed
+of an unlimited wardrobe, he was conceded to be the best-dressed man in
+New York, and, therefore, in America. There was not a tailor in Gotham
+who would not have deemed it a precious boon to have been granted the
+privilege of making Bellchambers' clothes without a cent of pay. As he
+wore them, they would have been a priceless advertisement. Trousers
+were his especial passion. Here nothing but perfection would he notice.
+He would have worn a patch as quickly as he would have overlooked a
+wrinkle. He kept a man in his apartments always busy pressing his ample
+supply. His friends said that three hours was the limit of time that he
+would wear these garments without exchanging.
+
+Bellchambers disappeared very suddenly. For three days his absence
+brought no alarm to his friends, and then they began to operate the
+usual methods of inquiry. All of them failed. He had left absolutely no
+trace behind. Then the search for a motive was instituted, but none was
+found. He had no enemies, he had no debts, there was no woman. There
+were several thousand dollars in his bank to his credit. He had never
+showed any tendency toward mental eccentricity; in fact, he was of a
+particularly calm and well-balanced temperament. Every means of tracing
+the vanished man was made use of, but without avail. It was one of those
+cases--more numerous in late years--where men seem to have gone out like
+the flame of a candle, leaving not even a trail of smoke as a witness.
+
+In May, Tom Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam, two of Bellchambers' old
+friends, went for a little run on the other side. While pottering around
+in Italy and Switzerland, they happened, one day, to hear of a monastery
+in the Swiss Alps that promised something outside of the ordinary
+tourist-beguiling attractions. The monastery was almost inaccessible to
+the average sightseer, being on an extremely rugged and precipitous spur
+of the mountains. The attractions it possessed but did not advertise
+were, first, an exclusive and divine cordial made by the monks that was
+said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse. Next a huge brass bell
+so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceased sounding since it
+was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it was asserted that no
+Englishman had ever set foot within its walls. Eyres and Gilliam decided
+that these three reports called for investigation.
+
+It took them two days with the aid of two guides to reach the monastery
+of St. Gondrau. It stood upon a frozen, wind-swept crag with the snow
+piled about it in treacherous, drifting masses. They were hospitably
+received by the brothers whose duty it was to entertain the infrequent
+guest. They drank of the precious cordial, finding it rarely potent and
+reviving. They listened to the great, ever-echoing bell, and learned
+that they were pioneer travelers, in those gray stone walls, over the
+Englishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly every corner of the
+earth.
+
+At three o'clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young Gothamites
+stood with good Brother Cristofer in the great, cold hallway of the
+monastery to watch the monks march past on their way to the refectory.
+They came slowly, pacing by twos, with their heads bowed, treading
+noiselessly with sandaled feet upon the rough stone flags. As the
+procession slowly filed past, Eyres suddenly gripped Gilliam by the arm.
+"Look," he whispered, eagerly, "at the one just opposite you now--the
+one on this side, with his hand at his waist--if that isn't Johnny
+Bellchambers then I never saw him!"
+
+Gilliam saw and recognized the lost glass of fashion.
+
+"What the deuce," said he, wonderingly, "is old Bell doing here? Tommy,
+it surely can't be he! Never heard of Bell having a turn for the
+religious. Fact is, I've heard him say things when a four-in-hand didn't
+seem to tie up just right that would bring him up for court-martial
+before any church."
+
+"It's Bell, without a doubt," said Eyres, firmly, "or I'm pretty badly
+in need of an oculist. But think of Johnny Bellchambers, the Royal High
+Chancellor of swell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here in cold
+storage doing penance in a snuff-colored bathrobe! I can't get it
+straight in my mind. Let's ask the jolly old boy that's doing the
+honors."
+
+Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the
+monks had passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one they
+referred. Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned their
+worldly names when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to speak
+with one of the brothers? If they would come to the refectory and
+indicate the one they wished to see, the reverend abbot in authority
+would, doubtless, permit it.
+
+Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother
+Cristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They
+saw his face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never
+looking up, eating broth from a coarse, brown bowl.
+
+Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two
+travelers by the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to
+come. When he did come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and
+Gilliam looked at him in perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny
+Bellchambers, but he had a different look. Upon his smooth-shaven face
+was an expression of ineffable peace, of rapturous attainment, of
+perfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly erect, his eyes
+shone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and well-groomed
+as in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now he
+seemed clothed in but a single garment--a long robe of rough brown
+cloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose
+folds nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old
+ease and grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that meeting
+it was not manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no seats;
+they stood to converse.
+
+"Glad to see you, old man," said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. "Wasn't
+expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all.
+Society's an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and
+retire to--er--contemplation and--er--prayer and hymns, and those
+things.
+
+"Oh, cut that, Tommy," said Bellchambers, cheerfully. "Don't be afraid
+that I'll pass around the plate. I go through these thing-um-bobs with
+the rest of these old boys because they are the rules. I'm Brother
+Ambrose here, you know. I'm given just ten minutes to talk to you
+fellows. That's rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn't it,
+Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?"
+
+"It's the same old Johnny," said Gilliam, joyfully. "What the devil--I
+mean why-- Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?"
+
+"Peel the bathrobe," pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, "and go back with
+us. The old crowd'll go wild to see you. This isn't in your line, Bell.
+I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you
+shook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a
+dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice
+factory. You'll get catarrh here, Johnny--and-- My God! you haven't any
+socks on!"
+
+Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled.
+
+"You fellows don't understand," he said, soothingly. "It's nice of you
+to want me to go back, but the old life will never know me again. I
+have reached here the goal of all my ambitions. I am entirely happy
+and contented. Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days. You
+see this robe that I wear?" Bellchambers caressingly touched the
+straight-hanging garment: "At last I have found something that will not
+bag at the knees. I have attained--"
+
+At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated
+through the monastery. It must have been a summons to immediate
+devotions, for Brother Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the
+chamber without another word. A slight wave of his hand as he passed
+through the stone doorway seemed to say a farewell to his old friends.
+They left the monastery without seeing him again.
+
+And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought back
+with them from their latest European tour.
+
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
+
+
+The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is
+a conscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is
+the Western Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from
+speculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden
+toys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to a
+pulp.
+
+Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for
+a rest. He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the
+wilderness business is about as much rest and pleasure to him as sliding
+down the bumps at Coney would be to President Taft. "Give me," says
+Pogue, "a big city for my vacation. Especially New York. I'm not much
+fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the globe
+where I don't find any."
+
+While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places.
+One is a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads
+books about his hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at
+the other--his hall bedroom in Eighteenth Street--where he sat in his
+stocking feet trying to pluck "The Banks of the Wabash" out of a small
+zither. Four years he has practised this tune without arriving near
+enough to cast the longest trout line to the water's edge. On the
+dresser lay a blued-steel Colt's forty-five and a tight roll of tens and
+twenties large enough around to belong to the spring rattlesnake-story
+class. A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air fluttered nearby in the
+hall, unable to enter or to flee, scandalized by the stocking feet,
+aghast at the Colt's, yet powerless, with her metropolitan instincts,
+to remove herself beyond the magic influence of the yellow-hued roll.
+
+I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker
+or more candid in his conversation. Beside his expression the cry of
+Henry James for lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have
+seemed like a Chaldean cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession
+with pride, for he considered it an art. And I was curious enough to ask
+him whether he had known any women who followed it.
+
+"Ladies?" said Pogue, with Western chivalry. "Well, not to any great
+extent. They don't amount to much in special lines of graft, because
+they're all so busy in general lines. What? Why, they have to. Who's got
+the money in the world? The men. Did you ever know a man to give a woman
+a dollar without any consideration? A man will shell out his dust to
+another man free and easy and gratis. But if he drops a penny in one of
+the machines run by the Madam Eve's Daughters' Amalgamated Association
+and the pineapple chewing gum don't fall out when he pulls the lever you
+can hear him kick to the superintendent four blocks away. Man is the
+hardest proposition a woman has to go up against. He's the low-grade
+one, and she has to work overtime to make him pay. Two times out of
+five she's salted. She can't put in crushers and costly machinery. He'd
+notice 'em and be onto the game. They have to pan out what they get, and
+it hurts their tender hands. Some of 'em are natural sluice troughs and
+can carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones have to depend on
+signed letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo walk, cowhide whips,
+ability to cook, sentimental juries, conversational powers, silk
+underskirts, ancestry, rouge, anonymous letters, violet sachet powders,
+witnesses, revolvers, pneumatic forms, carbolic acid, moonlight, cold
+cream and the evening newspapers."
+
+"You are outrageous, Ferg," I said. "Surely there is none of this
+'graft' as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious matrimonial union!"
+
+"Well," said Pogue, "nothing that would justify you every time in
+calling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a
+vaudeville manager on a dead run. But it's this way: Suppose you're a
+Fifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and
+cappers.
+
+"You come home at night and bring a $9,000,000 diamond brooch to the
+lady who's staked you for a claim. You hand it over. She says, 'Oh,
+George!' and looks to see if it's backed. She comes up and kisses you.
+You've waited for it. You get it. All right. It's graft.
+
+"But I'm telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and she
+suggested corn in all of its phases. Her hair was as yellow as the silk;
+her form was as tall and graceful as a stalk in the low grounds during a
+wet summer; her eyes were as big and startling as bunions, and green was
+her favorite color.
+
+"On my last trip into the cool recesses of your sequestered city I met a
+human named Vaucross. He was worth--that is, he had a million. He told
+me he was in business on the street. 'A sidewalk merchant?' says I,
+sarcastic. 'Exactly,' says he, 'Senior partner of a paving concern.'
+
+"I kind of took to him. For this reason, I met him on Broadway one night
+when I was out of heart, luck, tobacco and place. He was all silk hat,
+diamonds and front. He was all front. If you had gone behind him you
+would have only looked yourself in the face. I looked like a cross
+between Count Tolstoy and a June lobster. I was out of luck. I had--but
+let me lay my eyes on that dealer again.
+
+"Vaucross stopped and talked to me a few minutes and then he took me to
+a high-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then some
+Beethoven, and Bordelaise sauce, and cussing in French, and frangipangi,
+and some hauteur and cigarettes. When I am flush I know them places.
+
+"I declare, I must have looked as bad as a magazine artist sitting there
+without any money and my hair all rumpled like I was booked to read a
+chapter from 'Elsie's School Days' at a Brooklyn Bohemian smoker. But
+Vaucross treated me like a bear hunter's guide. He wasn't afraid of
+hurting the waiter's feelings.
+
+"'Mr. Pogue,' he explains to me, 'I am using you.'
+
+"'Go on,' says I; 'I hope you don't wake up.'
+
+"And then he tells me, you know, the kind of man he was. He was a
+New Yorker. His whole ambition was to be noticed. He wanted to be
+conspicuous. He wanted people to point him out and bow to him, and tell
+others who he was. He said it had been the desire of his life always. He
+didn't have but a million, so he couldn't attract attention by spending
+money. He said he tried to get into public notice one time by planting
+a little public square on the east side with garlic for free use of
+the poor; but Carnegie heard of it, and covered it over at once with a
+library in the Gaelic language. Three times he had jumped in the way of
+automobiles; but the only result was five broken ribs and a notice in
+the papers that an unknown man, five feet ten, with four amalgam-filled
+teeth, supposed to be the last of the famous Red Leary gang had been run
+over.
+
+"'Ever try the reporters,' I asked him.
+
+"'Last month,' says Mr. Vaucross, 'my expenditure for lunches to
+reporters was $124.80.'
+
+"'Get anything out of that?' I asks.
+
+"'That reminds me,' says he; 'add $8.50 for pepsin. Yes, I got
+indigestion.'
+
+"'How am I supposed to push along your scramble for prominence?' I
+inquires. 'Contrast?'
+
+"'Something of that sort to-night,' says Vaucross. 'It grieves me; but
+I am forced to resort to eccentricity.' And here he drops his napkin in
+his soup and rises up and bows to a gent who is devastating a potato
+under a palm across the room.
+
+"'The Police Commissioner,' says my climber, gratified. 'Friend', says
+I, in a hurry, 'have ambitions but don't kick a rung out of your ladder.
+When you use me as a stepping stone to salute the police you spoil my
+appetite on the grounds that I may be degraded and incriminated. Be
+thoughtful.'
+
+"At the Quaker City squab en casserole the idea about Artemisia Blye
+comes to me.
+
+"'Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,' says I--'a column or
+two every day in all of 'em and your picture in most of 'em for a week.
+How much would it be worth to you?'
+
+"'Ten thousand dollars,' says Vaucross, warm in a minute. 'But no
+murder,' says he; 'and I won't wear pink pants at a cotillon.'
+
+"'I wouldn't ask you to,' says I. 'This is honorable, stylish and
+uneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and some other
+beans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.'
+
+"We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I
+telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple
+of photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth
+Presbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and $80.
+She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior and a
+valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage book
+and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.
+
+"The fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all d�collet�e
+and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to dinner in one of
+these New York feminine apartment houses where a man can't get in unless
+he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder cigarettes.
+
+"'She's a stunner,' says Vaucross when he saw her. 'They'll give her a
+two-column cut sure.'
+
+"This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business straight
+through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and display
+and emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to nothing as
+far as his ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a white tie
+and patent leather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large end of
+a cornucopia to purchase nutriment and heartsease for tall, willowy
+blondes in New York is as common a sight as blue turtles in delirium
+tremens. But he was to write her love letters--the worst kind of love
+letters, such as your wife publishes after you are dead--every day. At
+the end of the month he was to drop her, and she would bring suit for
+$100,000 for breach of promise.
+
+"Miss Artemisia was to get $10,000. If she won the suit that was all;
+and if she lost she was to get it anyhow. There was a signed contract to
+that effect.
+
+"Sometimes they had me out with 'em, but not often. I couldn't keep up
+to their style. She used to pull out his notes and criticize them like
+bills of lading.
+
+"'Say, you!' she'd say. 'What do you call this--letter to a Hardware
+Merchant from His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash? You
+Eastern duffers know as much about writing love letters as a Kansas
+grasshopper does about tugboats. "My dear Miss Blye!"--wouldn't that put
+pink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake? How long do
+you expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?
+You want to get down to business, and call me "Tweedlums Babe" and
+"Honeysuckle," and sign yourself "Mama's Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy" if
+you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs. Get
+sappy.'
+
+"After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His
+notes read like something or other in the original. I could see a jury
+sitting up, and women tearing one another's hats to hear 'em read. And I
+could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop
+Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever enjoyed. He
+seemed mighty pleased at the prospects.
+
+"They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn
+restaurant and watched 'em. A process-server walked in and handed
+Vaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at 'em; and he
+looked as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent
+cigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.
+
+"About two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood Vaucross
+and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging--yes, sir, clinging--to his
+arm. And they tells me they'd been out and got married. And they
+articulated some trivial cadences about love and such. And they laid
+down a bundle on the table and said 'Good night' and left.
+
+"And that's why I say," concluded Ferguson Pogue, "that a woman is too
+busy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft such as is
+given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great success
+in special lines."
+
+"What was in the bundle that they left?" I asked, with my usual
+curiosity.
+
+"Why," said Ferguson, "there was a scalper's railroad ticket as far as
+Kansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross's old pants."
+
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+THE CALL OF THE TAME
+
+
+When the inauguration was accomplished--the proceedings were made smooth
+by the presence of the Rough Riders--it is well known that a herd of
+those competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The
+newspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats
+and leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed
+with the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the
+wonderful plural "tenderfeet" in each of the scribe's stories. The
+Westerners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third
+story, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel
+corridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of Ye
+Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from his
+valet.
+
+Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy's Gentlemen of
+the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz.
+
+The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue's rush hour swept him away from the
+company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts
+filled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky
+deafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes
+confused his vision.
+
+The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier's first impulse
+was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the
+disturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with
+a grin into a doorway.
+
+The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West
+was not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their
+eyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the
+bright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar,
+pattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters
+on the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the
+out-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of
+the half-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the
+circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest
+sun of Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that
+unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they were
+being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity
+of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have not
+intruded upon him nearer than a day's ride--these brands of the West
+were set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat,
+gentle reader--just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail
+carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.
+
+Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan
+cattle, seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him
+a buffet upon his collar-bone that sent him reeling against a wall.
+
+The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who
+has suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But
+he looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration
+of love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its
+friends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its
+enemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the
+welcoming bullet demands.
+
+"God in the mountains!" cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg of
+his cull. "Can this be Longhorn Merritt?"
+
+The other man was--oh, look on Broadway any day for the
+pattern--business man--latest rolled-brim derby--good barber, business,
+digestion and tailor.
+
+"Greenbrier Nye!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten him.
+"My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to--oh, to be
+sure--the inaugural ceremonies--I remember you joined the Rough Riders.
+You must come and have luncheon with me, of course."
+
+Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the size,
+shape and color of a McClellan saddle.
+
+"Longy," he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic, "what
+have they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen. They done made
+you into an inmate of the city directory. You never made no such Johnny
+Branch execration of yourself as that out on the Gila. 'Come and have
+lunching with me!' You never defined grub by any such terms of reproach
+in them days."
+
+"I've been living in New York seven years," said Merritt. "It's been
+eight since we punched cows together in Old Man Garcia's outfit. Well,
+let's go to a caf�, anyhow. It sounds good to hear it called 'grub'
+again."
+
+They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by
+a natural law, to the bar.
+
+"Speak up," invited Greenbrier.
+
+"A dry Martini," said Merritt.
+
+"Oh, Lord!" cried Greenbrier; "and yet me and you once saw the same pink
+Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in Ca�on Diablo! A
+dry--but let that pass. Whiskey straight--and they're on you."
+
+Merritt smiled, and paid.
+
+They lunched in a small extension of the dining room that connected with
+the caf�. Merritt dexterously diverted his friend's choice, that hovered
+over ham and eggs, to a pur�e of celery, a salmon cutlet, a partridge
+pie and a desirable salad.
+
+"On the day," said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, "when I can't
+hold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I ain't seen in
+eight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o'clock on the
+third day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me forty times over a
+640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?"
+
+"Right, old man," laughed Merritt. "Waiter, bring an absinthe frapp�
+and--what's yours, Greenbrier?"
+
+"Whiskey straight," mourned Nye. "Out of the neck of a bottle you used
+to take it, Longy--straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping
+pony--Arizona redeye, not this ab--oh, what's the use? They're on you."
+
+Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass.
+
+"All right. I suppose you think I'm spoiled by the city. I'm as good a
+Westerner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can't make up my mind
+to go back out there. New York is comfortable--comfortable. I make a
+good living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in
+snowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months
+for me. I reckon I'll hang out here in the future. We'll take in the
+theatre to-night, Greenbrier, and after that we'll dine at--"
+
+"I'll tell you what you are, Merritt," said Greenbrier, laying one elbow
+in his salad and the other in his butter. "You are a concentrated,
+effete, unconditional, short-sleeved, gotch-eared Miss Sally Walker. God
+made you perpendicular and suitable to ride straddle and use cuss words
+in the original. Wherefore you have suffered his handiwork to elapse
+by removing yourself to New York and putting on little shoes tied with
+strings, and making faces when you talk. I've seen you rope and tie a
+steer in 42 1/2. If you was to see one now you'd write to the Police
+Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks that you inoculate
+your system with--these little essences of cowslip with acorns in 'em,
+and paregoric flip--they ain't anyways in assent with the cordiality of
+manhood. I hate to see you this way."
+
+"Well, Mr. Greenbrier," said Merritt, with apology in his tone, "in a
+way you are right. Sometimes I do feel like I was being raised on the
+bottle. But, I tell you, New York is comfortable--comfortable. There's
+something about it--the sights and the crowds, and the way it changes
+every day, and the very air of it that seems to tie a one-mile-long
+stake rope around a man's neck, with the other end fastened somewhere
+about Thirty-fourth Street. I don't know what it is."
+
+"God knows," said Greenbrier sadly, "and I know. The East has gobbled
+you up. You was venison, and now you're veal. You put me in mind of a
+japonica in a window. You've been signed, sealed and diskivered.
+Requiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty."
+
+"A green chartreuse here," said Merritt to the waiter.
+
+"Whiskey straight," sighed Greenbrier, "and they're on you, you renegade
+of the round-ups."
+
+"Guilty, with an application for mercy," said Merritt. "You don't know
+how it is, Greenbrier. It's so comfortable here that--"
+
+"Please loan me your smelling salts," pleaded Greenbrier. "If I hadn't
+seen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an empty gun
+in Phoenix--"
+
+Greenbrier's voice died away in pure grief.
+
+"Cigars!" he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion.
+
+"A pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine," said Merritt.
+
+"They're on you," chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal his
+contempt.
+
+At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column.
+
+That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o'er
+fair women and br--let it go, anyhow--brave men. The orchestra played
+charmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a
+waiter when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you
+contributed to it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity.
+
+Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old
+friend, and he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail.
+
+"I take the horehound tea," said Greenbrier, "for old times' sake. But
+I'd prefer whiskey straight. They're on you."
+
+"Right!" said Merritt. "Now, run your eye down that bill of fare and see
+if it seems to hitch on any of these items."
+
+"Lay me on my lava bed!" said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. "All these
+specimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What's this? Horse with the
+heaves? I pass. But look along! Here's truck for twenty round-ups all
+spelled out in different directions. Wait till I see."
+
+The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list.
+
+"This Medoc isn't bad," he suggested.
+
+"You're the doc," said Greenbrier. "I'd rather have whiskey straight.
+It's on you."
+
+Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took
+dishes away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd
+enjoying itself.
+
+"How was the range when you left the Gila?" asked Merritt.
+
+"Fine," said Greenbrier. "You see that lady in the red speckled silk at
+that table. Well, she could warm over her beans at my campfire. Yes, the
+range was good. She looks as nice as a white mustang I see once on Black
+River."
+
+When the coffee came, Greenbrier put one foot on the seat of the chair
+next to him.
+
+"You said it was a comfortable town, Longy," he said, meditatively.
+"Yes, it's a comfortable town. It's different from the plains in a blue
+norther. What did you call that mess in the crock with the handle,
+Longy? Oh, yes, squabs in a cash roll. They're worth the roll. That
+white mustang had just such a way of turning his head and shaking his
+mane--look at her, Longy. If I thought I could sell out my ranch at a
+fair price, I believe I'd--
+
+"Gyar--song!" he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed every knife
+and fork in the restaurant.
+
+The waiter dived toward the table.
+
+"Two more of them cocktail drinks," ordered Greenbrier.
+
+Merritt looked at him and smiled significantly.
+
+"They're on me," said Greenbrier, blowing a puff of smoke to the
+ceiling.
+
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
+
+
+The poet Longfellow--or was it Confucius, the inventor of
+wisdom?--remarked:
+
+ "Life is real, life is earnest;
+  And things are not what they seem."
+
+As mathematics are--or is: thanks, old subscriber!--the only just rule
+by which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means,
+adjust our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the
+great goddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures--unassailable sums in
+addition--shall be set over against whatever opposing element there
+may be.
+
+A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would
+say: "Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus--that is, that
+life is real--then things (all of which life includes) are real.
+Anything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the
+proposition that 'things are not what they seem,' why--"
+
+But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we
+would conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued,
+satisfying, mysterious X.
+
+Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an
+old New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that bread
+is made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flour
+crop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no perceptible
+effect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the flour market.
+
+The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never
+had to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought a
+five-cent loaf of bread you laid down an additional two cents, which
+went to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity.
+
+A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000
+prof--er--rake-off.
+
+Mr. Kinsolving's son Dan was at college when the mathematical experiment
+in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found the
+old gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading "Little Dorrit" on the
+porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He had
+retired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from bread
+buyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the earth
+and lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay.
+
+Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village
+to see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired
+Kenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical,
+studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of oligarchies.
+Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning watch-making in his
+father's jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial, easy-tempered and
+tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two foregathered joyously,
+being opposites. And then Dan went back to college, and Kenwitz to his
+mainsprings--and to his private library in the rear of the jewelry shop.
+
+Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the
+accumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took a
+filial look at Septimus Kinsolving's elaborate tombstone in Greenwood
+and a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the family
+lawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire,
+hurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue.
+
+Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parent
+from a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches for
+outdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington
+Square. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity
+that was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more
+intense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic.
+
+"I know about it now," said Dan, finally. "I pumped it out of the
+eminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad's collections
+of bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that
+he squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of
+bread at little bakeries around the corner. You've studied economics,
+Dan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses,
+and the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those things
+before. Football and trying to be white to my fellow-man were about the
+extent of my college curriculum.
+
+"But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I've been
+thinking. I'd like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to give
+up too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income
+for a good many yards; but I'd like to make it square with 'em. Is there
+any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?"
+
+Kenwitz's big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face
+took on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan's arm with the grip of a
+friend and a judge.
+
+"You can't do it!" he said, emphatically. "One of the chief punishments
+of you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find that
+you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I admire
+your good intentions, Dan, but you can't do anything. Those people were
+robbed of their precious pennies. It's too late to remedy the evil. You
+can't pay them back"
+
+"Of course," said Dan, lighting his pipe, "we couldn't hunt up every one
+of the duffers and hand 'em back the right change. There's an awful lot
+of 'em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have--I never cared
+for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the Roquefort.
+But we might find a few of 'em and chuck some of dad's cash back where
+it came from. I'd feel better if I could. It seems tough for people to be
+held up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn't mind standing a rise
+in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and think, Ken. I want
+to pay back all of that money I can."
+
+"There are plenty of charities," said Kenwitz, mechanically.
+
+"Easy enough," said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. "I suppose I could give
+the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don't
+want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold Peter.
+It's the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken."
+
+The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.
+
+"Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of
+consumers during that corner in flour?" he asked.
+
+"I do not." said Dan, stoutly. "My lawyer tells me that I have two
+millions."
+
+"If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn't
+repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You cannot
+conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.
+Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a
+thousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how
+hopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance
+can it be done."
+
+"Back up, philosopher!" said Dan. "The penny has no sorrow that the
+dollar cannot heal."
+
+"Not in one instance," repeated Kenwitz. "I will give you one, and let
+us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.
+He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he
+had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,
+Boyne's business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital--all he had in
+the world."
+
+Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
+
+"I accept the instance," he cried. "Take me to Boyne. I will repay his
+thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery."
+
+"Write your check," said Kenwitz, without moving, "and then begin to
+write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one
+for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the
+building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to
+that much. Boyne died in an asylum."
+
+"Stick to the instance," said Dan. "I haven't noticed any insurance
+companies on my charity list."
+
+"Draw your next check for $100,000," went on Kenwitz. "Boyne's son fell
+into bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He was
+acquitted last week after a three years' legal battle, and the state
+draws upon taxpayers for that much expense."
+
+"Back to the bakery!" exclaimed Dan, impatiently. "The Government
+doesn't need to stand in the bread line."
+
+"The last item of the instance is--come and I will show you," said
+Kenwitz, rising.
+
+The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by
+nature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath
+that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch
+needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.
+
+He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,
+poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid brick
+tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked on a
+door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.
+
+In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She
+nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of
+sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color
+of an ancient Tuscan's shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz
+and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.
+
+Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in
+heart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last
+item of the Instance.
+
+"How many this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker. A mountain of
+coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
+
+"Nearly thirty dozen," said the young woman cheerfully. "I've made
+almost $4. I'm improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so
+much money." Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A
+little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
+
+Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
+
+"Miss Boyne," he said, "let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the
+man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do
+something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act."
+
+The smile left the young woman's face. She rose and pointed her
+forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in
+the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
+
+The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism
+and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the
+moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to
+be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him
+warmly.
+
+"I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely--"a thousand times
+obliged."
+
+"Mein Gott! you are crazy!" cried the watchmaker, dropping his
+spectacles for the first time in years.
+
+Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway
+with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the
+proprietor.
+
+A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
+
+"These loaves are ten cents," said the clerk.
+
+"I always get them at eight cents uptown," said the lady. "You need not
+fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home."
+
+The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.
+
+"Mr. Kenwitz!" cried the lady, heartily. "How do you do?"
+
+Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension
+on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
+
+"Why, Miss Boyne!" he began.
+
+"Mrs. Kinsolving," she corrected. "Dan and I were married a month ago."
+
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+THE THING'S THE PLAY
+
+
+Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free
+passes, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the
+popular vaudeville houses.
+
+One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much
+past forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a
+taste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I
+regarded the man.
+
+"There was a story about that chap a month or two ago," said the
+reporter. "They gave me the assignment. It was to run a column and was
+to be on the extremely light and joking order. The old man seems to like
+the funny touch I give to local happenings. Oh, yes, I'm working on
+a farce comedy now. Well, I went down to the house and got all the
+details; but I certainly fell down on that job. I went back and turned
+in a comic write-up of an east side funeral instead. Why? Oh, I couldn't
+seem to get hold of it with my funny hooks, somehow. Maybe you could
+make a one-act tragedy out of it for a curtain-raiser. I'll give you the
+details."
+
+After the performance my friend, the reporter, recited to me the facts
+over the W�rzburger.
+
+"I see no reason," said I, when he had concluded, "why that shouldn't
+make a rattling good funny story. Those three people couldn't have acted
+in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had been real actors in
+a real theatre. I'm really afraid that all the stage is a world, anyhow,
+and all the players men and women. 'The thing's the play,' is the way I
+quote Mr. Shakespeare."
+
+"Try it," said the reporter.
+
+"I will," said I; and I did, to show him how he could have made a
+humorous column of it for his paper.
+
+
+There stands a house near Abingdon Square. On the ground floor there has
+been for twenty-five years a little store where toys and notions and
+stationery are sold.
+
+One night twenty years ago there was a wedding in the rooms above the
+store. The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen was
+married to Frank Barry. John Delaney was best man. Helen was eighteen,
+and her picture had been printed in a morning paper next to the
+headlines of a "Wholesale Female Murderess" story from Butte, Mont. But
+after your eye and intelligence had rejected the connection, you seized
+your magnifying glass and read beneath the portrait her description as
+one of a series of Prominent Beauties and Belles of the lower west side.
+
+Frank Barry and John Delaney were "prominent" young beaux of the same
+side, and bosom friends, whom you expected to turn upon each other every
+time the curtain went up. One who pays his money for orchestra seats and
+fiction expects this. That is the first funny idea that has turned up in
+the story yet. Both had made a great race for Helen's hand. When Frank
+won, John shook his hand and congratulated him--honestly, he did.
+
+After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was
+getting married in a traveling dress. She and Frank were going to Old
+Point Comfort for a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering
+cave-dwellers were waiting with their hands full of old Congress gaiters
+and paper bags of hominy.
+
+Then there was a rattle of the fire-escape, and into her room jumps the
+mad and infatuated John Delaney, with a damp curl drooping upon his
+forehead, and made violent and reprehensible love to his lost one,
+entreating her to flee or fly with him to the Riviera, or the Bronx, or
+any old place where there are Italian skies and _dolce far niente_.
+
+It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him. With
+blazing and scornful eyes she fairly withered him by demanding whatever
+he meant by speaking to respectable people that way.
+
+In a few moments she had him going. The manliness that had possessed him
+departed. He bowed low, and said something about "irresistible impulse"
+and "forever carry in his heart the memory of"--and she suggested that
+he catch the first fire-escape going down.
+
+"I will away," said John Delaney, "to the furthermost parts of the
+earth. I cannot remain near you and know that you are another's. I will
+to Africa, and there amid other scenes strive to for--"
+
+"For goodness sake, get out," said Helen. "Somebody might come in."
+
+He knelt upon one knee, and she extended him one white hand that he
+might give it a farewell kiss.
+
+Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever
+vouchsafed you--to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the
+one you don't want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to
+you and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall
+forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to
+feel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky
+one, broken-hearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself
+as he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are well
+manicured--say, girls, it's galluptious--don't ever let it get by you.
+
+And then, of course--how did you guess it?--the door opened and in
+stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.
+
+The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen's hand, and out of the window
+and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.
+
+A little slow music, if you please--faint violin, just a breath in the
+clarinet and a touch of the 'cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot,
+with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing
+and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears
+them from his shoulders--once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and
+that--the stage manager will show you how--and throws her from him to
+the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he
+look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring
+groups of astonished guests.
+
+And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must
+stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray,
+rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which
+must precede the rising of the curtain again.
+
+Mrs. Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could
+have bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and
+general results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but
+she made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth balls,
+nor did she sell it to a magazine.
+
+One day a middle-aged money-making lawyer, who bought his legal cap and
+ink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him.
+
+"I'm really much obliged to you," said Helen, cheerfully, "but I married
+another man twenty years ago. He was more a goose than a man, but I
+think I love him yet. I have never seen him since about half an hour
+after the ceremony. Was it copying ink that you wanted or just writing
+fluid?"
+
+The lawyer bowed over the counter with old-time grace and left a
+respectful kiss on the back of her hand. Helen sighed. Parting salutes,
+however romantic, may be overdone. Here she was at thirty-eight,
+beautiful and admired; and all that she seemed to have got from her
+lovers were approaches and adieus. Worse still, in the last one she had
+lost a customer, too.
+
+Business languished, and she hung out a Room to Let card. Two large
+rooms on the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers
+came, and went regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode
+of neatness, comfort and taste.
+
+One day came Ramonti, the violinist, and engaged the front room above.
+The discord and clatter uptown offended his nice ear; so a friend had
+sent him to this oasis in the desert of noise.
+
+Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short,
+pointed, foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and
+his artist's temperament--revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic
+manner--was a welcome tenant in the old house near Abingdon Square.
+
+Helen lived on the floor above the store. The architecture of it was
+singular and quaint. The hall was large and almost square. Up one side
+of it, and then across the end of it ascended an open stairway to the
+floor above. This hall space she had furnished as a sitting room and
+office combined. There she kept her desk and wrote her business letters;
+and there she sat of evenings by a warm fire and a bright red light and
+sewed or read. Ramonti found the atmosphere so agreeable that he spent
+much time there, describing to Mrs. Barry the wonders of Paris, where he
+had studied with a particularly notorious and noisy fiddler.
+
+Next comes lodger No. 2, a handsome, melancholy man in the early 40's,
+with a brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes.
+He, too, found the society of Helen a desirable thing. With the eyes of
+Romeo and Othello's tongue, he charmed her with tales of distant climes
+and wooed her by respectful innuendo.
+
+From the first Helen felt a marvelous and compelling thrill in the
+presence of this man. His voice somehow took her swiftly back to the
+days of her youth's romance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to
+it, and it led her to an instinctive belief that he had been a factor
+in that romance. And then with a woman's reasoning (oh, yes, they do,
+sometimes) she leaped over common syllogisms and theory, and logic, and
+was sure that her husband had come back to her. For she saw in his eyes
+love, which no woman can mistake, and a thousand tons of regret and
+remorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously near to love requited,
+which is the _sine qua non_ in the house that Jack built.
+
+But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twenty
+years and then drops in again should not expect to find his slippers
+laid out too conveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar.
+There must be expiation, explanation, and possibly execration. A little
+purgatory, and then, maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be
+trusted with a harp and crown. And so she made no sign that she knew or
+suspected.
+
+And my friend, the reporter, could see nothing funny in this! Sent out
+on an assignment to write up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing
+story of--but I will not knock a brother--let us go on with the story.
+
+One evening Ramonti stopped in Helen's hall-office-reception-room and
+told his love with the tenderness and ardor of the enraptured artist.
+His words were a bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the heart
+of a man who is a dreamer and doer combined.
+
+"But before you give me an answer," he went on, before she could accuse
+him of suddenness, "I must tell you that 'Ramonti' is the only name I
+have to offer you. My manager gave me that. I do not know who I am or
+where I came from. My first recollection is of opening my eyes in a
+hospital. I was a young man, and I had been there for weeks. My life
+before that is a blank to me. They told me that I was found lying in the
+street with a wound on my head and was brought there in an ambulance.
+They thought I must have fallen and struck my head upon the stones.
+There was nothing to show who I was. I have never been able to remember.
+After I was discharged from the hospital, I took up the violin. I have
+had success. Mrs. Barry--I do not know your name except that--I love
+you; the first time I saw you I realized that you were the one woman in
+the world for me--and"--oh, a lot of stuff like that.
+
+Helen felt young again. First a wave of pride and a sweet little thrill
+of vanity went all over her; and then she looked Ramonti in the eyes,
+and a tremendous throb went through her heart. She hadn't expected that
+throb. It took her by surprise. The musician had become a big factor in
+her life, and she hadn't been aware of it.
+
+"Mr. Ramonti," she said sorrowfully (this was not on the stage,
+remember; it was in the old home near Abingdon Square), "I'm awfully
+sorry, but I'm a married woman."
+
+And then she told him the sad story of her life, as a heroine must do,
+sooner or later, either to a theatrical manager or to a reporter.
+
+Ramonti took her hand, bowed low and kissed it, and went up to his room.
+
+Helen sat down and looked mournfully at her hand. Well she might. Three
+suitors had kissed it, mounted their red roan steeds and ridden away.
+
+In an hour entered the mysterious stranger with the haunting eyes. Helen
+was in the willow rocker, knitting a useless thing in cotton-wool. He
+ricocheted from the stairs and stopped for a chat. Sitting across the
+table from her, he also poured out his narrative of love. And then he
+said: "Helen, do you not remember me? I think I have seen it in your
+eyes. Can you forgive the past and remember the love that has lasted
+for twenty years? I wronged you deeply--I was afraid to come back to
+you--but my love overpowered my reason. Can you, will you, forgive me?"
+
+Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a
+strong and trembling clasp.
+
+There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene
+like that and her emotions to portray.
+
+For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal
+love for her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory
+of her first choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure
+feeling. Honor and faith and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it. But
+the other half of her heart and soul was filled with something else--a
+later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against the new.
+
+And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,
+petitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the
+noblest. The daws may peck upon one's sleeve without injury, but whoever
+wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the neck.
+
+This music and the musician caller her, and at her side honor and the
+old love held her back.
+
+"Forgive me," he pleaded.
+
+"Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you
+love," she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
+
+"How could I tell?" he begged. "I will conceal nothing from you. That
+night when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark
+street I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had
+struck a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and
+jealousy. I hid near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although you
+married him, Helen--"
+
+"_Who Are You?_" cried the woman, with wide-open eyes, snatching her
+hand away.
+
+"Don't you remember me, Helen--the one who has always loved you best? I
+am John Delaney. If you can forgive--"
+
+But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs
+toward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for
+his in each of his two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed,
+cried and sang: "Frank! Frank! Frank!"
+
+Three mortals thus juggling with years as though they were billiard
+balls, and my friend, the reporter, couldn't see anything funny in it!
+
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
+
+
+My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She
+left her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she
+plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of
+woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I had
+no cold. Next came her kiss of parting--the level kiss of domesticity
+flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the extemporaneous,
+of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft touch of long
+malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf pin; and then, as I
+closed the door, I heard her morning slippers pattering back to her
+cooling tea.
+
+When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur.
+The attack came suddenly.
+
+For many weeks I had been toiling, almost night and day, at a famous
+railroad law case that I won triumphantly but a few days previously. In
+fact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for
+many years. Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician,
+had warned me.
+
+"If you don't slacken up, Bellford," he said, "you'll go suddenly to
+pieces. Either your nerves or your brain will give way. Tell me,
+does a week pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of
+aphasia--of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his
+identity blotted out--and all from that little brain clot made by
+overwork or worry?"
+
+"I always thought," said I, "that the clot in those instances was really
+to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters."
+
+Doctor Volney shook his head.
+
+"The disease exists," he said. "You need a change or a rest. Court-room,
+office and home--there is the only route you travel. For recreation
+you--read law books. Better take warning in time."
+
+"On Thursday nights," I said, defensively, "my wife and I play cribbage.
+On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. That law
+books are not a recreation remains yet to be established."
+
+That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I was
+feeling as well as I usually did--possibly in better spirits than usual.
+
+
+I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the
+incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and
+tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: "I must have a name
+of some sort." I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a
+paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly
+$3,000 in bills of large denomination. "I must be some one, of course,"
+I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.
+
+The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must
+have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed
+in the best good humor and spirits. One of them--a stout, spectacled
+gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes--took the
+vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper.
+In the intervals between his periods of reading, we conversed, as
+travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the
+conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and
+by my companion said:
+
+"You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this
+time. I'm glad they held the convention in New York; I've never been
+East before. My name's R. P. Bolder--Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove,
+Missouri."
+
+Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it.
+Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent.
+My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of
+drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper,
+where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.
+
+"My name," said I, glibly, "is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and
+my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas."
+
+"I knew you were a druggist," said my fellow traveler, affably. "I saw
+the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle
+rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention."
+
+"Are all these men druggists?" I asked, wonderingly.
+
+"They are. This car came through from the West. And they're your
+old-time druggists, too--none of your patent tablet-and-granule
+pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk.
+We percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain't
+above handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side
+line of confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I've got an idea
+to spring on this convention--new ideas is what they want. Now, you
+know the shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot.
+Tart. and Sod. et Pot. Tart.--one's poison, you know, and the other's
+harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do
+druggists mostly keep 'em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different
+shelves. That's wrong. I say keep 'em side by side, so when you want
+one you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you
+catch the idea?"
+
+"It seems to me a very good one," I said.
+
+"All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We'll
+make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream professors
+that think they're the only lozenges in the market look like hypodermic
+tablets."
+
+"If I can be of any aid," I said, warming, "the two bottles of--er--"
+
+"Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash."
+
+"Shall henceforth sit side by side," I concluded, firmly.
+
+"Now, there's another thing," said Mr. Bolder. "For an excipient in
+manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer--the magnesia carbonate or
+the pulverised glycerrhiza radix?"
+
+"The--er--magnesia," I said. It was easier to say than the other word.
+
+Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
+
+"Give me the glycerrhiza," said he. "Magnesia cakes."
+
+"Here's another one of these fake aphasia cases," he said, presently,
+handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. "I
+don't believe in 'em. I put nine out of ten of 'em down as frauds. A man
+gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time.
+He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost
+his memory--don't know his own name, and won't even recognize the
+strawberry mark on his wife's left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why can't
+they stay at home and forget?"
+
+I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:
+
+
+   "DENVER, June 12.--Elwyn C. Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is
+   mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all
+   efforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known
+   citizen of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and
+   lucrative law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the
+   most extensive private library in the State. On the day of his
+   disappearance, he drew quite a large sum of money from his bank. No
+   one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford
+   was a man of singularly quiet and domestic tastes, and seemed to
+   find his happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at all
+   exists to his strange disappearance, it may be found in the fact
+   that for some months he has been deeply absorbed in an important
+   law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z. Railroad Company. It
+   is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort
+   is being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man."
+
+
+"It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder," I said,
+after I had read the despatch. "This has the sound, to me, of a genuine
+case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected,
+choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of
+memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name,
+a history or a home."
+
+"Oh, gammon and jalap!" said Mr. Bolder. "It's larks they're after.
+There's too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they
+use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it's all over they
+look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: 'He
+hypnotized me.'"
+
+Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and
+philosophy.
+
+We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel,
+and I wrote my name "Edward Pinkhammer" in the register. As I did so
+I felt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy--a sense of
+unlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born into
+the world. The old fetters--whatever they had been--were stricken from
+my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an
+infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man's
+learning and experience.
+
+I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no
+baggage.
+
+"The Druggists' Convention," I said. "My trunk has somehow failed to
+arrive." I drew out a roll of money.
+
+"Ah!" said he, showing an auriferous tooth, "we have quite a number of
+the Western delegates stopping here." He struck a bell for the boy.
+
+I endeavored to give color to my r�le.
+
+"There is an important movement on foot among us Westerners," I said,
+"in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles
+containing the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of
+sodium and potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf."
+
+"Gentleman to three-fourteen," said the clerk, hastily. I was whisked
+away to my room.
+
+The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life
+of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve
+problems of the past.
+
+It was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up to
+my lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to him
+who is able to bear them. You must be either the city's guest or its
+victim.
+
+The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet
+counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having
+come upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat
+entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens,
+that transported one into strange and delightful lands full of
+frolicsome music, pretty girls and grotesque drolly extravagant parodies
+upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will, bound by
+no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird cabarets, at
+weirder _tables d'h�te_ to the sound of Hungarian music and the wild
+shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or, again, where the night
+life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic picture, and the
+millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they adorn,
+and the men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the
+spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that I have mentioned I
+learned one thing that I never knew before. And that is that the key to
+liberty is not in the hands of License, but Convention holds it. Comity
+has a toll-gate at which you must pay, or you may not enter the land
+of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming disorder, the parade, the
+abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail. Therefore,
+in Manhattan you must obey these unwritten laws, and then you will be
+freest of the free. If you decline to be bound by them, you put on
+shackles.
+
+Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly
+murmuring palm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate
+restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in
+steamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks
+and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there
+was always Broadway--glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable
+Broadway--growing upon one like an opium habit.
+
+One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a
+black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed
+around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.
+
+"Hello, Bellford!" he cried, loudly. "What the deuce are you doing in
+New York? Didn't know anything could drag you away from that old book
+den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,
+eh?"
+
+"You have made a mistake, sir," I said, coldly, releasing my hand from
+his grasp. "My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me."
+
+The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the
+clerk's desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about
+telegraph blanks.
+
+"You will give me my bill," I said to the clerk, "and have my baggage
+brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed
+by confidence men."
+
+I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on
+lower Fifth Avenue.
+
+There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be
+served almost _al fresco_ in a tropic array of screening flora. Quiet
+and luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to take
+luncheon or refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way to a
+table among the ferns when I felt my sleeve caught.
+
+"Mr. Bellford!" exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.
+
+I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone--a lady of about thirty,
+with exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been
+her very dear friend.
+
+"You were about to pass me," she said, accusingly. "Don't tell me you
+do not know me. Why should we not shake hands--at least once in fifteen
+years?"
+
+I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the
+table. I summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was
+philandering with an orange ice. I ordered a _cr�me de menthe_. Her hair
+was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you could not look
+away from her eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are conscious of
+sunset while you look into the profundities of a wood at twilight.
+
+"Are you sure you know me?" I asked.
+
+"No," she said, smiling. "I was never sure of that."
+
+"What would you think," I said, a little anxiously, "if I were to tell
+you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas?"
+
+"What would I think?" she repeated, with a merry glance. "Why, that you
+had not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I do wish
+you had. I would have liked to see Marian." Her voice lowered
+slightly--"You haven't changed much, Elwyn."
+
+I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
+
+"Yes, you have," she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in
+her latest tones; "I see it now. You haven't forgotten. You haven't
+forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could."
+
+I poked my straw anxiously in the _cr�me de menthe_.
+
+"I'm sure I beg your pardon," I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. "But
+that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I've forgotten everything."
+
+She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed
+to see in my face.
+
+"I've heard of you at times," she went on. "You're quite a big lawyer
+out West--Denver, isn't it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of
+you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You
+may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand
+dollars."
+
+She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
+
+"Would it be too late," I asked, somewhat timorously, "to offer you
+congratulations?"
+
+"Not if you dare do it," she answered, with such fine intrepidity that
+I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb
+nail.
+
+"Tell me one thing," she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly--"a
+thing I have wanted to know for many years--just from a woman's
+curiosity, of course--have you ever dared since that night to touch,
+smell or look at white roses--at white roses wet with rain and dew?"
+
+I took a sip of _cr�me de menthe_.
+
+"It would be useless, I suppose," I said, with a sigh, "for me to repeat
+that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory is
+completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it."
+
+The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained
+my words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She
+laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound--it was a laugh of
+happiness--yes, and of content--and of misery. I tried to look away from
+her.
+
+"You lie, Elwyn Bellford," she breathed, blissfully. "Oh, I know you
+lie!"
+
+I gazed dully into the ferns.
+
+"My name is Edward Pinkhammer," I said. "I came with the delegates to
+the Druggists' National Convention. There is a movement on foot for
+arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and
+tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little
+interest."
+
+A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her
+hand, and bowed.
+
+"I am deeply sorry," I said to her, "that I cannot remember. I could
+explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
+Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the--the roses and
+other things."
+
+"Good-by, Mr. Bellford," she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as
+she stepped into her carriage.
+
+I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet
+man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails
+with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
+
+ "Mr. Pinkhammer," he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his
+forefinger, "may I request you to step aside with me for a little
+conversation? There is a room here."
+
+"Certainly," I answered.
+
+He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman
+were there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually good-looking
+had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen worry and
+fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring and
+features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling dress;
+she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and pressed an
+unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started forward, but
+the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative motion of his
+hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of forty, a little
+gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful face.
+
+"Bellford, old man," he said, cordially, "I'm glad to see you again. Of
+course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you
+were overdoing it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in
+no time."
+
+I smiled ironically.
+
+"I have been 'Bellforded' so often," I said, "that it has lost its edge.
+Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to
+entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I
+never saw you before in my life?"
+
+Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She sprang
+past his detaining arm. "Elwyn!" she sobbed, and cast herself upon me,
+and clung tight. "Elwyn," she cried again, "don't break my heart. I am
+your wife--call my name once--just once. I could see you dead rather
+than this way."
+
+I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
+
+"Madam," I said, severely, "pardon me if I suggest that you accept a
+resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity," I went on, with an amused
+laugh, as the thought occurred to me, "that this Bellford and I could
+not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium
+and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the
+allusion," I concluded airily, "it may be necessary for you to keep an
+eye on the proceedings of the Druggists' National Convention."
+
+The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
+
+"What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?" she moaned.
+
+He led her to the door.
+
+"Go to your room for a while," I heard him say. "I will remain and talk
+with him. His mind? No, I think not--only a portion of the brain. Yes,
+I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him."
+
+The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still
+manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
+
+"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may," said
+the gentleman who remained.
+
+"Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take it
+comfortably; I am rather tired." I stretched myself upon a couch by a
+window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
+
+"Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly. "Your name is not
+Pinkhammer."
+
+"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly. "But a man must have a
+name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire
+the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self suddenly, the
+fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been
+Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer."
+
+"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford. You
+are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack
+of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of
+it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too
+bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the
+room is your wife."
+
+"She is what I would call a fine-looking woman," I said, after a
+judicial pause. "I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair."
+
+"She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two
+weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in
+New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from
+Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did
+not recognize him."
+
+"I think I remember the occasion," I said. "The fellow called me
+'Bellford,' if I am not mistaken. But don't you think it about time,
+now, for you to introduce yourself?"
+
+"I am Robert Volney--Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for
+twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford
+to trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man--try to
+remember!"
+
+"What's the use to try?" I asked, with a little frown. "You say you are
+a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it
+return slowly, or suddenly?"
+
+"Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it went."
+
+"Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?" I asked.
+
+"Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power, and will have
+done everything that science can do to cure you."
+
+"Very well," said I. "Then you will consider that I am your patient.
+Everything is in confidence now--professional confidence."
+
+"Of course," said Doctor Volney.
+
+I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the
+centre table--a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.
+I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the
+couch again.
+
+"It will be best, Bobby," I said, "to have this cure happen suddenly.
+I'm rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in.
+But, oh, Doc," I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin--"good
+old Doc--it was glorious!"
+
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+A MUNICIPAL REPORT
+
+
+     The cities are full of pride,
+       Challenging each to each--
+     This from her mountainside,
+       That from her burthened beach.
+                               R. KIPLING.
+
+  Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,
+  Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States
+  that are "story cities"--New York, of course, New Orleans, and,
+  best of the lot, San Francisco.--FRANK NORRIS.
+
+
+East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.
+Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a
+State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less
+loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak
+of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into
+detail.
+
+Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half
+an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.
+But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness
+comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the
+Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation
+is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it
+is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town
+there can be no romance--what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and
+a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and
+McNally.
+
+
+  NASHVILLE--A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the
+  State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the
+  N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads.  This city is regarded
+  as the most important educational centre in the South.
+
+
+I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain
+for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the
+form of a recipe.
+
+Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;
+dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of
+honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.
+
+The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville
+drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup;
+but 'tis enough--'twill serve.
+
+I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for
+me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of
+Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and
+driven by something dark and emancipated.
+
+I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it
+the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).
+I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old
+"marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah."
+
+The hotel was one of the kind described as "renovated." That means
+$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass
+cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of
+Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management
+was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy,
+the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as
+Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There
+is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers _en
+brochette_.
+
+At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He
+pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't
+really reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown."
+
+Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long
+before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the
+streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.
+
+
+  It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted
+  by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.
+
+
+As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a
+company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with--no, I saw with
+relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan
+of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, "Kyar you
+anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned that I was
+merely a "fare" instead of a victim.
+
+I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those
+streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn't until they were
+"graded." On a few of the "main streets" I saw lights in stores here and
+there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon;
+saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of
+semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor.
+The streets other than "main" seemed to have enticed upon their borders
+houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights
+shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled
+orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little "doing."
+I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.
+
+
+  In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against
+  Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas.
+  The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a
+  terrible conflict.
+
+
+All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine
+marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the
+tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There
+were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the
+great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the
+crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a
+ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible
+battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.
+Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of
+Jefferson Brick! the tile floor--the beautiful tile floor! I could not
+avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my
+foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
+
+Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew
+him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat
+has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so
+well said almost everything:
+
+
+  Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,
+  And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
+
+
+Let us regard the word "British" as interchangeable _ad lib_. A rat
+is a rat.
+
+This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had
+forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage,
+red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.
+He possessed one single virtue--he was very smoothly shaven. The mark
+of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a
+stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have
+repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have
+been spared the addition of one murder.
+
+I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major
+Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive
+that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles;
+so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to
+apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he
+had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.
+
+I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by
+profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince
+Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug
+chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little
+lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another W�rzburger
+and wish that Longstreet had--but what's the use?
+
+Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort
+Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to
+hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam
+was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.
+Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family
+matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and
+profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in
+the land of Nod.
+
+By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure
+by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that
+I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he
+crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another
+serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of him
+brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained my
+release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and
+showed a handful of silver money.
+
+When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: "If that
+man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint,
+we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any
+known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the
+time. But we don't seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him
+out legally."
+
+"Why, no," said I, after some reflection; "I don't see my way clear
+to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as
+asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town," I continued,
+"seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or
+excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?"
+
+"Well, sir," said the clerk, "there will be a show here next Thursday.
+It is--I'll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room
+with the ice water. Good night."
+
+After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about
+ten o'clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued,
+spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the
+Ladies' Exchange.
+
+"A quiet place," I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling
+of the occupant of the room beneath mine. "Nothing of the life here that
+gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a good,
+ordinary, humdrum, business town."
+
+
+  Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing
+  centres of the country.  It is the fifth boot and shoe market
+  in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing
+  city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods,
+  grocery, and drug business.
+
+
+I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the
+digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was
+traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a
+Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal
+connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea
+Adair.
+
+Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had
+sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors
+swear approvingly over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had
+commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or her
+output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten
+or twenty.
+
+At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken livers _en brochette_
+(try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle,
+which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner I came
+upon Uncle C�sar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids,
+with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second
+afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat
+that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his ankles and had
+once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and sun and age had so
+variegated it that Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale
+monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it has to do with the
+story--the story that is so long in coming, because you can hardly
+expect anything to happen in Nashville.
+
+Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it
+had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled
+magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead
+had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving "black mammy")
+new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine
+was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a
+substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking
+devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing
+frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all
+its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone
+remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the
+buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There
+was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many
+mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of
+yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine.
+
+This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have
+started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals
+hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a
+feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling
+tones:
+
+"Step right in, suh; ain't a speck of dust in it--jus' got back from a
+funeral, suh."
+
+I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra
+cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was
+little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked
+in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.
+
+"I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street," I said, and was about to step
+into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of
+the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of
+sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly
+returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: "What are you gwine there
+for, boss?"
+
+"What is it to you?" I asked, a little sharply.
+
+"Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome kind of part of town
+and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is
+clean--jes' got back from a funeral, suh."
+
+A mile and a half it must have been to our journey's end. I could hear
+nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick
+paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with
+coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms.
+All I could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim
+houses.
+
+
+  The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets,
+  of which 137 miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost
+  $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.
+
+
+Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards
+back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees
+and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid
+the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose
+that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when
+you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former
+grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside.
+
+When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came
+to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter,
+feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.
+
+"It's two dollars, suh," he said.
+
+"How's that?" I asked. "I plainly heard you call out at the hotel:
+'Fifty cents to any part of the town.'"
+
+"It's two dollars, suh," he repeated obstinately. "It's a long ways from
+the hotel."
+
+"It is within the city limits and well within them." I argued. "Don't
+think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills
+over there?" I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them,
+myself, for the drizzle); "well, I was born and raised on their other
+side. You old fool nigger, can't you tell people from other people when
+you see 'em?"
+
+The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. "Is you from the South, suh?
+I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin' sharp
+in the toes for a Southern gen'l'man to wear."
+
+"Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?" said I inexorably.
+
+His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned,
+remained ten seconds, and vanished.
+
+"Boss," he said, "fifty cents is right; but I _needs_ two dollars, suh;
+I'm _obleeged_ to have two dollars. I ain't _demandin'_ it now, suh;
+after I know whar you's from; I'm jus' sayin' that I _has_ to have two
+dollars to-night, and business is mighty po'."
+
+Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been
+luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn,
+ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.
+
+"You confounded old rascal," I said, reaching down to my pocket, "you
+ought to be turned over to the police."
+
+For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; _he knew_. HE KNEW.
+
+I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that
+one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was
+missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A
+strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its
+negotiability.
+
+Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted
+the rope and opened a creaky gate.
+
+The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in
+twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled
+it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that
+hugged it close--the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still
+drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and
+cold.
+
+Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the
+cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the
+cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a
+queen's, received me.
+
+The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in
+it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a
+cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two
+or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon
+drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of
+Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.
+
+Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated
+to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the
+sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid
+originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at
+home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from inference and
+by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists
+made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers, trying,
+unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the
+half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne
+and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly
+everybody nowadays knows too much--oh, so much too much--of real life.
+
+I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a
+dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to
+the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas
+in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like
+a harpsichord's, and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the
+presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower
+the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy after
+I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three
+o'clock of the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the business
+proposition.
+
+"Your town," I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the
+time for smooth generalities), "seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A
+home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever
+happen."
+
+
+  It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with
+  the West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity
+  of more than 2,000 barrels.
+
+
+Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.
+
+"I have never thought of it that way," she said, with a kind of sincere
+intensity that seemed to belong to her. "Isn't it in the still, quiet
+places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the
+earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one's window
+and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the
+everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world--I mean
+the building of the Tower of Babel--result in finally? A page and a half
+of Esperanto in the _North American Review_."
+
+"Of course," said I platitudinously, "human nature is the same
+everywhere; but there is more color--er--more drama and movement
+and--er--romance in some cities than in others."
+
+"On the surface," said Azalea Adair. "I have traveled many times around
+the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings--print and dreams. I
+have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring
+with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in
+public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets
+because his wife was going out with her face covered--with rice powder.
+In San Francisco's Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped
+slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would
+never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had
+reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville
+the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates
+and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The
+boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have
+seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh,
+yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud
+and lumber yards."
+
+Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair
+breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back
+in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and
+ten years lifted from her shoulders.
+
+"You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said, "and a sugar
+cake."
+
+She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl
+about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in
+mouth and bulging eyes.
+
+Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill,
+a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two
+pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It
+was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro--there was no doubt
+about it.
+
+"Go up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy," she said, handing the
+girl the dollar bill, "and get a quarter of a pound of tea--the kind he
+always sends me--and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The
+supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted," she explained to
+me.
+
+Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet
+had died away on the back porch, a wild shriek--I was sure it was
+hers--filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry
+man's voice mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible
+words.
+
+Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two
+minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man's voice; then something
+like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.
+
+"This is a roomy house," she said, "and I have a tenant for part of it.
+I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible
+to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr. Baker
+will be able to supply me."
+
+I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired
+concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on
+my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair's name. But
+to-morrow would do.
+
+That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this
+uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but
+in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an
+accomplice--after the fact, if that is the correct legal term--to a
+murder.
+
+As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the
+polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of
+his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his
+ritual: "Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean--jus' got back from a
+funeral. Fifty cents to any--"
+
+And then he knew me and grinned broadly. "'Scuse me, boss; you is de
+gen'l'man what rid out with me dis mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh."
+
+"I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three," said I,
+"and if you will be here, I'll let you drive me. So you know Miss
+Adair?" I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.
+
+"I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh," he replied.
+
+"I judge that she is pretty poor," I said. "She hasn't much money to
+speak of, has she?"
+
+For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King
+Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack
+driver.
+
+"She ain't gwine to starve, suh," he said slowly. "She has reso'ces,
+suh; she has reso'ces."
+
+"I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip," said I.
+
+"Dat is puffeckly correct, suh," he answered humbly. "I jus' _had_ to
+have dat two dollars dis mawnin', boss."
+
+I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: "A.
+Adair holds out for eight cents a word."
+
+The answer that came back was: "Give it to her quick you duffer."
+
+Just before dinner "Major" Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the
+greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so
+instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was
+standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the
+white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks,
+hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable,
+roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks
+attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.
+
+With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a
+pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the
+dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the
+middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar
+bill again. It could have been no other.
+
+I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary,
+eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that
+just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar
+bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective
+story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: "Seems as if a
+lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver's Trust. Pays dividends
+promptly, too. Wonder if--" Then I fell asleep.
+
+King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over
+the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I
+was ready.
+
+Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked
+on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per
+word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without
+much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa
+and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored
+Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him,
+he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the
+value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired
+and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight
+cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of
+mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old
+Negro.
+
+"Uncle C�sar," he said calmly, "Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to
+give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port
+wine. And hurry back. Don't drive--run. I want you to get back sometime
+this week."
+
+It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the
+speeding powers of the land-pirate's steeds. After Uncle C�sar was
+gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me
+over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he
+had decided that I might do.
+
+"It is only a case of insufficient nutrition," he said. "In other words,
+the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many
+devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept
+nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle C�sar, who was once owned by
+her family."
+
+"Mrs. Caswell!" said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract
+and saw that she had signed it "Azalea Adair Caswell."
+
+"I thought she was Miss Adair," I said.
+
+"Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir," said the doctor. "It
+is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant
+contributes toward her support."
+
+When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea
+Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that
+were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to
+her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart.
+Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere,
+and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power
+and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on
+future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.
+
+"By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had
+royalty for a coachman. Old C�sar's grandfather was a king in Congo.
+C�sar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed."
+
+As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle C�sar's voice inside: "Did
+he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?"
+
+"Yes, C�sar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in
+and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the
+responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary
+formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle C�sar drove me back
+to the hotel.
+
+Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The
+rest must be only bare statements of facts.
+
+At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle C�sar was at his
+corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster
+and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to
+anywhere in the city--hack's puffickly clean, suh--jus' got back from a
+funeral--"
+
+And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His
+coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings
+were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button--the button of
+yellow horn--was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle C�sar!
+
+About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of
+a drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I
+wedged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs
+was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A
+doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was
+that it was conspicuous by its absence.
+
+The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by
+curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had
+been engaged in terrific battle--the details showed that. Loafer and
+reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had
+lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not
+be opened. The gentle citizens who had know him stood about and searched
+their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were possible, to
+speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought: "When 'Cas'
+was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in school."
+
+While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of "the man that was"
+which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped
+something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little
+later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last
+struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it
+in a death grip.
+
+At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the
+possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major
+Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners:
+
+"In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these
+no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon
+which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found
+the money was not on his person."
+
+I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing
+the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow
+horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends
+of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the
+slow, muddy waters below.
+
+_I wonder what's doing in Buffalo!_
+
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
+
+
+If you are a philosopher you can do this thing: you can go to the top
+of a high building, look down upon your fellow-men 300 feet below, and
+despise them as insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on
+summer ponds, they crawl and circle and hustle about idiotically without
+aim or purpose. They do not even move with the admirable intelligence
+of ants, for ants always know when they are going home. The ant is of
+a lowly station, but he will often reach home and get his slippers on
+while you are left at your elevated station.
+
+Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a creeping,
+contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires, bootblacks, beauties,
+hod-carriers and politicians become little black specks dodging bigger
+black specks in streets no wider than your thumb.
+
+From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an
+unintelligible mass of distorted buildings and impossible perspectives;
+the revered ocean is a duck pond; the earth itself a lost golf ball. All
+the minutiae of life are gone. The philosopher gazes into the infinite
+heavens above him, and allows his soul to expand to the influence of
+his new view. He feels that he is the heir to Eternity and the child of
+Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his immortal heritage,
+and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind shall traverse
+those mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet. The tiny world
+beneath his feet upon which this towering structure of steel rests as a
+speck of dust upon a Himalayan mountain--it is but one of a countless
+number of such whirling atoms. What are the ambitions, the achievements,
+the paltry conquests and loves of those restless black insects below
+compared with the serene and awful immensity of the universe that lies
+above and around their insignificant city?
+
+It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They
+have been expressly compiled from the philosophies of the world and set
+down with the proper interrogation point at the end of them to represent
+the invariable musings of deep thinkers on high places. And when the
+philosopher takes the elevator down his mind is broader, his heart is at
+peace, and his conception of the cosmogony of creation is as wide as the
+buckle of Orion's summer belt.
+
+But if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an Eighth
+Avenue candy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet
+by eight, and earned $6 per week, and ate ten-cent lunches and were
+nineteen years old, and got up at 6.30 and worked till 9, and never had
+studied philosophy, maybe things wouldn't look that way to you from the
+top of a skyscraper.
+
+Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who
+kept the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a tool-box
+of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow's nest against a corner
+of a down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit, candies,
+newspapers, song books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season. When stern
+winter shook his congealed locks and Joe had to move himself and the
+fruit inside, there was exactly room in the store for the proprietor,
+his wares, a stove the size of a vinegar cruet, and one customer.
+
+Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues
+and fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and
+wanted Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her.
+
+"I got money saved up, Daisy," was his love song; "and you know how bad
+I want you. That store of mine ain't very big, but--"
+
+"Oh, ain't it?" would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one. "Why,
+I heard Wanamaker's was trying to get you to sublet part of your floor
+space to them for next year."
+
+Daisy passed Joe's corner every morning and evening.
+
+"Hello, Two-by-Four!" was her usual greeting. "Seems to me your store
+looks emptier. You must have sold a pack of chewing gum."
+
+"Ain't much room in here, sure," Joe would answer, with his slow grin,
+"except for you, Daise. Me and the store are waitin' for you whenever
+you'll take us. Don't you think you might before long?"
+
+"Store!"--a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy's uptilted nose--"sardine
+box! Waitin' for me, you say? Gee! you'd have to throw out about a
+hundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of it, Joe."
+
+"I wouldn't mind an even swap like that," said Joe, complimentary.
+
+Daisy's existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways
+between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall
+bedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were
+so near to one another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of
+noise. She could light the gas with one hand and close the door with the
+other without taking her eyes off the reflection of her brown pompadour
+in the mirror. She had Joe's picture in a gilt frame on the dresser, and
+sometimes--but her next thought would always be of Joe's funny little
+store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great building, and
+away would go her sentiment in a breeze of laughter.
+
+Daisy's other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board
+in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a
+philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like
+continental labels on a Passaic (N. J.) suit-case. Knowledge he had
+kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as
+for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without
+so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the
+proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the
+shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails
+required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the
+population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of Mr.
+H. McKay Twombly's second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel,
+the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office
+messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, Pa., and the number
+of bones in the foreleg of a cat.
+
+The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were
+the sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk
+that he would set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And
+again he used them as breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse.
+Firing at you a volley of figures concerning the weight of a lineal
+foot of bar-iron 5 x 2 3/4 inches, and the average annual rainfall at
+Fort Snelling, Minn., he would transfix with his fork the best piece of
+chicken on the dish while you were trying to rally sufficiently to ask
+him weakly why does a hen cross the road.
+
+Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good looks,
+of a hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon kind, it
+seems that Joe, of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival worthy of his
+steel. But Joe carried no steel. There wouldn't have been room in his
+store to draw it if he had.
+
+One Saturday afternoon, about four o'clock, Daisy and Mr. Dabster
+stopped before Joe's booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and--well, Daisy
+was a woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until Joe
+had seen it. A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible object
+of the call. Joe supplied it through the open side of his store. He did
+not pale or falter at sight of the hat.
+
+"Mr. Dabster's going to take me on top of the building to observe the
+view," said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. "I never was
+on a skyscraper. I guess it must be awfully nice and funny up there."
+
+"H'm!" said Joe.
+
+"The panorama," said Mr. Dabster, "exposed to the gaze from the top of
+a lofty building is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy has
+a decided pleasure in store for her."
+
+"It's windy up there, too, as well as here," said Joe. "Are you dressed
+warm enough, Daise?"
+
+"Sure thing! I'm all lined," said Daisy, smiling slyly at his clouded
+brow. "You look just like a mummy in a case, Joe. Ain't you just put in
+an invoice of a pint of peanuts or another apple? Your stock looks awful
+over-stocked."
+
+Daisy giggled at her favorite joke; and Joe had to smile with her.
+
+"Your quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.--er--er," remarked Dabster,
+"in comparison with the size of this building. I understand the area
+of its side to be about 340 by 100 feet. That would make you occupy
+a proportionate space as if half of Beloochistan were placed upon a
+territory as large as the United States east of the Rocky Mountains,
+with the Province of Ontario and Belgium added."
+
+"Is that so, sport?" said Joe, genially. "You are Weisenheimer on
+figures, all right. How many square pounds of baled hay do you think
+a jackass could eat if he stopped brayin' long enough to keep still a
+minute and five eighths?"
+
+A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to
+the top floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and out
+upon the roof. Dabster led her to the parapet so she could look down at
+the black dots moving in the street below.
+
+"What are they?" she asked, trembling. She had never been on a height
+like this before.
+
+And then Dabster must needs play the philosopher on the tower, and
+conduct her soul forth to meet the immensity of space.
+
+"Bipeds," he said, solemnly. "See what they become even at the small
+elevation of 340 feet--mere crawling insects going to and fro at
+random."
+
+"Oh, they ain't anything of the kind," exclaimed Daisy,
+suddenly--"they're folks! I saw an automobile. Oh, gee! are we that
+high up?"
+
+"Walk over this way," said Dabster.
+
+He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far
+below, starred here and there, early as it was, by the first beacon
+lights of the winter afternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south
+and east vanishing mysteriously into the sky.
+
+"I don't like it," declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes. "Say we go
+down."
+
+But the philosopher was not to be denied his opportunity. He would let
+her behold the grandeur of his mind, the half-nelson he had on the
+infinite, and the memory he had for statistics. And then she would
+nevermore be content to buy chewing gum at the smallest store in New
+York. And so he began to prate of the smallness of human affairs, and
+how that even so slight a removal from earth made man and his works look
+like one tenth part of a dollar thrice computed. And that one should
+consider the sidereal system and the maxims of Epictetus and be
+comforted.
+
+"You don't carry me with you," said Daisy. "Say, I think it's awful to
+be up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them we saw might have
+been Joe. Why, Jiminy! we might as well be in New Jersey! Say, I'm
+afraid up here!"
+
+The philosopher smiled fatuously.
+
+"The earth," said he, "is itself only as a grain of wheat in space. Look
+up there."
+
+Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short day was spent and the stars
+were coming out above.
+
+"Yonder star," said Dabster, "is Venus, the evening star. She is
+66,000,000 miles from the sun."
+
+"Fudge!" said Daisy, with a brief flash of spirit, "where do you think
+I come from--Brooklyn? Susie Price, in our store--her brother sent her
+a ticket to go to San Francisco--that's only three thousand miles."
+
+The philosopher smiled indulgently.
+
+"Our world," he said, "is 91,000,000 miles from the sun. There are
+eighteen stars of the first magnitude that are 211,000 times further
+from us than the sun is. If one of them should be extinguished it would
+be three years before we would see its light go out. There are six
+thousand stars of the sixth magnitude. It takes thirty-six years for the
+light of one of them to reach the earth. With an eighteen-foot telescope
+we can see 43,000,000 stars, including those of the thirteenth
+magnitude, whose light takes 2,700 years to reach us. Each of these
+stars--"
+
+"You're lyin'," cried Daisy, angrily. "You're tryin' to scare me. And
+you have; I want to go down!"
+
+She stamped her foot.
+
+"Arcturus--" began the philosopher, soothingly, but he was interrupted
+by a demonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was
+endeavoring to portray with his memory instead of his heart. For to the
+heart-expounder of nature the stars were set in the firmament expressly
+to give soft light to lovers wandering happily beneath them; and if you
+stand tiptoe some September night with your sweetheart on your arm you
+can almost touch them with your hand. Three years for their light to
+reach us, indeed!
+
+Out of the west leaped a meteor, lighting the roof of the skyscraper
+almost to midday. Its fiery parabola was limned against the sky toward
+the east. It hissed as it went, and Daisy screamed.
+
+"Take me down," she cried, vehemently, "you--you mental arithmetic!"
+
+Dabster got her to the elevator, and inside of it. She was wild-eyed,
+and she shuddered when the express made its debilitating drop.
+
+Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her.
+She vanished; and he stood, bewildered, without figures or statistics
+to aid him.
+
+Joe had a lull in trade, and by squirming among his stock succeeded in
+lighting a cigarette and getting one cold foot against the attenuated
+stove.
+
+The door was burst open, and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit
+and candies, tumbled into his arms.
+
+"Oh, Joe, I've been up on the skyscraper. Ain't it cozy and warm and
+homelike in here! I'm ready for you, Joe, whenever you want me."
+
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+A BIRD OF BAGDAD
+
+
+Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al
+Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
+
+Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue--that street that the city seems
+to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue--born and bred in the
+Bowery--staggers northward full of good resolutions.
+
+Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly
+in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit
+mate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring,
+polyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and
+here the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling
+the tread of marching hosts--Hooray! But now come the silent and
+terrible mountains--buildings square as forts, high as the clouds,
+shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day.
+On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and book
+shops, where you see copies of "Littell's Living Age" and G. W. M.
+Reynold's novels in the windows. And next--poor Fourth Avenue!--the
+street glides into a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted
+to "Antiques."
+
+Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and
+menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and
+helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and
+the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully
+in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with
+Jack-o'-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound
+citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown
+that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the fighting
+dead. What street could live inclosed by these mortuary relics, and trod
+by these spectral citizens in whose sunken hearts scarce one good whoop
+or tra-la-la remained?
+
+Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the
+Little Rialto--not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There
+need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; 'tis but the suicide of a
+street. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the
+tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
+
+Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the modest
+restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its
+crumbling red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges,
+tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus--its papier-m�ch� lobster
+and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce--if you care to
+sit at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the
+yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance--to sit
+there with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle
+from which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed
+charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the "Nobleman
+in India."
+
+Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a
+Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of
+the dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become
+a reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a
+restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave
+him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house
+bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other gave him
+the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg,
+the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave--the Caliph--the Prince
+of Bohemia--going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious,
+the inexplicable, the recondite.
+
+One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth
+upon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and
+the artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his
+short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward toward the more
+central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an
+assortment of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out of
+doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its face
+value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and coffee;
+others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of full
+meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in effect,
+meal tickets good for a week.
+
+Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph's
+heart--it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of
+Harun Al Rashid's. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put
+less warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars than had
+Quigg's beef stew among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of
+Manhattan.
+
+Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of
+distress that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd
+that whooped and fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and the
+crosstown street that he was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld
+a young man of an exceedingly melancholy and preoccupied demeanor
+engaged in the pastime of casting silver money from his pockets in the
+middle of the street. With each motion of the generous one's hand the
+crowd huddled upon the falling largesse with yells of joy. Traffic was
+suspended. A policeman in the centre of the mob stooped often to the
+ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
+
+The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after
+knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his
+way swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm. "Come with me at
+once," he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had
+learned to fear.
+
+"Pinched," remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionless
+eyes. "Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me
+gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?"
+
+Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed
+Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
+
+There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph's
+mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to
+know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving
+him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and
+stores.
+
+"I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn't
+I?" asked the young man.
+
+"You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to
+scramble after," said the Margrave.
+
+"That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw
+chicken feed to-- Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,
+roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!"
+
+"Young sir," said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, "though I do
+not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know
+humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist
+eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his
+bounty--through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure
+and distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated
+misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You may
+be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler, the
+Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among his
+people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so
+much of their distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I seek
+for romance and adventure in city streets--not in ruined castles or in
+crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those that
+take place in men's hearts when acted upon by the furious and diverse
+forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this evening
+I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper than the
+wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance the
+certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat--I invite your
+confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise. Will
+you not trust me?"
+
+"Gee, how you talk!" exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration
+supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. "You've got the
+Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that
+old Turk you speak of. I read 'The Arabian Nights' when I was a kid. He
+was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say,
+you might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon
+giants all night without ever touching me. My case won't yield to that
+kind of treatment."
+
+"If I could hear your story," said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious
+smile.
+
+"I'll spiel it in about nine words," said the young man, with a deep
+sigh, "but I don't think you can help me any. Unless you're a peach at
+guessing it's back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum."
+
+THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER'S RIDDLE
+
+"I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street.
+I've worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's enough to marry
+on, ain't it? Well, I'm not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is
+one of these funny Dutchmen--you know the kind--always getting off bum
+jokes. He's got about a million riddles and things that he faked from
+Rogers Brothers' great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and
+Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it?
+Well, jobs ain't to be picked off every Anheuser bush-- And then there's
+Laura.
+
+"What? The old man's daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About
+nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of
+the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of
+straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness
+blacking--think of that!
+
+"Me? well, it's either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill
+is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?--well, you saw me plating
+the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-night. That was on
+account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of
+what I wouldst.
+
+"How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: 'Boys,
+one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles
+antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide--is
+not that--hein?' And he hands us a riddle--a conundrum, some calls
+it--and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till to-morrow
+morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us
+guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o' Wednesday night to
+his daughter's birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us
+goes, for she's naturally aching for a husband, and it's either me or
+Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry
+somebody that'll carry on the business after he's stitched his last pair
+of traces.
+
+"The riddle? Why, it was this: 'What kind of a hen lays the longest?
+Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain't it like a
+Dutchman to risk a man's happiness on a fool proposition like that?
+Now, what's the use? What I don't know about hens would fill several
+incubators. You say you're giving imitations of the old Arab guy that
+gave away--libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy
+that'll solve this hen query, or not?"
+
+When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the
+park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave
+and impressive tones:
+
+"I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in
+search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered
+a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have
+overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their
+habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and
+cross-breedings, their span of life, their--"
+
+"Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!" interrupted the young man,
+flippantly. "Riddles--especially old Hildebrant's riddles--don't have
+to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and
+Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can't strike just
+the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well,
+Your Majesty, I'm glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time
+away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of
+his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I'll say good
+night. Peace fo' yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah."
+
+The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
+
+"I cannot express my regret," he said, sadly. "Never before have I
+found myself unable to assist in some way. 'What kind of a hen lays the
+longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called
+the Plymouth Rock that--"
+
+"Cut it out," said the young man. "The Caliph trade is a mighty serious
+one. I don't suppose you'd even see anything funny in a preacher's
+defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs."
+
+From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth
+a card and handed it to the young man.
+
+"Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow," he said. "The time may come
+when it might be of use to you."
+
+"Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name is
+Simmons."
+
+   *     *     *     *     *     *
+
+Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall altogether
+pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray
+if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser's heart would
+follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of
+Hildebrant, harness maker.
+
+Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw
+leather martingale.
+
+Bill Watson came in first.
+
+"Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the
+joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
+
+"Er--why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so,
+Mr. Hildebrant--the one that lives the longest-- Is that right?"
+
+"Nein!" said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. "You haf not
+guessed der answer."
+
+Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
+
+In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco--pale, melancholy,
+hopeless.
+
+"Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays
+der longest?'"
+
+Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this
+mountain of pernicious humor--curse him and die? Why should-- But there
+was Laura.
+
+Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood.
+His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's card. He drew
+it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling
+fly. There was written on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: "Good for one
+roast chicken to bearer."
+
+Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
+
+"A dead one!" said he.
+
+"Goot!" roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. "Dot is
+right! You gome at mine house at 8 o'clock to der party."
+
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
+
+
+There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted;
+and newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young
+journalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic
+view of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced
+to very questionable sources--facts and philosophy. We will begin
+with--whichever you choose to call it.
+
+Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope
+under a bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish
+sorrows overwhelm them are we put to our wits' end. We exhaust our
+paltry store of consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep. Then
+we grovel in the dust of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we call
+out of the rat-trap. As for the children, no one understands them except
+old maids, hunchbacks, and shepherd dogs.
+
+Now comes the facts in the case of the Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion,
+and the Twenty-fifth of December.
+
+On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her
+rag-doll. There were many servants in the Millionaire's palace on the
+Hudson, and these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding
+the lost treasure. The child was a girl of five, and one of those
+perverse little beasts that often wound the sensibilities of wealthy
+parents by fixing their affections upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy
+instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and pony phaetons.
+
+The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the
+Millionaire, to whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as Bay
+State Gas; and to the Lady, the Child's mother, who was all form--that
+is, nearly all, as you shall see.
+
+The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed,
+spindling, and corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire
+smiled and tapped his coffers confidently. The pick of the output of
+the French and German toymakers was rushed by special delivery to the
+mansion; but Rachel refused to be comforted. She was weeping for her
+rag child, and was for a high protective tariff against all foreign
+foolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside manners and
+stop-watches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely about
+peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their
+stop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or
+place. Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon
+as possible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at
+therapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this
+time cablegrams were coming from Santa Claus saying that he would soon
+be here and enjoining us to show a true Christian spirit and let up on
+the pool-rooms and tontine policies and platoon systems long enough to
+give him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing
+itself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawn-brokers had doubled
+their gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red
+sleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you
+waited on one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows of
+the stores, they who had 'em were getting their furs. You hardly knew
+which was the best bet in balls--three, high, moth, or snow. It was no
+time at which to lose the rag-doll or your heart.
+
+If Doctor Watson's investigating friend had been called in to solve this
+mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the Millionaire's
+wall a copy of "The Vampire." That would have quickly suggested, by
+induction, "A rag and a bone and a hank of hair." "Flip," a Scotch
+terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child's heart, frisked through the
+halls. The hank of hair! Aha! X, the unfound quantity, represented the
+rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones they--Done! It were
+an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip's forefeet. Look, Watson!
+Earth--dried earth between the toes. Of course, the dog--but Sherlock
+was not there. Therefore it devolves. But topography and architecture
+must intervene.
+
+The Millionaire's palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a
+lawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man's face two days after a shave.
+At one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce
+trimmed to a leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had
+ravished the rag-doll from the nursery, dragged it to a corner of
+the lawn, dug a hole, and buried it after the manner of careless
+undertakers. There you have the mystery solved, and no checks to write
+for the hypodermical wizard or fi'-pun notes to toss to the sergeant.
+Then let's get down to the heart of the thing, tiresome readers--the
+Christmas heart of the thing.
+
+Fuzzy was drunk--not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or
+I might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes
+a gentleman down on his luck.
+
+Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the
+park bench, the kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary
+beds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly
+garnered largesse of great cities--these formed the chapters of his
+history.
+
+Fuzzy walked toward the river, down the street that bounded one side of
+the Millionaire's house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost
+rag-doll, protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputian murder mystery,
+from its untimely grave in a corner of the fence. He dragged forth the
+maltreated infant, tucked it under his arm, and went on his way crooning
+a road song of his brethren that no doll that has been brought up to the
+sheltered life should hear. Well for Betsy that she had no ears. And
+well that she had no eyes save unseeing circles of black; for the faces
+of Fuzzy and the Scotch terrier were those of brothers, and the heart of
+no rag-doll could withstand twice to become the prey of such fearsome
+monsters.
+
+Though you may not know it, Grogan's saloon stands near the river and
+near the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled. In Grogan's,
+Christmas cheer was already rampant.
+
+Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast of
+Saturn he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup.
+
+He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously,
+seasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as
+one entertaining his lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught
+the farce of it, and roared. The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many
+of us carry rag-dolls.
+
+"One for the lady?" suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another
+contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat.
+
+He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a
+success. Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.
+
+In a group near the stove sat "Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and
+"One-ear" Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring
+district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a
+newspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and
+blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed "One Hundred
+Dollars Reward." To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed,
+or stolen from the Millionaire's mansion. It seemed that grief still
+ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the
+terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to
+distract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking,
+mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The
+advertisement was a last resort.
+
+Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his
+one-sided parabolic way.
+
+The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his
+arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates
+elsewhere.
+
+"Say, 'Bo," said Black Riley to him, "where did you cop out dat doll?"
+
+"This doll?" asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure
+that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by
+the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country
+home in Newport. This doll--"
+
+"Cheese the funny business," said Riley. "You swiped it or picked it up
+at de house on de hill where--but never mind dat. You want to take fifty
+cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother's kid at home might be
+wantin' to play wid it. Hey--what?"
+
+He produced the coin.
+
+Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to
+the office of Sarah Bernhardt's manager and propose to him that she be
+released from a night's performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum
+and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy's laugh.
+
+Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler
+does. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine
+from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel
+unaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three inches
+of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy
+linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small,
+circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed
+the quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the
+moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without
+abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black
+Riley temporized.
+
+"Wot'll you take for it, den?" he asked.
+
+"Money," said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, "cannot buy her."
+
+He was intoxicated with the artist's first sweet cup of attainment.
+To set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic
+converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of
+plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in
+his honor--could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will
+perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament.
+
+Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other
+caf�s to conquer.
+
+Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were
+beginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet.
+Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the
+hour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted
+red. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the
+Saturnalians.
+
+"Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and "One-ear" Mike held a hasty converse
+outside Grogan's. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings, not
+fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare than
+the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have eaten
+the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already
+doomed.
+
+They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan's Casino.
+They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy could
+read--and more.
+
+"Boys," said he, "you are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week to
+think it over."
+
+The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
+
+The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless,
+and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the
+morrow.
+
+"A cool hundred," said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
+
+"Boys," said he, "you are true friends. I'll go up and claim the reward.
+The show business is not what it used to be."
+
+Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot
+of the rise on which stood the Millionaire's house. There Fuzzy turned
+upon them acrimoniously.
+
+"You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds," he roared. "Go away."
+
+They went away--a little way.
+
+In "Pigeon" McCarthy's pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight
+inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.
+One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a
+slung-shot, being a conventional thug. "One-ear" Mike relied upon a
+pair of brass knucks--an heirloom in the family.
+
+"Why fetch and carry," said Black Riley, "when some one will do it for
+ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey--what?"
+
+"We can chuck him in the river," said "Pigeon" McCarthy, "with a stone
+tied to his feet."
+
+"Youse guys make me tired," said "One-ear" Mike sadly. "Ain't progress
+ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on 'im, and
+drop 'im on the Drive--well?"
+
+Fuzzy entered the Millionaire's gate and zigzagged toward the softly
+glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate
+and lingered--one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They
+fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.
+
+Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic
+instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he
+wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.
+
+The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces
+shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his passport,
+his card of admission, his surety of welcome--the lost rag-doll of the
+daughter of the house dangling under his arm.
+
+Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen
+lights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child.
+The doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling
+to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of
+childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious
+being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy
+wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic
+smile and blattering small talk that is supposed to charm the budding
+intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging
+her Betsy close.
+
+There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and
+worshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy's hand ten
+ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to
+James, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with
+the other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial
+regions.
+
+James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far
+as the front door.
+
+When the money touched fuzzy's dingy palm his first instinct was to take
+to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that blunder
+of etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It--and, oh, what an
+elysium it opened to the gaze of his mind's eye! He had tumbled to the
+foot of the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged, cold,
+drifting; and he held in his hand the key to a paradise of the mud-honey
+that he craved. The fairy doll had waved a wand with her rag-stuffed
+hand; and now wherever he might go the enchanted palaces with shining
+foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glassware would be open to
+him.
+
+He followed James to the door.
+
+He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for
+him to pass into the vestibule.
+
+Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his
+two pals casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably
+fatal weapons that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.
+
+Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire's door and bethought himself. Like
+little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green thoughts
+and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite drunk,
+mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths and
+festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall
+gay--where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known
+polished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and--and some one
+was singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before.
+Some one singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas--Fuzzy
+though he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that.
+
+And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of
+some impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white,
+transient, forgotten ghost--the spirit of _noblesse oblige_. Upon a
+gentleman certain things devolve.
+
+James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled
+walk to the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and "One-ear" Mike saw,
+and carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate.
+
+With a more imperious gesture than James's master had ever used or could
+ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a gentleman
+certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season.
+
+"It is cust--customary," he said to James, the flustered, "when a
+gentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the season
+with the lady of the house. You und'stand? I shall not move shtep till
+I pass compl'ments season with lady the house. Und'stand?"
+
+There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it
+through the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He was
+simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.
+
+A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy
+in the hall. James explained somewhere to some one.
+
+Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.
+
+The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than
+any picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a
+doll. Fuzzy didn't understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.
+
+A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped
+sterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to
+Fuzzy.
+
+As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities dropped
+from him for one brief moment. He straightened himself; and Time, so
+disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate Fuzzy.
+
+Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most
+opulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan's whisky. What
+had the Millionaire's mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia
+hall, where the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl, drinking
+the ancient toast of the House? And why should the patter of the cab
+horses' hoofs on the frozen street be in any wise related to the sound
+of the saddled hunters stamping under the shelter of the west veranda?
+And what had Fuzzy to do with any of it?
+
+The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile
+fade away like a false dawn. Her eyes turned serious. She saw something
+beneath the rags and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not
+understand. But it did not matter.
+
+Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly.
+
+"P-pardon, lady," he said, "but couldn't leave without exchangin'
+comp'ments sheason with lady th' house. 'Gainst princ'ples gen'leman do
+sho."
+
+And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the
+House when men wore lace ruffles and powder.
+
+"The blessings of another year--"
+
+Fuzzy's memory failed him. The Lady prompted:
+
+"--Be upon this hearth."
+
+"--The guest--" stammered Fuzzy.
+
+"--And upon her who--" continued the Lady, with a leading smile.
+
+"Oh, cut it out," said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly. "I can't remember. Drink
+hearty."
+
+Fuzzy had shot his arrow. They drank. The Lady smiled again the smile of
+her caste. James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front door.
+The harp music still softly drifted through the house.
+
+Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate.
+
+"I wonder," said the Lady to herself, musing, "who--but there were so
+many who came. I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing to them
+after they have fallen so low."
+
+Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door. The Lady called: "James!"
+
+James stalked back obsequiously, leaving Fuzzy waiting unsteadily, with
+his brief spark of the divine fire gone.
+
+Outside, Black Riley stamped his cold feet and got a firmer grip on his
+section of gas-pipe.
+
+"You will conduct this gentleman," said the lady, "Downstairs. Then tell
+Louis to get out the Mercedes and take him to whatever place he wishes
+to go."
+
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
+
+
+The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces,
+bazaars, khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers
+disguises, seeking diversion and victims for their unbridled generosity.
+You can scarcely find a poor beggar whom they are willing to let enjoy
+his spoils unsuccored, nor a wrecked unfortunate upon whom they will not
+reshower the means of fresh misfortune. You will hardly find anywhere a
+hungry one who has not had the opportunity to tighten his belt in gift
+libraries, nor a poor pundit who has not blushed at the holiday basket
+of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly through his door by the
+eleemosynary press.
+
+So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed
+calenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber's Sixth Brother, hoping
+to escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans.
+
+Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories
+of those who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of the
+Faithful. Until dawn you might sit on the enchanted rug and listen to
+such stories as are told of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent the
+Forty Thieves to soak up the oil plant of Ali Baba; of the good Caliph
+Kar-Neg-Ghe, who gave away palaces; of the Seven Voyages of Sailbad, the
+Sinner, who frequented wooden excursion steamers among the islands; of
+the Fisherman and the Bottle; of the Barmecides' Boarding house; of
+Aladdin's rise to wealth by means of his Wonderful Gas-meter.
+
+But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too
+valuable to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of
+narrative languishes. And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy
+poor and the resigned unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap
+upon them strange mercies and mysterious benefits, too often comes the
+report from Arabian headquarters that the captive refused "to talk."
+
+This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of
+their philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the
+shortcomings of this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called
+
+THE STORY OF THE CALIPH WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water
+at his $1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its
+imbibition, for immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak
+soundly with his fist and shouted to the empty dining room:
+
+"By the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If
+I can get that squared, it'll do the trick."
+
+Thus, by the commonest artifice of the trade, having gained your
+interest, the action of the story will now be suspended, leaving you
+grumpily to consider a sort of dull biography beginning fifteen years
+before.
+
+When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania
+coal mine. I don't know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems
+to be standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have
+his picture taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But,
+instead of dying of overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents
+and brothers at the mercy of the union strikers' reserve fund, he
+hitched up his galluses, put a dollar or two in a side proposition now
+and then, and at forty-five was worth $20,000,000.
+
+There now! it's over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I've seen
+biographies that--but let us dissemble.
+
+I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at
+the seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble
+origin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth,
+capitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh,
+caliph; eighth, _x_. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher
+mathematics.
+
+At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a
+czar was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil,
+railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched
+Jacob's hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully
+cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage
+of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private
+secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot
+fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the
+mantle of the late H. A. Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob
+slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand, and
+became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.
+
+When a man's income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends
+him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul's
+salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be
+forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his
+wealth. The trust magnate "estimates" it. The rich malefactor hands you
+a cigar and denies that he has bought the P. D. & Q. The caliph merely
+smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a
+record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a "Where-to-Dine-Well"
+tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being
+that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher
+than did her future _divorc�_. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar
+quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in
+his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human--Count
+Tolstoi, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.
+
+Don't lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort
+of moral essay for intellectual readers.
+
+There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.
+
+When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels
+in the Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send
+a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the
+Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed
+warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is neither
+here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his favor of
+the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double line, but
+still mighty close to the matter under the caption of "Oddities of the
+Day's News" in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read that one "Jasper
+Spargyous" had "donated $100,000 to the U. B. A. of G." A camel may have
+a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him
+whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he
+have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem to have been inserted in
+the eye of a needle by that effort of that rich man to enter the K. of
+H. The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, S. Peter,
+secretary and gatekeeper.
+
+Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and
+presented it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain
+a scientific course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate
+lavatory instead, which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever
+discovered.
+
+The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C
+degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added
+the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.
+
+While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw
+two professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor
+acoustics, undesignedly reached his ear.
+
+"There goes the latest _chevalier d'industrie_," said one of them, "to
+buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree to-morrow."
+
+"_In foro conscienti�_," said the other. "Let's 'eave 'arf a brick at
+'im."
+
+Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for
+him. There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that he
+had bought. That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs Act.
+
+Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale.
+
+"If I could see folks made happier," he said to himself--"If I could see
+'em myself and hear 'em express their gratitude for what I done for 'em
+it would make me feel better. This donatin' funds to institutions and
+societies is about as satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot
+machine."
+
+So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to the
+homes of the poorest.
+
+"The very thing!" said Jacob. "I will charter two river steamboats, pack
+them full of these unfortunate children and--say ten thousand dolls and
+drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a delightful
+outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to blow the
+taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than I can work
+it off my mind."
+
+Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense
+person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a
+"Drop Letters Here" sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him
+in a space between a barber's pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came
+out of the post-office slit--smooth, husky words with gloves on 'em, but
+sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.
+
+"Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O'Grady's
+district you're buttin' into--see? Mike's got de stomach-ache privilege
+for every kid in dis neighborhood--see? And if dere's any picnics or red
+balloons to be dealt out here, Mike's money pays for 'em--see? Don't
+you butt in, or something'll be handed to you. Youse d---- settlers and
+reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have
+got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students
+and professors rough-housing de soda-water stands and dem rubber-neck
+coaches fillin' de streets, de folks down here are 'fraid to go out of
+de houses. Now, you leave 'em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows
+how to handle 'em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser
+now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit' Mike O'Grady for de Santa Claus
+belt in dis district?"
+
+Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph
+Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side.
+To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized
+charity, presented the Y. M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000
+collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers
+in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth
+for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring
+peace to the caliph's heart. He tried to get a personal note into his
+benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got
+well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with
+respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out
+an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the
+star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of
+his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to
+write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while
+his capital still kept piling up, and his _optikos needleorum
+camelibus_--or rich man's disease--was unrelieved.
+
+In Caliph Spraggins's $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who
+used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in
+Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two
+fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back
+from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors
+in the restaurant languages and those �tudes and things.
+
+Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist's delineation of her charms
+on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized
+description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful,
+brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a
+perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain
+food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too
+much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth
+that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the
+slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep
+this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.
+
+Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the
+grocer's young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged
+in conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the
+ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse
+should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid
+eggs out of the wagon.
+
+Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer's young man
+yourself. But you wouldn't have given him your heart, because you are
+saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid
+liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I
+know about it. So I am glad the grocer's young man was for Celia, and
+not for you.
+
+The grocer's young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy
+in his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the
+new frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the
+back of his head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his
+sunburned face looked like one that smiled a good deal when he was not
+preaching the doctrine of everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon
+horses. He slung imported A1 fancy groceries about as though they were
+only the stuff he delivered at boarding-houses; and when he picked up
+his whip, your mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the
+buttonless foils.
+
+Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the house.
+The grocer's wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days Celia
+watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time to
+admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing around
+the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories. Then she
+consulted Annette.
+
+To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a
+paragraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novels
+which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of
+the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia's side-kicker and
+chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn't know it, you may hazard a bean or
+two.
+
+"Oh, canary-bird seed!" exclaimed Annette. "Ain't it a corkin'
+situation? You a heiress, and fallin' in love with him on sight! He's a
+sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain't susceptible like
+the common run of grocer's assistants. He never pays no attention to
+me."
+
+"He will to me," said Celia.
+
+"Riches--" began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine
+sting.
+
+"Oh, you're not so beautiful," said Celia, with her wide, disarming
+smile. "Neither am I; but he sha'n't know that there's any money mixed
+up with my looks, such as they are. That's fair. Now, I want you to lend
+me one of your caps and an apron, Annette."
+
+"Oh, marshmallows!" cried Annette. "I see. Ain't it lovely? It's just
+like 'Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker's Wrongs.' I'll
+bet he'll turn out to be a count."
+
+There was a long hallway (or "passageway," as they call it in the land
+of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the
+house. The grocer's young man went through this to deliver his goods.
+One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow
+complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid's cap and apron. But
+as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy
+tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most
+expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of the
+maids.
+
+But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling
+"Fisher's Hornpipe" so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the
+world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for
+shame.
+
+The grocer's young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on
+his collar button behind.
+
+"That's out o' sight, Kid," said he.
+
+"My name is Celia, if you please," said the whistler, dazzling him with
+a three-inch smile.
+
+That's all right. I'm Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you work
+in?"
+
+"I'm the--the second parlor maid."
+
+"Do you know the 'Falling Waters'?"
+
+"No," said Celia, "we don't know anybody. We got rich too quick--that
+is, Mr. Spraggins did."
+
+"I'll make you acquainted," said Thomas McLeod. "It's a strathspey--the
+first cousin to a hornpipe."
+
+If Celia's whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas McLeod's
+surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could actually
+whistle _bass_.
+
+When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and ride
+with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of the
+Charon line.
+
+"I'll be around to-morrow at 10:15," said Thomas, "with some spinach and
+a case of carbonic."
+
+"I'll practice that what-you-may-call-it," said Celia. "I can whistle a
+fine second."
+
+The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general
+literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements
+of iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman's Auxiliary of
+the Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a
+description of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon
+the province of the X-ray or of park policemen.
+
+A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the
+latticed "passage."
+
+"Sixteen a week isn't much," said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his
+shoulder blades.
+
+Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march.
+Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for
+a dozen handkerchiefs.
+
+"Maybe I'll get a raise next month," said Thomas. "I'll be around
+to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap."
+
+"All right," said Celia. "Annette's married cousin pays only $20 a month
+for a flat in the Bronx."
+
+Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt
+Henrietta's invincible pride of caste and pa's mightiness as a Colossus
+of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her
+grocer's young man might go whistle for a living.
+
+Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with
+"The Devil's Dream," whistled keenly between his teeth.
+
+"Raised to eighteen a week yesterday," he said. "Been pricing flats
+around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and
+unpinning that cap, old girl."
+
+"Oh, Tommy!" said Celia, with her broadest smile. "Won't that be enough?
+I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess we could
+call it a flat pudding if we wanted to."
+
+"And tell no lie," said Thomas.
+
+"And I can sweep and polish and dust--of course, a parlor maid learns
+that. And we could whistle duets of evenings."
+
+"The old man said he'd raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan couldn't
+think of any harder name to call a Republican than a 'postponer,'" said
+the grocer's young man.
+
+"I can sew," said Celia; "and I know that you must make the gas
+company's man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and I
+know how to put up quince jam and window curtains."
+
+"Bully! you're all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off on
+eighteen."
+
+As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved discovery
+by running swiftly to the gate.
+
+"And, oh, Tommy, I forgot," she called, softly. "I believe I could make
+your neckties."
+
+"Forget it," said Thomas decisively.
+
+"And another thing," she continued. "Sliced cucumbers at night will
+drive away cockroaches."
+
+"And sleep, too, you bet," said Mr. McLeod. "Yes, I believe if I have a
+delivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I'll look in at a
+furniture store I know over there."
+
+It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck
+the sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about
+ten thousand dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the
+reflection that some stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into
+wells, move around in circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light
+on Jacob's words.
+
+The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor
+coal-digger (ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and
+bought a small tract of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise
+corn. Not a nubbin. Jacob, whose nose was a divining-rod, told him there
+was a vein of coal beneath. He bought the land from the miner for $125
+and sold it a month afterward for $10,000. Luckily the miner had enough
+left of his sale money to drink himself into a black coat opening in the
+back, as soon as he heard the news.
+
+And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the
+sudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money
+to the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe might
+be his.
+
+And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand
+words and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle
+cracked.
+
+Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any
+existed, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
+
+Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going
+to be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold
+back your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so
+people can stop reading there if they want to.
+
+After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand
+dollars--I mean miles--they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his
+confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there
+were no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one
+morning in one of their offices.
+
+Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked straight
+at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap over the top
+of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
+
+There was a slight flaw in Jacob's system of restitution. He did not
+consider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he
+represented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who had
+sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
+
+"Well, sir," said Thomas, "this sounds to me like an illustrated
+post-card from South Boston with 'We're having a good time here' written
+on it. I don't know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars money, or do
+I have to save so many coupons to get it?"
+
+Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
+
+That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully
+into his pocket.
+
+"Grandfather's best thanks," he said, "to the party who sends it."
+
+Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure
+time, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas,
+the better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so
+frank and wholesome.
+
+"I would like to have you visit my house," he said. "I might help you in
+investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have a
+daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are
+not many young men I would care to have call on her."
+
+"I'm obliged," said Thomas. "I'm not much at making calls. It's
+generally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I'm engaged to a
+girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She's a
+parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won't be working
+there much longer, though. Say, don't forget to give your friend my
+grandfather's best regards. You'll excuse me now; my wagon's outside
+with a lot of green stuff that's got to be delivered. See you again,
+sir."
+
+At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the
+Spraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back,
+he took out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them
+carelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the
+cook.
+
+"I told you he was a count," she said, after relating. "He never would
+carry on with me."
+
+"But you say he showed money," said the cook.
+
+"Hundreds of thousands," said Annette. "Carried around loose in his
+pockets. And he never would look at me."
+
+"It was paid to me to-day," Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. "It
+came from my grandfather's estate. Say, Cele, what's the use of waiting
+now? I'm going to quit the job to-night. Why can't we get married next
+week?"
+
+"Tommy," said Celia. "I'm no parlor maid. I've been fooling you. I'm
+Miss Spraggins--Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I'll be worth forty
+million dollars some day."
+
+Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time since
+we have known him.
+
+"I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me
+next week. But you _can_ whistle."
+
+"No," said Celia, "I'll not be marrying you next week. My father would
+never let me marry a grocer's clerk. But I'll marry you to-night, Tommy,
+if you say so."
+
+Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make
+of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized
+fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage
+and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had
+bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her say what a kind,
+thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
+
+There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,
+glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy
+and histrionics.
+
+"Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just
+this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be
+married. I couldn't stop her, sir. They went in a cab."
+
+"What young man?" roared old Jacob.
+
+"A millionaire, if you please, sir--a rich nobleman in disguise. He
+carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only
+to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me."
+
+Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been
+delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
+
+"Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the
+corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run
+it down."
+
+There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes
+half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly
+crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it.
+
+"What t'ell you doin'?" yelled the cabman.
+
+"Pa!" shrieked Celia.
+
+"Grandfather's remorseful friend's agent!" said Thomas. "Wonder what's
+on his conscience now."
+
+"A thousand thunders," said Gaston, or Mike. "I have no other match."
+
+"Young man," said old Jacob, severely, "how about that parlor maid you
+were engaged to?"
+
+
+A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his
+private secretary.
+
+"The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000
+toward the conversion of the Koreans," said the secretary.
+
+"Pass 'em up," said Jacob.
+
+"The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
+$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due."
+
+"Tell 'em it's been cut out."
+
+"The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
+buy alcohol to preserve specimens."
+
+"Waste basket."
+
+"The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants
+$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course."
+
+"Tell 'em to see an undertaker."
+
+"Cut 'em all out," went on Jacob. "I've quit being a good thing. I need
+every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors
+of every company that I'm interested in and recommend a 10 per cent. cut
+in salaries. And say--I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of
+the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about
+waste. I've got no money to throw away. And say--we've got vinegar
+pretty well in hand, haven't we?'
+
+"The Globe Spice & Seasons Company," said secretary, "controls the
+market at present."
+
+"Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches."
+
+Suddenly Jacob Spraggins's plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He
+walked over to the secretary's desk and showed a small red mark on his
+thick forefinger.
+
+"Bit it," he said, "darned if he didn't, and he ain't had the tooth
+three weeks--Jaky McLeod, my Celia's kid. He'll be worth a hundred
+millions by the time he's twenty-one if I can pile it up for him."
+
+As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
+
+"Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I'll be back
+in an hour and sign the letters."
+
+
+The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the
+end of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded
+all his former favorites and companions of his "Arabian Nights" rambles.
+Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only death warrant
+the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a tradesman's bill.
+
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
+
+
+HABIT--a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent
+repetition.
+
+
+The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that
+one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters
+of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we
+strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate
+Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving
+Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us
+of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart--and they
+said something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew
+or--er--yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the
+inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,
+we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable
+vade mecum--the unabridged dictionary.
+
+Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle's. Hinkle's is one of the big
+downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the "financial
+district." Each day from 12 o'clock to 2 Hinkle's was full of hungry
+customers--messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
+stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending--and also people with
+money.
+
+The cashiership at Hinkle's was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted
+and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched
+(as good a word as "dined") many more. It might be said that Hinkle's
+breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted
+to a horde.
+
+Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a
+strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at
+the bottom you thrust your waiter's check and the money, while your
+heart went pit-a-pat.
+
+For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of
+a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could--Next!--lost
+your chance--please don't shove. She could keep cool and collected while
+she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
+indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better
+than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper
+an egg with one of Hinkle's casters.
+
+There is an old and dignified allusion to the "fierce light that beats
+upon a throne." The light that beats upon the young lady cashier's cage
+is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang.
+
+Every male patron of Hinkle's, from the A. D. T. boys up to the
+curbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks
+they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid's art. Between the meshes
+of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows,
+invitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that
+was wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.
+
+There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young
+lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she
+is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin,
+leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a
+Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the cheery
+word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and
+you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the brass-bound
+inaccessibility multiplies her charms--anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted
+angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready,
+alert--Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your
+circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
+
+The young men who broke bread at Hinkle's never settled with the cashier
+without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went
+to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets
+and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms,
+generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem
+flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss
+Merriam more regularly than he ate.
+
+During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam's conversation, while she took
+money for checks, would run something like this:
+
+"Good morning, Mr. Haskins--sir?--it's natural, thank you--don't be
+quite so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny--ten, fifteen, twenty--chase along
+now or they'll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon--count
+it again, please--Oh, don't mention it . . . Vaudeville?--thanks;
+not on your moving picture--I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on
+Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons . . . 'Scuse me, I thought that
+was a quarter . . . Twenty-five and seventy-five's a dollar--got
+that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you
+addressing?--say--you'll get all that's coming to you in a
+minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett--you're always fooling--no--?
+Well, maybe I'll marry you some day--three, four and sixty-five
+is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
+please . . . Ten cents?--'scuse me; the check calls for seventy--well,
+maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that
+way, Mr. Saunders?--some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de
+Merody does suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike
+along there, buddy; don't take this for a Coney Island ticket
+booth . . . Huh?--why, Macy's--don't it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn't too
+cool--these light-weight fabrics is all the go this season . . . Come
+again, please--that's the third time you've tried to--what?--forget
+it--that lead quarter is an old friend of mine . . . Sixty-five?--must
+have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth
+Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De Forest--swell?--oh, my!--who
+is she? . . . What's the matter with it?--why, it ain't
+money--what?--Columbian half?--well, this ain't South
+America . . . Yes, I like the mixed best--Friday?--awfully
+sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday--Thursday,
+then . . . Thanks--that's sixteen times I've been told that this
+morning--I guess I must be beautiful . . . Cut that out, please--who
+do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr. Westbrook--do you really think
+so?--the idea!--one--eighty and twenty's a dollar--thank you ever so
+much, but I don't ever go automobile riding with gentlemen--your
+aunt?--well, that's different--perhaps . . . Please don't get
+fresh--your check was fifteen cents, I believe--kindly step aside and
+let . . . Hello, Ben--coming around Thursday evening?--there's a
+gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
+and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . ."
+
+About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo--whose other
+name is Fortune--suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
+while he was walking past Hinkle's, on his way to a street car. A
+wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is--move up,
+please; there are others.
+
+A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the
+spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle's restaurant.
+When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a
+beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing
+his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frapp�
+out of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed
+with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered
+consciousness.
+
+To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker
+McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward
+Miss Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with
+interest--not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.
+The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple
+were childless--they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.
+
+To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts
+of the good old couple. They came to Hinkle's again and again; they
+invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East
+Seventies. Miss Merriam's winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
+impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
+Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
+matron, n�e Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
+of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
+smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of the
+fatuity of parents.
+
+A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she
+stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
+
+"They're going to adopt me," she told the bereft restaurateur. "They're
+funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
+Say, Hinkle, there isn't any use of talking--I'm on the � la carte to
+wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
+Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I've been cashiering
+so long I feel funny doing anything else. I'll miss joshing the fellows
+awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and. But I can't let
+this chance slide. And they're awfully good, Hinkle; I know I'll have a
+swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for the week. Cut out
+the half if it hurts you, Hinkle."
+
+And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced the
+transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to
+the skin. Nerve--but just here will you oblige by perusing again the
+quotation with which this story begins?
+
+The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their
+adopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
+Miss--er--McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle's.
+To give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle's
+did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.
+
+Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
+Seventy---- Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without
+debts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember
+the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the
+W----f-A----a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie
+on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that--you did not?
+Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.
+
+At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer--er--McRamsey was
+exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
+her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity bazaar
+the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a finish. An
+earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be lower, but his
+outstanding accounts are also lower.
+
+Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
+sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
+proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
+the slums a Christmas din----Say! did you ever wonder where they get the
+other 364?
+
+Miss McRamsey--beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
+radiant--fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
+a little arched opening, fenced her in.
+
+Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring--admiring
+greatly, and faced the open wicket.
+
+"You look chawming, you know--'pon my word you do--my deah," he said,
+beguilingly.
+
+Miss McRamsey whirled around.
+
+"Cut that joshing out," she said, coolly and briskly. "Who do you think
+you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!--"
+
+Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
+certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond
+and puzzled whisker.
+
+"Miss McRamsey has fainted," some one explained.
+
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+PROOF OF THE PUDDING
+
+
+Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the _Minerva
+Magazine_, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his
+favorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office
+when his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette. Which
+is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street,
+safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and
+meandered along the walks of budding Madison Square.
+
+The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a
+pastoral; the color motif was green--the presiding shade at the creation
+of man and vegetation.
+
+The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a
+poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had
+breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree
+buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the
+garnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above
+was of that pale aquamarine tint that ballroom poets rhyme with "true"
+and "Sue" and "coo." The one natural and frank color visible was the
+ostensible green of the newly painted benches--a shade between the color
+of a pickled cucumber and that of a last year's fast-black cravenette
+raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape
+appeared a masterpiece.
+
+And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle
+concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of
+the editor's mind.
+
+Editor Westbrook's spirit was contented and serene. The April number of
+the _Minerva_ had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the
+month--a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty
+copies more if he had 'em. The owners of the magazine had raised his
+(the editor's) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a
+recently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning
+papers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers'
+banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a
+splendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he
+left his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic
+interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When
+he had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly
+hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic
+medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards
+of the convalescent city.
+
+While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches
+(already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood)
+he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be
+panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his
+captor was--Dawe--Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel
+scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
+
+While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight
+biography of Dawe is offered.
+
+He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances.
+At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had
+some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near
+Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners
+together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became "dearest" friends.
+Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself,
+ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park
+neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's
+trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble
+mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live
+by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many
+to Westbrook. The _Minerva_ printed one or two of them; the rest were
+returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter
+with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons
+for considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear
+conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was
+mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food
+that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to
+her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they sat
+down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp.
+Dawe commented.
+
+"It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe. "It may not be art, but I do
+wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella
+Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry."
+
+As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor
+Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor
+had seen Dawe in several months.
+
+"Why, Shack, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the
+form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance.
+
+"Sit down for a minute," said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. "This is my
+office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down--you won't
+be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take
+you for a swell porch-climber. They won't know you are only an editor."
+
+"Smoke, Shack?" said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the
+virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield.
+
+Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl
+pecks at a chocolate cream.
+
+"I have just--" began the editor.
+
+"Oh, I know; don't finish," said Dawe. "Give me a match. You have just
+ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and
+invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that
+couldn't read the 'Keep off the Grass' signs."
+
+"How goes the writing?" asked the editor.
+
+"Look at me," said Dawe, "for your answer. Now don't put on that
+embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don't get a job
+as a wine agent or a cab driver. I'm in the fight to a finish. I know I
+can write good fiction and I'll force you fellows to admit it yet. I'll
+make you change the spelling of 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm
+done with you."
+
+Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly
+sorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression--the
+copyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable
+contributor.
+
+"Have you read the last story I sent you--'The Alarum of the Soul'?"
+asked Dawe.
+
+"Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had
+some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it
+goes back to you. I regret--"
+
+"Never mind the regrets," said Dawe, grimly. "There's neither salve nor
+sting in 'em any more. What I want to know is _why_. Come now; out with
+the good points first."
+
+"The story," said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh, "is
+written around an almost original plot. Characterization--the best you
+have done. Construction--almost as good, except for a few weak joints
+which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good
+story, except--"
+
+"I can write English, can't I?" interrupted Dawe.
+
+"I have always told you," said the editor, "that you had a style."
+
+"Then the trouble is--"
+
+"Same old thing," said Editor Westbrook. "You work up to your climax
+like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don't
+know what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what you
+do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison
+with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its
+impossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth.
+But you spoil every d�nouement by those flat, drab, obliterating strokes
+of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would rise to
+the literary pinnacle of your dramatic senses, and paint them in the
+high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer bulky,
+self-addressed envelopes at your door."
+
+"Oh, fiddles and footlights!" cried Dawe, derisively. "You've got that
+old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black
+mustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother
+kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: 'May high heaven
+witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless
+villain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another's
+vengeance!'"
+
+Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious complacency.
+
+"I think," said he, "that in real life the woman would express herself
+in those words or in very similar ones."
+
+"Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere but on the stage," said Dawe
+hotly. "I'll tell you what she'd say in real life. She'd say: 'What!
+Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after
+another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station.
+Why wasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake,
+get out of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat--the brown one
+with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she's usually shy of
+strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm upset!'
+
+"That's the way she'd talk," continued Dawe. "People in real life don't
+fly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can't
+do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same
+vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas
+a little more, that's all."
+
+"Shack," said Editor Westbrook impressively, "did you ever pick up the
+mangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street
+car, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted
+mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and
+despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?"
+
+"I never did," said Dawe. "Did you?"
+
+"Well, no," said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. "But I can well
+imagine what she would say."
+
+"So can I," said Dawe.
+
+And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the
+oracle and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an
+unarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and
+heroines of the _Minerva Magazine_, contrary to the theories of the
+editor thereof.
+
+"My dear Shack," said he, "if I know anything of life I know that every
+sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an
+apposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of
+feeling. How much of this inevitable accord between expression and
+feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of
+art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of the
+lioness that has been deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far above
+her customary whine and purr as the kingly and transcendent utterances
+of Lear are above the level of his senile vaporings. But it is also true
+that all men and women have what may be called a sub-conscious dramatic
+sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep and powerful emotion--a
+sense unconsciously acquired from literature and the stage that prompts
+them to express those emotions in language befitting their importance
+and histrionic value."
+
+"And in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius,
+where did the stage and literature get the stunt?" asked Dawe.
+
+"From life," answered the editor, triumphantly.
+
+The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but
+dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately his
+dissent.
+
+On a bench nearby a frowzy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that
+his moral support was due a downtrodden brother.
+
+"Punch him one, Jack," he called hoarsely to Dawe. "W'at's he come
+makin' a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen'lemen that comes in
+the square to set and think?"
+
+Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure.
+
+"Tell me," asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, "what especial faults in
+'The Alarum of the Soul' caused you to throw it down?"
+
+"When Gabriel Murray," said Westbrook, "goes to his telephone and is
+told that his fianc�e has been shot by a burglar, he says--I do not
+recall the exact words, but--"
+
+"I do," said Dawe. "He says: 'Damn Central; she always cuts me off.'
+(And then to his friend) 'Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a
+big hole? It's kind of hard luck, ain't it? Could you get me a drink
+from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.'"
+
+"And again," continued the editor, without pausing for argument, "when
+Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has
+fled with the manicure girl, her words are--let me see--"
+
+"She says," interposed the author: "'Well, what do you think of that!'"
+
+"Absurdly inappropriate words," said Westbrook, "presenting an
+anti-climax--plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they
+mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms
+when confronted by sudden tragedy."
+
+"Wrong," said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. "I say no man
+or woman ever spouts 'high-falutin' talk when they go up against a real
+climax. They talk naturally and a little worse."
+
+The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside
+information.
+
+"Say, Westbrook," said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, "would you have
+accepted 'The Alarum of the Soul' if you had believed that the actions
+and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story
+that we discussed?"
+
+"It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way," said the
+editor. "But I have explained to you that I do not."
+
+"If I could prove to you that I am right?"
+
+"I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't time to argue any further
+just now."
+
+"I don't want to argue," said Dawe. "I want to demonstrate to you from
+life itself that my view is the correct one."
+
+"How could you do that?" asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
+
+"Listen," said the writer, seriously. "I have thought of a way. It is
+important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as
+correct by the magazines. I've fought for it for three years, and I'm
+down to my last dollar, with two months' rent due."
+
+"I have applied the opposite of your theory," said the editor, "in
+selecting the fiction for the _Minerva Magazine_. The circulation has
+gone up from ninety thousand to--"
+
+"Four hundred thousand," said Dawe. "Whereas it should have been boosted
+to a million."
+
+"You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory."
+
+"I will. If you'll give me about half an hour of your time I'll prove to
+you that I am right. I'll prove it by Louise."
+
+"Your wife!" exclaimed Westbrook. "How?"
+
+"Well, not exactly by her, but _with_ her," said Dawe. "Now, you know
+how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I'm the only
+genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor's signature.
+She's been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I've been cast for
+the neglected genius part."
+
+"Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion," agreed the
+editor. "I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once
+were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring
+Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we'll have one of those informal
+chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much."
+
+"Later," said Dawe. "When I get another shirt. And now I'll tell you my
+scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast--if you can call
+tea and oatmeal breakfast--Louise told me she was going to visit her
+aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three o'clock.
+She is always on time to a minute. It is now--"
+
+Dawe glanced toward the editor's watch pocket.
+
+"Twenty-seven minutes to three," said Westbrook, scanning his
+time-piece.
+
+"We have just enough time," said Dawe. "We will go to my flat at once. I
+will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where she
+will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room
+concealed by the porti�res. In that note I'll say that I have fled from
+her forever with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic
+soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and
+hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one--yours
+or mine."
+
+"Oh, never!" exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. "That would be
+inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe's feelings
+played upon in such a manner."
+
+"Brace up," said the writer. "I guess I think as much of her as you do.
+It's for her benefit as well as mine. I've got to get a market for my
+stories in some way. It won't hurt Louise. She's healthy and sound. Her
+heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It'll last for only a
+minute, and then I'll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to
+me to give me the chance, Westbrook."
+
+Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in
+the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all
+of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place.
+Pity 'tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go
+around.
+
+The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and
+then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood.
+Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat
+of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside
+the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone
+gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the
+vanished quality. _Sic transit gloria urbis_.
+
+A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again
+eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow
+flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated fa�ade. To the fifth
+story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door
+of one of the front flats.
+
+When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how
+meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
+
+"Get a chair, if you can find one," said Dawe, "while I hunt up pen and
+ink. Hello, what's this? Here's a note from Louise. She must have left
+it there when she went out this morning."
+
+He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.
+He began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having
+begun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words
+that Editor Westbrook heard:
+
+
+   "Dear Shackleford:
+
+    "By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and
+   still a-going. I've got a place in the chorus of the Occidental
+   Opera Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o'clock. I
+   didn't want to starve to death, and so I decided to make my own
+   living. I'm not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She
+   said she was tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg
+   and dictionary, and she's not coming back, either. We've been
+   practising the songs and dances for two months on the quiet. I hope
+   you will be successful, and get along all right! Good-bye.
+
+   "Louise."
+
+
+Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and
+cried out in a deep, vibrating voice:
+
+_"My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,
+then let Thy Heaven's fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting
+by-words of traitors and fiends!"_
+
+Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand
+fumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted between his pale lips:
+
+_"Say, Shack, ain't that a hell of a note? Wouldn't that knock you off
+your perch, Shack? Ain't it hell, now, Shack--ain't it?"_
+
+
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+PAST ONE AT ROONEY'S
+
+
+Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet and
+Montagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If
+you but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have
+work cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a
+dozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but in
+the domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the
+niceties of deportment to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch of
+elbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house and
+kin.
+
+So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted
+into Dutch Mike's for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of
+Montagus making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest
+parliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his
+thirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where the
+mirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy's movements that his
+indifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that the
+finger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at Dutch
+Mike's that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio,
+companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the Mulberry
+Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P's and Q's so
+solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and the other
+on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom to seek
+safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival associations
+congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
+
+But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry
+Docks. We must to Rooney's, where, on the most blighted dead branch of
+the tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
+
+Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first
+overstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were
+immediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like
+swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane deck.
+But McManus's simile must be the torpedo. He glided in under the guns
+and slipped a scant three inches of knife blade between the ribs of the
+Mulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a devotee to strategy,
+had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch of the
+electrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire alone.
+Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying for the
+watch instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian shindy.
+
+The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by three
+distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the ethics of
+the gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no Capulet to be
+seen.
+
+"Raus mit der interrogatories," said Buck Malone to the officer. "Sure I
+know who done it. I always manages to get a bird's eye view of any guy
+that comes up an' makes a show case for a hardware store out of me. No.
+I'm not telling you his name. I'll settle with um meself. Wow--ouch!
+Easy, boys! Yes, I'll attend to his case meself. I'm not making any
+complaint."
+
+At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Side
+dock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick Cleary
+drifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. "He'll maybe
+not croak," said Brick; "and he won't tell, of course. But Dutch Mike
+did. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up. It's
+unhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan's in Europe for a week's end with
+Kings. He'll be back on the _Kaiser Williams_ next Friday. You'll have
+to duck out of sight till then. Tim'll fix it up all right for us when
+he comes back."
+
+This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney's one night and
+there looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the first
+time in his precarious career.
+
+Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princes
+and hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe for
+Cork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the high
+rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing the
+slow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_.
+
+It was on Thursday evening that Cork's seclusion became intolerable to
+him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool touch
+of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the hollow
+of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and repartee
+along and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the district where
+he was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere, for news was
+scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the failure of the
+police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back,
+the big white finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then.
+But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would be
+small danger in a little excursion that night among the crass pleasures
+that represented life to him.
+
+At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street looking
+up at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent lights against
+a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the place
+as a tough "hang-out"; with its frequenters and its locality he was
+unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all such
+resorts, he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over the
+caf�.
+
+Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled
+with Rooney's guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human
+pianola with drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furious
+unprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak a
+song--songs full of "Mr. Johnsons" and "babes" and "coons"--historical
+word guaranties of the genuineness of African melodies composed by red
+waistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the cotton fields and rice
+swamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.
+
+For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives,
+seats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He
+has Wellington's nose, Dante's chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois,
+the smile of Talleyrand, Corbett's foot work, and the poise of an
+eleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assisted
+by a lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who
+goes among the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now,
+what is there about Rooney's to inspire all this pother? It is more
+respectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens and
+bundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and a
+chat. Even by gaslight the diversions are melancholy i' the mouth--drink
+and rag-time, and an occasional surprise when the waiter swabs the suds
+from under your sticky glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! The
+soul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed doublet
+to a kindred home under Rooney's visible plaid waistcoat. Rooney's is
+twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has removed the embargo. Rooney
+has spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of public opinion, and any
+Elizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as another. Attend to
+the revelation of the secret. In Rooney's ladies may smoke!
+
+McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer
+that he ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his
+brick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and
+heaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his innermost
+soul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his taste. The sham
+gaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious,
+joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving the
+hour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presence
+of well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney's removal of the
+restrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked
+lemon peel, flat beer, and _peau d'Espagne_--all these were manna to
+Cork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet's high
+rear room.
+
+A girl, alone, entered Rooney's, glanced around with leisurely
+swiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested upon
+him for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres all men
+whom she for the first time confronts. In that space of time she will
+decide upon one of two things--either to scream for the police, or that
+she may marry him later on.
+
+Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn red
+morocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed lace
+handkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a small
+beer from the immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of cigarettes
+and lighted one with slightly exaggerated ease of manner. Then she
+looked again in the eyes of Cork McManus and smiled.
+
+Instantly the doom of each was sealed.
+
+The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for a
+woman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among
+that humble portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or
+coats-of-arms or Shaw's plays. Love at first sight has occurred a time
+or two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be found
+among unsophisticated creatures such as the dove, the blue-tailed
+dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk. Poets, subscribers to all
+fiction magazines, and schatchens, take notice.
+
+With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each of
+them the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which is
+the worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as love.
+
+"Have another beer?" suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was
+considered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and
+references.
+
+"No, thanks," said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her
+conventional words carefully. "I--merely dropped in for--a slight
+refreshment." The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require
+explanation. "My aunt is a Russian lady," she concluded, "and we often
+have a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home."
+
+"Cheese it!" said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. "Your fingers are
+as yellow as mine."
+
+"Say," said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,
+"what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?
+What?"
+
+She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and
+bright. Under her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, her
+crinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in a
+thick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still lingered in
+her chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.
+She looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.
+Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below her
+black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk underskirt.
+
+"Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't mean
+anything. Sure, it's no harm to smoke, Maudy."
+
+"Rooney's," said the girl, softened at once by his amends, "is the only
+place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain't a nice habit, but
+aunty lets us at home. And my name ain't Maudy, if you please; it's Ruby
+Delamere."
+
+"That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine's
+McManus--Cor--er--Eddie McManus."
+
+"Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize."
+
+Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl's
+ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
+
+"I know it's late," she said, reaching for her bag; "but you know how
+you want a smoke when you want one. Ain't Rooney's all right? I never
+saw anything wrong here. This is twice I've been in. I work in a
+bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been working
+overtime three nights a week. They won't let you smoke there, of course.
+I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain't it all right in
+here? If it ain't, I won't come any more."
+
+"It's a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere," said Cork.
+"I'm not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don't want to
+have your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday School
+teacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home."
+
+"But I don't know you," said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. "I don't
+accept the company of gentlemen I ain't acquainted with. My aunt never
+would allow that."
+
+"Why," said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, "I'm the latest thing in
+suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin' a
+lady. You bet you'll find me all right, Ruby. And I'll give you a tip as
+to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the Wall
+Street push. Morgan's cab horse casts a shoe every time the old man
+sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I'm in trainin' down the
+Street. The old man's goin' to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in my
+stockin' my next birthday. But it all sounds like a lemon to me. What I
+like is golf and yachtin' and--er--well, say a corkin' fast ten-round
+bout between welter-weights with walkin' gloves."
+
+"I guess you can walk to the door with me," said the girl hesitatingly,
+but with a certain pleased flutter. "Still I never heard anything extra
+good about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights,
+either. Ain't you got any other recommendations?"
+
+"I think you're the swellest looker I've had my lamps on in little old
+New York," said Cork impressively.
+
+"That'll be about enough of that, now. Ain't you the kidder!" She
+modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished
+look at her cavalier. "We'll drink our beer before we go, ha?"
+
+A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in
+spirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended
+fogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.
+Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney's liquids and
+Rooney's gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine.
+
+One o'clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and
+locking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows
+carefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front
+door, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforth
+whoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar to
+Rooney's hawk's eye--the countenance of a true sport.
+
+Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their
+elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,
+scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.
+Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney's had become
+renovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,
+but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The flattest
+glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punch
+struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial company
+became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of one
+in such places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had,
+drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.
+It is the law.
+
+"Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent
+chest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you workin' in the
+bookbindery and livin' at home--and just happenin' in here--and--and
+all that spiel you gave me?"
+
+"Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you think?
+Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask 'em. I handed
+it to you on the level."
+
+"On the dead level?" said Cork. "That's the way I want it; because--"
+
+"Because what?"
+
+"I throw up my hands," said Cork. "You've got me goin'. You're the girl
+I've been lookin' for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?"
+
+"Would you like me to--Eddie?"
+
+"Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about--about yourself, you
+know. When a fellow had a girl--a steady girl--she's got to be all
+right, you know. She's got to be straight goods."
+
+"You'll find I'll be straight goods, Eddie."
+
+"Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can't blame me
+for wantin' to find out. You don't see many girls smokin' cigarettes in
+places like Rooney's after midnight that are like you."
+
+The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," she
+said meekly. "I didn't know how bad it looked. But I won't do it any
+more. And I'll go straight home every night and stay there. And I'll
+give up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie--I'll cut 'em out from this
+minute on."
+
+Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.
+"A lady can smoke," he decided, slowly, "at times and places. Why?
+Because it's bein' a lady that helps her pull it off."
+
+"I'm going to quit. There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flicked
+the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
+
+"At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you of
+evenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a
+puff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock--see?"
+
+"Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searched his hard but frank
+features eagerly with anxious eyes.
+
+"On the dead level."
+
+"When are you coming to see me--where I live?"
+
+"Thursday--day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?"
+
+"Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with me
+to-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now. And don't
+you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you will,
+though."
+
+"On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-dolls to
+me. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the dead level, I do."
+
+Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.
+The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a
+policeman's foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney
+jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric
+lights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except
+for the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of
+crashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring
+panic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring,
+could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table
+to table.
+
+"All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise!
+Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm. We'll
+take care of you all."
+
+Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers. "Are
+you afraid, Eddie?" she whispered. "Are you afraid you'll get a free
+ride?"
+
+"Nothin' doin' in the teeth-chatterin' line," said Cork. "I guess
+Rooney's been slow with his envelope. Don't you worry, girly; I'll look
+out for you all right."
+
+Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the police
+looking everywhere for Buck Malone's assailant, and with Corrigan still
+on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would mean
+an ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high rear room
+of the true Capulet reading the pink extras.
+
+Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the police
+in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their voices
+came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of himself at
+the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the extreme rear
+of the room and lighted a dim gas jet.
+
+"This way, everybody!" he called sharply. "In a hurry; but no noise,
+please!"
+
+The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney's lieutenant swung
+open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder
+already placed for the escape.
+
+"Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less talking,
+please! Don't crowd! There's no danger."
+
+Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.
+Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
+
+"Before we go out," she whispered in his ear--"before anything happens,
+tell me again, Eddie, do you l--do you really like me?"
+
+"On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm, "when it
+comes to you, I'm all in."
+
+When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last
+of the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they
+bore the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an
+adjoining low building over the roof of which their only route to
+safety.
+
+"We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will stand
+the cops off, anyhow."
+
+They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
+
+A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. One
+of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the electric
+light. The other man was a cop of the old r�gime--a big cop, a thick
+cop, a fuming, abrupt cop--not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair at
+the table and sneered familiarly at the girl.
+
+"What are youse doin' in here?" he asked.
+
+"Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly.
+
+"Had any drinks?"
+
+"Not later than one o'clock."
+
+"Get out--quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he countermanded.
+
+He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Your
+name's McManus."
+
+"Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson."
+
+"Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a knife
+into a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago."
+
+"Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
+officer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's."
+
+"Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be looked
+over. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted his fingers
+under Cork's collar. "Come on!" he ordered roughly.
+
+Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered.
+Her quick eye danced from one man's face to the other as they spoke or
+moved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking--Corrigan on the briny; and
+Ruby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station
+would recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck!
+
+But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms
+extended against the cop. His hold on Cork's collar was loosened and he
+stumbled back two or three paces.
+
+"Don't go so fast, Maguire!" she cried in shrill fury. "Keep your hands
+off my man! You know me, and you know I'm givin' you good advice. Don't
+you touch him again! He's not the guy you are lookin' for--I'll stand
+for that."
+
+"See here, Fanny," said the Cop, red and angry, "I'll take you, too, if
+you don't look out! How do you know this ain't the man I want? What are
+you doing in here with him?"
+
+"How do I know?" said the girl, flaming red and white by turns. "Because
+I've known him a year. He's mine. Oughtn't I to know? And what am I
+doin' here with him? That's easy."
+
+She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted
+draperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the
+table toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened
+itself with little leisurely jerks.
+
+"Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin' the
+usual dividends, Maguire," she said to the officer. "You had your usual
+five-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten."
+
+"A lie!" said the cop, turning purple. "You go on my beat again and I'll
+arrest you every time I see you."
+
+"No, you won't," said the girl. "And I'll tell you why. Witnesses saw me
+give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I've been getting fixed
+for you."
+
+Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: "Come on,
+Fanny; let's have some chop suey before we go home."
+
+"Clear out, quick, both of you, or I'll--"
+
+The cop's bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
+
+At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the
+money without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her
+hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered
+Rooney's that night--she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion
+and sullen wonder.
+
+"I guess I might as well say good-bye here," she said dully. "You won't
+want to see me again, of course. Will you--shake hands--Mr. McManus."
+
+"I mightn't have got wise if you hadn't give the snap away," said Cork.
+"Why did you do it?"
+
+"You'd have been pinched if I hadn't. That's why. Ain't that reason
+enough?" Then she began to cry. "Honest, Eddie, I was goin' to be the
+best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was
+ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from
+everybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I'd
+make you believe I was good, and I was goin' to be good. When you asked
+to come to my house and see me, why, I'd have died rather than do
+anything wrong after that. But what's the use of talking about it? I'll
+say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus."
+
+Cork was pulling at his ear. "I knifed Malone," said he. "I was the one
+the cop wanted."
+
+"Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make any
+difference about that."
+
+"That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don't do nothin' but hang out
+with a tough gang on the East Side."
+
+"That was all right, too," repeated the girl. "It didn't make any
+difference."
+
+Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. "I could get a
+job at O'Brien's," he said aloud, but to himself.
+
+"Good-by," said the girl.
+
+"Come on," said Cork, taking her arm. "I know a place."
+
+Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house
+facing a little park.
+
+"What house is this?" she asked, drawing back. "Why are you going in
+there?"
+
+A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at
+one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps.
+"Read that," said he.
+
+She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a
+scream. "No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won't let you do that--not
+now! Let me go! You shan't do that! You can't--you mus'n't! Not after
+you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!"
+
+Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork's
+right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
+
+Another cop--how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the
+wing!--came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are you
+doing with that girl?" he called gruffly.
+
+"She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork. "It's a straight deal."
+
+"Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with true
+detective cunning.
+
+"Correct," said Cork. "On the dead level, we're goin' to get married."
+
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+THE VENTURERS
+
+
+Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the _Non Sequitur_
+Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation
+car "_Raison d'�tre_" for one moment. It is for no longer than to
+consider a brief essay on the subject--let us call it: "What's Around
+the Corner."
+
+_Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est_--men who wear rubbers and pay
+poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more
+continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and
+the poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be
+paralleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.
+
+Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the
+dictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a
+prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk
+in the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and
+alluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance is
+the beautiful countenance--perfect because vague and dream-born--that we
+see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and
+toast.
+
+The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and wayside
+groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the
+difference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit
+was the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it
+happened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is
+disturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and
+city-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children
+and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the flickering
+gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of two modern
+followers of Chance.
+
+
+"Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?" asked
+Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate
+the interior of the Powhatan Club.
+
+"Doubtless," said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.
+
+Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long
+before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the
+air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted
+and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go
+away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,
+must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one
+else. (I had written that "somebody"; but an A. D. T. boy who once took
+a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the
+compound word. This is a vice versa case.)
+
+Forster's favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower of
+Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition
+and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied him
+full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares and
+many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life.
+But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew what was to be found
+at the end of every street. He knew from experience and logic almost
+precisely to what end each digression from routine must lead. He found a
+depressing monotony in all the variations that the music of his sphere
+had grafted upon the tune of life. He had not learned that, although the
+world was made round, the circle has been squared, and that it's true
+interest is to be in "What's Around the Corner."
+
+Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax
+either his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He
+would have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no
+hope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the
+Greater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan
+chair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,
+uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.
+
+At the end of an hour's stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,
+smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old
+hotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that
+he must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of his
+favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the service and
+so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger that must be
+appeased by the "dead perfection" of the place's cuisine. Even the music
+there seemed to be always playing _da capo_.
+
+Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,
+restaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all
+countries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorous
+American. Something might happen there out of the routine--he might come
+upon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a question
+without an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life's
+salt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business suit
+that would not be questioned even where the waiters served the spaghetti
+in their shirt sleeves.
+
+So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because
+the more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the
+thirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored
+carefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five
+figures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but--
+
+Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really
+regarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of
+thirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one waiting
+for a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So his
+proximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of the
+nature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker after
+"What's Around the Corner," instead of manifesting resentment he only
+turned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other's grin of amusement.
+
+"All in?" asked the intruder, drawing nearer.
+
+"Seems so," said Forster. "Now, I thought there was a dollar in--"
+
+"Oh, I know," said the other man, with a laugh. "But there wasn't. I've
+just been through the same process myself, as I was coming around the
+corner. I found in an upper vest pocket--I don't know how they got
+there--exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly two
+pennies will buy!"
+
+"You haven't dined, then?" asked Forster.
+
+"I have not. But I would like to. Now, I'll make you a proposition.
+You look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and
+respectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny
+of a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine
+together. We will choose from the menu like millionaires--or, if you
+prefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly
+for once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to
+see which of us will stand the brunt of the house's displeasure and
+vengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same station
+of life--before our money took wings."
+
+"You're on," said Forster, joyfully.
+
+Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious country
+of Chance--anyhow, it promised something better than the stale
+infestivity of a table d'h�te.
+
+The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.
+Ives chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster.
+
+"Match for which of us gives the order," he said.
+
+Forster lost.
+
+Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with the
+absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born. Forster,
+listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.
+
+"I am a man," said Ives, during the oysters, "Who has made a lifetime
+search after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the ordinary
+adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like a gambler
+who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake. What I want
+is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion.
+It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its blindest
+manifestations. The world has come to run so much by rote and
+gravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance in
+which you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expect
+at its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who always
+complained bitterly when any one came in to ask information. 'He wanted
+to _know_, you know!' was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks. Well,
+I don't want to know, I don't want to reason, I don't want to guess--I
+want to bet my hand without seeing it."
+
+"I understand," said Forster delightedly. "I've often wanted the way I
+feel put into words. You've done it. I want to take chances on what's
+coming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course."
+
+"Agreed," said Ives. "I'm glad you catch my idea. It will increase the
+animosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, we
+will pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true venturer--one
+who does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.
+But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficult
+it is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee. In
+the Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from
+doors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle of
+a wall and 'get away with it.' Nowadays, if you speak disrespectfully to
+a policeman, all that is left to the most romantic fancy is to
+conjecture in what particular police station he will land you."
+
+"I know--I know," said Forster, nodding approval.
+
+"I returned to New York to-day," continued Ives, "from a three years'
+ramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad than they are
+at home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The only
+thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I've tried shooting big
+game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many yards;
+and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I enjoy it
+about as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a sum in
+long division on the blackboard."
+
+"I know--I know," said Forster.
+
+"There might be something in aeroplanes," went on Ives, reflectively.
+"I've tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried affair
+of wind and ballast."
+
+"Women," suggested Forster, with a smile.
+
+"Three months ago," said Ives. "I was pottering around in one of the
+bazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but with
+a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some amber and
+pearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an attendant--a big
+Nubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant drew nearer to me
+by degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand. I looked at it
+when I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in pencil: 'The arched
+gate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.' Does that appear to
+you to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?"
+
+"I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the
+property of an old Turk--a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Of
+course I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The same
+Nubian attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside and
+sat on a bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had quite
+an extended chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who was
+writing up the Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said she
+noticed the New York cut of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered if
+I couldn't work something into the metropolitan papers about it."
+
+"I see," said Forster. "I see."
+
+"I've canoed through Canada," said Ives, "down many rapids and over many
+falls. But I didn't seem to get what I wanted out of it because I knew
+there were only two possible outcomes--I would either go to the bottom
+or arrive at the sea level. I've played all games at cards; but the
+mathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the percentages.
+I've made acquaintances on trains, I've answered advertisements, I've
+rung strange door-bells, I've taken every chance that presented itself;
+but there has always been the conventional ending--the logical
+conclusion to the premise."
+
+"I know," repeated Forster. "I've felt it all. But I've had few
+chances to take my chance at chances. Is there any life so devoid of
+impossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad of
+opportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousand
+fails to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways and
+street cars disappointed one as seldom."
+
+"The sun has risen," said Ives, "on the Arabian nights. There are
+no more caliphs. The fisherman's vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,
+warranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours.
+Life moves by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no more
+opportunities such as Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster had.
+The only certain thing is that there is nothing uncertain."
+
+"Well," said Forster, "my experience has been the limited one of a city
+man. I haven't seen the world as you have; but it seems that we view
+it with the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even this
+little venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There may
+be at least one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner is
+presented. Perhaps, after all, the pilgrims who traveled without scrip
+or purse found a keener taste to life than did the knights of the Round
+Table who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur's certified checks
+in the lining of their helmets. And now, if you've finished your coffee,
+suppose we match one of your insufficient coins for the impending blow
+of Fate. What have I up?"
+
+"Heads," called Ives.
+
+"Heads it is," said Forster, lifting his hand. "I lose. We forgot to
+agree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when the
+waiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I will
+hold the fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hat
+and be off. I thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives,
+and wish we might have others."
+
+"If my memory is not at fault," said Ives, laughing, "the nearest police
+station is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too, let me
+assure you."
+
+Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotive
+effort that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism,
+glided to the table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser's
+cup. Forster took it up and added the figures with deliberate care. Ives
+leaned back comfortably in his chair.
+
+"Excuse me," said Forster; "but I thought you were going to ring Grimes
+about that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten about
+it?"
+
+"Oh," said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, "I can do that later
+on. Get me a glass of water, waiter."
+
+"Want to be in at the death, do you?" asked Forster.
+
+"I hope you don't object," said Ives, pleadingly. "Never in my life have
+I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling it out
+of a dinner."
+
+"All right," said Forster, calmly. "You are entitled to see a Christian
+die in the arena as your _pousse-caf�_."
+
+Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged
+air of an inexorable collector.
+
+Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his
+pocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and
+took it away.
+
+"The fact is," said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, "I doubt
+whether I'm what they call a 'game sport,' which means the same as a
+'soldier of Fortune.' I'll have to make a confession. I've been dining
+at this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I always
+sign my checks." And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice: "It
+was first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you knew I
+had no money, and that you might be scooped in, too."
+
+"I guess I'll confess, too," said Ives, with a grin. "I own the hotel.
+I don't run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor
+for my use when I happen to stray into town."
+
+He called a waiter and said: "Is Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? All
+right. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms made
+ready and aired."
+
+"Another venture cut short by the inevitable," said Forster. "Is there
+a conundrum without an answer in the next number? But let's hold to our
+subject just for a minute or two, if you will. It isn't often that I
+meet a man who understands the flaws I pick in existence. I am engaged
+to be married a month from to-day."
+
+"I reserve comment," said Ives.
+
+"Right; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond of
+the lady; but I can't decide whether to show up at the church or
+make a sneak for Alaska. It's the same idea, you know, that we were
+discussing--it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.
+Everybody knows the routine--you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea
+after breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress for
+dinner--theatre twice a week--bills--moping around most evenings trying
+to make conversation--a little quarrel occasionally--maybe sometimes a
+big one, and a separation--or else a settling down into a middle-aged
+contentment, which is worst of all."
+
+"I know," said Ives, nodding wisely.
+
+"It's the dead certainty of the thing," went on Forster, "that keeps me
+in doubt. There'll nevermore be anything around the corner."
+
+"Nothing after the 'Little Church,'" said Ives. "I know."
+
+"Understand," said Forster, "that I am in no doubt as to my feelings
+toward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there
+is something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out
+against any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I
+know that I want it. I'm talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I'm sure
+of what I mean."
+
+"I understand you," said Ives, with a slow smile. "Well, I think I will
+be going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one evening
+soon, Mr. Forster, I'd be glad."
+
+"Thursday?" suggested Forster.
+
+"At seven, if it's convenient," answered Ives.
+
+"Seven goes," assented Forster.
+
+At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in one
+of the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the reception
+room of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of Fortune, Chance
+and Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistler
+etchings, the steel engravings by Oh-what's-his-name?, the still-life
+paintings of the grapes and garden truck with the watermelon seeds
+spilled on the table as natural as life, and the Greuze head. It was
+a household. There was even brass andirons. On a table was an album,
+half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on the corners of the
+lids. A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, with a warning click at five
+minutes to nine. Ives looked at it curiously, remembering a time-piece
+in his grandmother's home that gave such a warning.
+
+And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was
+twenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this
+much--youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet
+eyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with
+the sweet cordiality of an old friendship.
+
+"You can't think what a pleasure it is," she said, "to have you drop in
+once every three years or so."
+
+For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the
+conversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library. When
+that part of it was over, Mary said:
+
+"And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?"
+
+"What I wanted?" said Ives.
+
+"Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn't play
+marbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water
+where you didn't know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. And
+when you grew up you were just the same. We've often talked about your
+peculiar ways."
+
+"I suppose I am an incorrigible," said Ives. "I am opposed to the
+doctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation, taxation,
+and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me something like
+a serial story would be if they printed above each instalment a synopsis
+of _succeeding_ chapters."
+
+Mary laughed merrily.
+
+"Bob Ames told us once," she said, "of a funny thing you did. It was
+when you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a town
+where you hadn't intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up a
+sign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it."
+
+"I remember," said Ives. "That 'next station' has been the thing I've
+always tried to get away from."
+
+"I know it," said Mary. "And you've been very foolish. I hope you didn't
+find what you wanted not to find, or get off at the station where there
+wasn't any, or whatever it was you expected wouldn't happen to you
+during the three years you've been away."
+
+"There was something I wanted before I went away," said Ives.
+
+Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweet
+smile.
+
+"There was," she said. "You wanted me. And you could have had me, as you
+very well know."
+
+Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There
+had been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years
+before. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind then.
+The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the everlasting
+hills. No change would ever come there except the inevitable ones
+wrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album would occupy that
+corner of that table, those pictures would hang on the walls, those
+chairs be found in their same places every morn and noon and night while
+the household hung together. The brass andirons were monuments to order
+and stability. Here and there were relics of a hundred years ago which
+were still living mementos and would be for many years to come. One
+going from and coming back to that house would never need to forecast or
+doubt. He would find what he left, and leave what he found. The veiled
+lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outer
+door.
+
+And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet
+and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass
+his life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he
+would never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her,
+and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the
+house itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was the
+knowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thus
+his thoughts ran.
+
+"I am going to be married soon," said Mary.
+
+On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive's hotel.
+
+"Old man," said he, "we'll have to put that dinner off for a year or so;
+I'm going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk we
+had the other night, and it decided me. I'm going to knock around the
+world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both you and
+me--the terrible dread of knowing what's going to happen. I've done one
+thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it's best for both
+of us. I've written to the lady to whom I was engaged and explained
+everything--told her plainly why I was leaving--that the monotony of
+matrimony would never do for me. Don't you think I was right?"
+
+"It is not for me to say," answered Ives. "Go ahead and shoot elephants
+if you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We've
+got to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,
+Forster, I've found the way. I've found out the biggest hazard in the
+world--a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end
+in the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge
+until the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know--not
+until his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage without
+a rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch,
+every day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found
+the VENTURE. Don't bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster.
+I married her yesterday at noon."
+
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+THE DUEL
+
+
+The gods, lying beside their nectar on 'Lympus and peeping over the edge
+of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would seem
+that to their vision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills
+without special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits
+of ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when
+coupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only
+solace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of
+villages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to
+many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among
+the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story
+addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet
+on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment
+while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I
+love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.
+
+New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus
+beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine's. They
+came here in various ways and for many reasons--Hendrik Hudson, the art
+schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers' convention, the
+Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates,
+brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight
+trains--all these have had a hand in making up the population.
+
+But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan
+has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his
+adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no
+rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.
+
+Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the
+ferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has
+conquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket
+or only the price of a week's lodging.
+
+The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn
+the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You
+cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against--lover or enemy--bosom
+friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only
+by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the
+subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse,
+Beethoven, chloral and John L. in his best days.
+
+In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long
+as you please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and
+be a citizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and
+without rebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but
+Knickerbocker's, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings,
+comparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair's residence in
+Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in
+New York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern Troy,
+concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism. And this
+dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant figures of
+William and Jack.
+
+They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They
+came to dig their fortunes out of the big city.
+
+Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander on
+the nose and the other an upper-cut with his left, just to let them know
+that the fight was on.
+
+William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and
+ambitious; so they countered and clinched. I think they were from
+Nebraska or possibly Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for
+success and scraps and scads, and they tackled the city like two
+Lochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at the City Hall.
+
+Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man
+blew in like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped into
+the chair that was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and had
+ordered as far as cheese before the artist had time to do more than nod.
+After the nod a humorous smile came into his eyes.
+
+"Billy," he said, "you're done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has
+taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand. You
+are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen to-day that you couldn't
+be picked out from them if it weren't for your laundry marks."
+
+"Camembert," finished William. "What's that? Oh, you've still
+got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old
+Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It's giving me mine.
+And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world--only
+slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell
+myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon,
+and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from
+the East. But I'd never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the
+rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard this
+fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife made me
+go. Give me May Irwin or E. S. Willard any time."
+
+"Poor Billy," said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. "You
+remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this
+great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it
+get the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had
+always been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man. You
+have changed from a maverick into a butterick."
+
+"Don't see exactly what you are driving at," said William. "I don't wear
+an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress
+occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a
+pattern--well, ain't the pattern all right? When you're in Rome you've
+got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged
+metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad
+schedule I've got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are
+asterisk stops--which means you wave a red flag and get on every other
+Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There's
+something or somebody doing all the time. I'm clearing $8,000 a year
+selling automatic pumps, and I'm living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I
+was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent's
+sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May
+play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke
+everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board
+sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There's
+only one thing in it that I don't care for, and that's a ferryboat."
+
+The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. "This
+town," said he, "is a leech. It drains the blood of the country. Whoever
+comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the figure of the
+leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence,
+the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute. Hand to hand
+every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You've lost, Billy. It
+shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or--the
+color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very vastness and
+power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the
+lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It
+has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its chariot wheels.
+It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars. Give me the
+domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or one ruled by
+an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest ingredients.
+Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its pre-eminence,
+it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is the
+narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country.
+I would go back there to-morrow if I could."
+
+"Don't you like this _filet mignon_?" said William. "Shucks, now, what's
+the use to knock the town! It's the greatest ever. I couldn't sell
+one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O'Keefe's saloon, in
+Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara Bernhardt
+in 'Andrew Mack' yet?"
+
+"The town's got you, Billy," said Jack.
+
+"All right," said William. "I'm going to buy a cottage on Lake
+Ronkonkoma next summer."
+
+At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it. He caught his
+breath at what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times.
+
+Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The
+irregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep
+gulches and winding streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long,
+desert ca�ons. Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel,
+enchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city. But into this background
+were cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares
+through which glowed many colored lights. And out of the violet and
+purple depths ascended like the city's soul sounds and odors and
+thrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaiety
+unrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man can know.
+There below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from
+the four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich,
+despoil, elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it came
+up to him and went into his blood.
+
+There was a knock on his door. A telegram had come for him. It came from
+the West, and these were its words:
+
+  "Come back and the answer will be yes.
+
+                                   "DOLLY."
+
+He kept the boy waiting ten minutes, and then wrote the reply:
+"Impossible to leave here at present." Then he sat at the window again
+and let the city put its cup of mandragora to his lips again.
+
+After all it isn't a story; but I wanted to know which one of the heroes
+won the battle against the city. So I went to a very learned friend and
+laid the case before him. What he said was: "Please don't bother me; I
+have Christmas presents to buy."
+
+So there it rests; and you will have to decide for yourself.
+
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+"WHAT YOU WANT"
+
+
+Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as
+Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour
+that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets,
+bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled
+with the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old
+friend, the late Mr. H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred
+years nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but they
+were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you could
+have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor,
+the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and Forty
+Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the
+old Arabian gang easily.
+
+But let us revenue to our lamb chops.
+
+Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks and
+bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph you
+must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.
+Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a
+Turkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and personal
+affairs, the police court'll get you.
+
+Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money
+and everything. That's what makes a caliph--you must get to despise
+everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want something
+that you can't pay for.
+
+"I'll take a little trot around town all by myself," thought old Tom,
+"and try if I can stir up anything new. Let's see--it seems I've read
+about a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to go
+about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he hadn't
+been introduced to. That don't listen like a bad idea. I certainly have
+got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I do know. That
+old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran upon 'em and give
+'em gold--sequins, I think it was--and make 'em marry or got 'em good
+Government jobs. Now, I'd like something of that sort. My money is as
+good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every month where I got
+it. Yes, I guess I'll do a little Cardiff business to-night, and see how
+it goes."
+
+Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and
+walked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,
+who holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all the
+enchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks away
+looked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.
+
+James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments
+on Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door
+open, and where they clean your hat while you wait--two days. James
+stood all day at an electric machine that turned hats around faster than
+the best brands of champagne ever could have done. Overlooking your mild
+impertinence in feeling a curiosity about the personal appearance of a
+stranger, I will give you a modified description of him. Weight, 118;
+complexion, hair and brain, light; height, five feet six; age, about
+twenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of greenish-blue serge; pockets
+containing two keys and sixty-three cents in change.
+
+But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a General
+Alarm that James was either lost or a dead one.
+
+_Allons!_
+
+James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremely
+susceptible to impositions being put upon or below them. All day long
+they burned and smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience.
+But he was earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support
+his feet whether his feet would support him or not.
+
+James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as you
+and I have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts and
+motor-cars and to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe at
+evenfall and watch a badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into their
+common prairie home one by one.
+
+James Turner's idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go
+directly to his boarding-house when his day's work was done. After his
+supper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples and
+infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall room.
+Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of his
+burning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark
+Russell's sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied to
+his smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never palled
+upon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his sole
+intellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James Turner
+taking his ease.
+
+When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of
+his way home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the
+sidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume
+of Clark Russell at half price.
+
+While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down
+miscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His
+discerning eye, made keen by twenty years' experience in the manufacture
+of laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly the poor
+and discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous mood. He
+descended the two shallow stone steps that led from the sidewalk, and
+addressed without hesitation the object of his designed munificence. His
+first words were no worse than salutatory and tentative.
+
+James Turner looked up coldly, with "Sartor Resartus" in one hand and
+"A Mad Marriage" in the other.
+
+"Beat it," said he. "I don't want to buy any coat hangers or town lots
+in Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with your Teddy bear."
+
+"Young man," said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat cleaner,
+"I observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is one of
+the finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth mentioning,
+but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West, where we imagine
+nothing but facts. Maybe I couldn't understand the poetry and allusions
+in them books you are picking over, but I like to see somebody else seem
+to know what they mean. I'm worth about $40,000,000, and I'm getting
+richer every day. I made the height of it manufacturing Aunt Patty's
+Silver Soap. I invented the art of making it. I experimented for three
+years before I got just the right quantity of chloride of sodium
+solution and caustic potash mixture to curdle properly. And after I had
+taken some $9,000,000 out of the soap business I made the rest in corn
+and wheat futures. Now, you seem to have the literary and scholarly
+turn of character; and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay for your
+education at the finest college in the world. I'll pay the expense of
+your rummaging over Europe and the art galleries, and finally set you up
+in a good business. You needn't make it soap if you have any objections.
+I see by your clothes and frazzled necktie that you are mighty poor; and
+you can't afford to turn down the offer. Well, when do you want to
+begin?"
+
+The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is an
+eye expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment suspended
+as high as Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of challenge,
+curiosity, defiance, cynicism, and, strange as you may think it, of a
+childlike yearning for friendliness and fellowship that must be hidden
+when one walks among the "stranger bands." For in New Bagdad one, in
+order to survive, must suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks, rides,
+walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair, house, booth, seat, path or room.
+
+"Say, Mike," said James Turner, "what's your line, anyway--shoe laces?
+I'm not buying anything. You better put an egg in your shoe and beat it
+before incidents occur to you. You can't work off any fountain pens,
+gold spectacles you found on the street, or trust company certificate
+house clearings on me. Say, do I look like I'd climbed down one of them
+missing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What's vitiating you, anyhow?"
+
+"Son," said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, "as I said, I'm
+worth $40,000,000. I don't want to have it all put in my coffin when I
+die. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over these
+here volumes of literature, and I thought I'd keep you. I've give the
+missionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing
+but a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of young
+man I'd like to take up and see what money could make of him."
+
+Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old
+Book Shop. And James Turner's smarting and aching feet did not tend to
+improve his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit
+equal to any caliph's.
+
+"Say, you old faker," he said, angrily, "be on your way. I don't know
+what your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill.
+Well, I don't carry that much around with me. But I do carry a pretty
+fair left-handed punch that you'll get if you don't move on."
+
+"You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup," said the caliph.
+
+Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the
+collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two
+bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A copy came up,
+took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house.
+"Fighting and disorderly conduct," said the cop to the sergeant.
+
+"Three hundred dollars bail," said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly
+and inquiringly.
+
+"Sixty-three cents," said James Turner with a harsh laugh.
+
+The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change
+amounting to four dollars.
+
+"I am worth," he said, "forty million dollars, but--"
+
+"Lock 'em up," ordered the sergeant.
+
+In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. "Maybe
+he's got the money, and maybe he ain't. But if he has or he ain't, what
+does he want to go 'round butting into other folks's business for? When
+a man knows what he wants, and can get it, it's the same as $40,000,000
+to him."
+
+Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.
+
+He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself
+out luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars
+of the cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his
+cot gave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a
+paper-covered volume by Clark Russell called "A Sailor's Sweetheart."
+He gave a great sigh of contentment.
+
+Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:
+
+"Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seems
+to have been the goods after all. He 'phoned to his friends, and he's
+out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman car
+pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him."
+
+"Tell him I ain't in," said James Turner.
+
+
+
+
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+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Strictly Business, by O. Henry</title>
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+<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Strictly Business, by O. Henry</h1>
+
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
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+Title: Strictly Business
+
+Author: O. Henry
+
+Release Date: April, 2000  [EBook #2141]
+[This edition 11 was first posted on May 8, 2004]
+[This HTML version was first posted on May 8, 2004]
+
+Edition: 11
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: iso-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, STRICTLY BUSINESS ***
+
+
+</pre>
+<center>
+<h3>E-text prepared by anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteers<br>
+    and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.<br>
+    <br>
+    HTML version prepared by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.<br>
+</h3></center>
+<br>
+<br>
+<hr noshade>
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h1>STRICTLY BUSINESS</h1>
+<br>
+<h3>More Stories of the Four Million</h3>
+<br>
+by<br>
+<br>
+<h2>O. HENRY</h2>
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<h3>CONTENTS</h3>
+<br>
+<table>
+<tr><td align="right">I.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>       <td><a href="#1" >STRICTLY BUSINESS</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">II.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#2" >THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">III.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#3" >BABES IN THE JUNGLE</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">IV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#4" >THE DAY RESURGENT</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">V.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>       <td><a href="#5" >THE FIFTH WHEEL</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">VI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#6" >THE POET AND THE PEASANT</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">VII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#7" >THE ROBE OF PEACE</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">VIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#8" >THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">IX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#9" >THE CALL OF THE TAME</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">X.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>       <td><a href="#10">THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#11">THE THING'S THE PLAY</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#12">A RAMBLE IN APHASIA</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#13">A MUNICIPAL REPORT</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#14">PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#15">A BIRD OF BAGDAD</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#16">COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#17">A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#18">THE GIRL AND THE HABIT</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#19">PROOF OF THE PUDDING</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#20">PAST ONE AT ROONEY'S</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XXI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#21">THE VENTURERS</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XXII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#22">THE DUEL</a></td>
+<tr><td align="right">XXIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#23">"WHAT YOU WANT"</a></td>
+</table>
+</center>
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="1"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>I<br>
+<br>
+STRICTLY BUSINESS</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You've been
+touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and
+the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the
+long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your
+ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like
+this:
+
+<p>Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better
+than your own (madam) if they weren't padded. Chorus girls are
+inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back
+to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses
+reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their
+step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew's real name is Boyle O'Kelley. The
+ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first
+sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.
+Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.
+
+<p>All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne
+and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures
+have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.
+
+<p>Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the
+profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the
+players with an eye full of patronizing superiority&mdash;and we go home and
+practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking
+glasses.
+
+<p>Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It
+seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians
+and diamond-hungry <i>loreleis</i> they are businesslike folk, students and
+ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and
+conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a
+manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of
+the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.
+
+<p>Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true
+one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little
+story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only
+the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of
+Keetor's old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of
+gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch&mdash;and where I
+last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time
+to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.
+
+<p>The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had
+been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years
+with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes
+with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a
+buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the
+bass-viol player in more than one house&mdash;than which no performer ever
+received more satisfactory evidence of good work.
+
+<p>The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful
+performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order to
+give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest Broadway
+corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a matin&eacute;e
+offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime of a
+minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with that
+most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles&mdash;the audible contact of the
+palm of one hand against the palm of the other.
+
+<p>One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known
+vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got
+his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.
+
+<p>A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed
+into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the
+audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, "All
+the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself," sat with his face as long and
+his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his
+grandmother to wind into a ball.
+
+<p>But when H came on, "The Mustard" suddenly sat up straight. H was the
+happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs
+and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;
+but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to
+the old man's account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and
+ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed you
+ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old log
+school-house besides cipherin' and nouns, especially "When the Teach-er
+Kept Me in." Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings,
+she reappeared in considerably less than a "trice" as a fluffy
+"Parisienne"&mdash;so near does Art bring the old red mill to the Moulin
+Rouge. And then&mdash;
+
+<p>But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else. He
+thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short order
+stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of "Helen
+Grimes" in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the tray
+of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor,
+grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play
+tucked away somewhere. They tuck 'em in trays of trunks, trunks of
+trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults,
+handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call. They
+belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.
+
+<p>But Bob Hart's sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called
+it "Mice Will Play." He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever since he
+wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of "Helen
+Grimes." And here was "Helen" herself, with all the innocent abandon,
+the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that his
+critical taste demanded.
+
+<p>After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and got
+Cherry's address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty old
+house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.
+
+<p>By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain <i>voile</i> skirt, with her
+hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have
+been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon's daughter, in the
+great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.
+
+<p>"I know your act, Mr. Hart," she said after she had looked over his card
+carefully. "What did you wish to see me about?"
+
+<p>"I saw you work last night," said Hart. "I've written a sketch that I've
+been saving up. It's for two; and I think you can do the other part. I
+thought I'd see you about it."
+
+<p>"Come in the parlor," said Miss Cherry. "I've been wishing for something
+of the sort. I think I'd like to act instead of doing turns."
+
+<p>Bob Hart drew his cherished "Mice Will Play" from his pocket, and read
+it to her.
+
+<p>"Read it again, please," said Miss Cherry.
+
+<p>And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by
+introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the
+dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the
+pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen
+Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to
+all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on
+the sketch's weaker points. That was her woman's intuition that he had
+lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the judgment,
+experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that "Mice Will
+Play" would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of the
+circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings of her
+smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of
+a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.
+
+<p>"Mr. Hart," said she, "I believe your sketch is going to win out. That
+Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a
+handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the
+Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers' Bazaar. And I've seen you
+work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is
+business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?"
+
+<p>"Two hundred," answered Hart.
+
+<p>"I get one hundred for mine," said Cherry. "That's about the natural
+discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every
+week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all
+right. I love it; but there's something else I love better&mdash;that's a
+little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six ducks
+wandering around the yard.
+
+<p>"Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me
+to play the opposite part in your sketch, I'll do it. And I believe we
+can make it go. And there's something else I want to say: There's no
+nonsense in my make-up; I'm <i>on the level</i>, and I'm on the stage for
+what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I'm
+going to save my money to keep me when I'm past doing my stunts. No Old
+Ladies' Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.
+
+<p>"If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
+nonsense cut out of it, I'm in on it. I know something about vaudeville
+teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want
+you to know that I'm on the stage for what I can cart away from it every
+pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where
+the cashier has licked the flap. It's kind of a hobby of mine to want to
+cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to
+know just how I am. I don't know what an all-night restaurant looks
+like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance
+in my life, and I've got money in five savings banks."
+
+<p>"Miss Cherry," said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, "you're in
+on your own terms. I've got 'strictly business' pasted in my hat and
+stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a
+five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking
+clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to
+the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side
+porch, reading Stanley's 'Explorations into Africa.' And nobody else
+around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?"
+
+<p>"Not any," said Cherry. "What I'm going to do with my money is to bank
+it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I've been
+earning, I've figured out that in ten years I'd have an income of about
+$50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest some of
+the principal in a little business&mdash;say, trimming hats or a beauty
+parlor, and make more."
+
+<p>"Well," said Hart, "You've got the proper idea all right, all right,
+anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who
+couldn't fix themselves for the wet days to come if they'd save their
+money instead of blowing it. I'm glad you've got the correct business
+idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch
+will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped
+up."
+
+<p>The subsequent history of "Mice Will Play" is the history of all
+successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,
+remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and
+business, changed the lines, restored 'em, added more, cut 'em out,
+renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger
+for the pistol, restored the pistol&mdash;put the sketch through all the
+known processes of condensation and improvement.
+
+<p>They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely
+used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would
+occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded
+revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of
+the sketch.
+
+<p>Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a
+real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen
+Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and
+daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private
+secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,
+"Arapahoe" Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch
+that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,
+L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow
+Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving
+you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case
+may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should
+want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in 'em.
+
+<p>Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of
+play, whether we admit it or not&mdash;something along in between "Bluebeard,
+Jr.," and "Cymbeline" played in the Russian.
+
+<p>There were only two parts and a half in "Mice Will Play." Hart and
+Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always
+played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a
+panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn
+down the gas fire in the grate by the manager's orders.
+
+<p>There was another girl in the sketch&mdash;a Fifth Avenue society
+swelless&mdash;who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine
+when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost
+his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic
+state&mdash;Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan&mdash;of the
+Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.
+
+<p>And now for the thriller. Old "Arapahoe" Grimes dies of angina pectoris
+one night&mdash;so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the
+footlights&mdash;while only his secretary was present. And that same day he
+was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just
+received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts
+for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.
+Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his
+(alleged) croak.
+
+<p>"Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed&mdash;" you sabe, don't
+you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue
+Girl&mdash;who doesn't come on the stage&mdash;and can we blame her, with the
+vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be buttoned
+in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?
+
+<p>But, wait. Here's the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,
+is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine
+is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop
+$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like
+the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to make
+any perfect lady mad. So, then!
+
+<p>They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk
+heads (didn't the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the
+d&eacute;nouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a
+play unless it be when the prologue ends.
+
+<p>Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?
+The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra hadn't
+left their seats; and no man could get past "Old Jimmy," the stage
+door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as a
+guarantee of eligibility.
+
+<p>Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine:
+"Robber and thief&mdash;and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this
+should be your fate!"
+
+<p>With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.
+
+<p>"But I will be merciful," goes on Helen. "You shall live&mdash;that will be
+your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to the
+death that you deserve. There is <i>her</i> picture on the mantel. I will
+send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have pierced
+your craven heart."
+
+<p>And she does it. And there's no fake blank cartridges or assistants
+pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet&mdash;the actual bullet&mdash;goes
+through the face of the photograph&mdash;and then strikes the hidden spring
+of the sliding panel in the wall&mdash;and lo! the panel slides, and there is
+the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.
+It's great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a
+target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the
+sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,
+covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the
+same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same spot,
+and she had to shoot steady and true every time.
+
+<p>Of course old "Arapahoe" had tucked the funds away there in the secret
+place; and, of course, Jack hadn't taken anything except his salary
+(which really might have come under the head of "obtaining money under";
+but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York girl
+was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and,
+necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson&mdash;and there you are.
+
+<p>After Hart and Cherry had gotten "Mice Will Play" flawless, they had a
+try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house
+wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a
+theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,
+being dressed for it, swam in tears.
+
+<p>After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed
+fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was what
+it panned out.
+
+<p>That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good night
+at her boarding-house door.
+
+<p>"Mr. Hart," said she thoughtfully, "come inside just a few minutes.
+We've got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to do
+is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can."
+
+<p>"Right," said Bob. "It's business with me. You've got your scheme for
+banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap
+cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net
+receipts will engage my attention."
+
+<p>"Come inside just a few minutes," repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.
+"I've got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a
+lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine&mdash;and
+all on business principles."
+
+<br><br><br>
+
+<p>"Mice Will Play" had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten
+weeks&mdash;rather neat for a vaudeville sketch&mdash;and then it started on the
+circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid
+drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.
+
+<p>Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor's New York houses, said of Hart &
+Cherry:
+
+<p>"As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.
+It's a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard
+workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,
+straight home after their act, and each of 'em as gentlemanlike as a
+lady. I don't expect to handle any attractions that give me less trouble
+or more respect for the profession."
+
+<p>And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of the
+story:
+
+<p>At the end of its second season "Mice Will Play" came back to New York
+for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never
+any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his
+bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank
+books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment
+plan to hold them.
+
+<p>I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can't believe it,
+that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
+ambitions&mdash;just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
+grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious
+to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
+allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they
+often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.
+
+<p>But, listen.
+
+<p>At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
+Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When
+she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the
+bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk,
+went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck. Not expecting to get
+it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic
+manner.
+
+<p>The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy
+in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great
+enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the
+curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and more
+or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The next turn
+went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.
+
+<p>The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
+waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The doctor
+examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.
+
+<p>"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been
+two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
+far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,
+you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any
+one of the girls' Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the
+parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse
+me; I've got a serious case outside to look after."
+
+<p>After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay
+came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn
+man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple
+sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played. Vincente
+had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their
+peripatetic friend.
+
+<p>"Bob," said Vincente in his serious way, "I'm glad it's no worse. The
+little lady is wild about you."
+
+<p>"Who?" asked Hart.
+
+<p>"Cherry," said the juggler. "We didn't know how bad you were hurt; and
+we kept her away. It's taking the manager and three girls to hold her."
+
+<p>"It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She
+wasn't feeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no
+hard feelings. She's strictly business. The doctor says I'll be on the
+job again in three days. Don't let her worry."
+
+<p>"Man," said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,
+"are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry's crying her
+heart out for you&mdash;calling 'Bob, Bob,' every second, with them holding
+her hands and keeping her from coming to you."
+
+<p>"What's the matter with her?" asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. "The
+sketch'll go on again in three days. I'm not hurt bad, the doctor says.
+She won't lose out half a week's salary. I know it was an accident.
+What's the matter with her?"
+
+<p>"You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool," said Vincente. "The girl
+loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What's the matter with
+<i>you</i>? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you."
+
+<p>"Loves me?" asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which he
+lay. "Cherry loves me? Why, it's impossible."
+
+<p>"I wish you could see her and hear her," said Griggs.
+
+<p>"But, man," said Bob Hart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's
+impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing."
+
+<p>"No human being," said the Tramp Juggler, "could mistake it. She's wild
+for love of you. How have you been so blind?"
+
+<p>"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's <i>too late</i>. It's
+too late, I tell you, Sam; <i>it's too late</i>. It can't be. You must be
+wrong. It's <i>impossible</i>. There's some mistake.
+
+<p>"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you she's
+fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare to raise
+the curtain. Wake up, man."
+
+<p>"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell you
+it's too late? It's too late, man. Why, <i>Cherry and I have been married
+two years!</i>"
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="2"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>II<br>
+<br>
+THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
+you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
+Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not
+gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his
+bottle of testing acid.
+
+<p>Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George
+the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
+quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you
+can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I walks."
+
+<p>Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets
+where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical
+warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is "El
+Refugio," a caf&eacute; and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from
+the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of
+Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the
+cloaked and sombreroed se&ntilde;ores, who are scattered like burning lava by
+the political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to
+lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit
+funds, to enlist filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to
+play the game at long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in
+which they thrive.
+
+<p>In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the
+palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the story
+thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the Gallic
+chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a fish&mdash;bluefish,
+shad or pompano from the Gulf&mdash;baked after the Spanish method. Tomatoes
+give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon
+it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and
+mystery, and&mdash;but its crowning glory deserves a new sentence. Around
+it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity&mdash;but never in it&mdash;hovers an
+ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that only the
+Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not say that
+garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than as if the
+spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that lingers in the
+parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life, "by hopeless
+fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And then, when Conchito, the
+waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and a carafe of wine that
+has never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio&mdash;ah, Dios!
+
+<p>One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen. Perrico
+Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The General
+was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist and
+stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache of a
+shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas
+congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.
+
+<p>Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire
+his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that
+neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that
+read, "Hotel Espa&ntilde;ol." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se
+habla Espa&ntilde;ol." The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
+
+<p>In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had
+blond&mdash;oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,
+and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with
+his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables
+sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of
+a bunch.
+
+<p>"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, pleasantly.
+
+<p>"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly. "I speak the
+Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
+here. How is that?"
+
+<p>"Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam. "I'm sure I
+can't."
+
+<p>At the Hotel Espa&ntilde;ol General Falcon engaged rooms and established
+himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders
+of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the
+wonderful golden hair of Mme. O'Brien. "It is here," said the General
+to himself, no doubt in his own language, "that one shall find the most
+beautiful se&ntilde;oras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among
+our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to
+think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion."
+
+<p>At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became
+involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset
+him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an
+inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He
+scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle
+of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. "V&aacute;lgame Dios! What
+devil's city is this?"
+
+<p>As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded
+snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was
+"Bully" McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm
+and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of
+the asphalt was "Spider" Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.
+
+<p>In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the
+quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.
+
+<p>"G'wan!" he commanded harshly. "I saw it first." McGuire slunk away,
+awed by superior intelligence.
+
+<p>"Pardon me," said Mr. Kelley, to the General, "but you got balled up in
+the shuffle, didn't you? Let me assist you." He picked up the General's
+hat and brushed the dust from it.
+
+<p>The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered
+and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a
+caballero with a most disinterested heart.
+
+<p>"I have a desire," said the General, "to return to the hotel of O'Brien,
+in which I am stop. Caramba! se&ntilde;or, there is a loudness and rapidness of
+going and coming in the city of this Nueva York."
+
+<p>Mr. Kelley's politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to
+brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel
+Espa&ntilde;ol they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the
+street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to
+whom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a "Dago
+joint." All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of
+"Dagoes" and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
+thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.
+
+<p>An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in
+the conspirator's corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were between
+them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his mission
+to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase arms&mdash;2,000
+stands of Winchester rifles&mdash;for the Colombian revolutionists. He
+had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York
+correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were
+shouting their political secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was
+as loud as the General. He pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine;
+he roared to his friend that his errand was a secret one, and not to be
+hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley himself was stirred to
+sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General's hand across the table.
+
+<p>"Monseer," he said, earnestly, "I don't know where this country of yours
+is, but I'm for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United States,
+though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us Columbia, too,
+sometimes. It's a lucky thing for you that you butted into me to-night.
+I'm the only man in New York that can get this gun deal through for you.
+The Secretary of War of the United States is me best friend. He's in the
+city now, and I'll see him for you to-morrow. In the meantime, monseer,
+you keep them drafts tight in your inside pocket. I'll call for you
+to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that ain't the District of
+Columbia you're talking about, is it?" concluded Mr. Kelley, with a
+sudden qualm. "You can't capture that with no 2,000 guns&mdash;it's been
+tried with more."
+
+<p>"No, no, no!" exclaimed the General. "It is the Republic of Colombia&mdash;it
+is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.
+Yes."
+
+<p>"All right," said Mr. Kelley, reassured. "Now suppose we trek along home
+and go by-by. I'll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date with
+him. It's a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky himself
+can't do it."
+
+<p>They parted at the door of the Hotel Espa&ntilde;ol. The General rolled his
+eyes at the moon and sighed.
+
+<p>"It is a great country, your Nueva York," he said. "Truly the cars in
+the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly
+makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Se&ntilde;or Kelley&mdash;the se&ntilde;oras with hair
+of much goldness, and admirable fatness&mdash;they are magnificas! Muy
+magnificas!"
+
+<p>Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary's caf&eacute;,
+far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.
+
+<p>"Is that Jimmy Dunn?" asked Kelley.
+
+<p>"Yes," came the answer.
+
+<p>"You're a liar," sang back Kelley, joyfully. "You're the Secretary of
+War. Wait there till I come up. I've got the finest thing down here in
+the way of a fish you ever baited for. It's a Colorado-maduro, with a
+gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and a
+statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I'll be up on the next car."
+
+<p>Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence
+line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout
+drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but
+the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing in
+New York. It was the ambition of "Spider" Kelley to elevate himself into
+Jimmy's class.
+
+<p>These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary's. Kelley
+explained.
+
+<p>"He's as easy as a gumshoe. He's from the Island of Colombia, where
+there's a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they've sent him
+up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He showed
+me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank here. 'S
+truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn't have it in
+thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now, we've
+got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us."
+
+<p>They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; "Bring him to No.
+&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash; Broadway, at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."
+
+<p>In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Espa&ntilde;ol for the General. He found
+the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs. O'Brien.
+
+<p>"The Secretary of War is waitin' for us," said Kelley.
+
+<p>The General tore himself away with an effort.
+
+<p>"Ay, se&ntilde;or," he said, with a sigh, "duty makes a call. But, se&ntilde;or, the
+se&ntilde;oras of your Estados Unidos&mdash;how beauties! For exemplification, take
+you la Madame O'Brien&mdash;que magnifica! She is one goddess&mdash;one Juno&mdash;what
+you call one ox-eyed Juno."
+
+<p>Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the fire
+of their own imagination.
+
+<p>"Sure!" he said with a grin; "but you mean a peroxide Juno, don't you?"
+
+<p>Mrs. O'Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye
+rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except
+in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.
+
+<p>When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway
+address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then
+admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,
+with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to the
+Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known by his
+old friend, Mr. Kelley.
+
+<p>"Ah&mdash;Colombia!" said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to
+understand; "I'm afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.
+The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the
+established government, while I&mdash;" the secretary gave the General a
+mysterious but encouraging smile. "You, of course, know, General Falcon,
+that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed requiring
+all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this country to pass
+through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be
+glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley. But it must be in
+absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard
+favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will
+have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now in the
+warehouse."
+
+<p>The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T. on
+his cap stepped promptly into the room.
+
+<p>"Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory," said the Secretary.
+
+<p>The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied
+it closely.
+
+<p>"I find," he said, "that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is
+shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the
+Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule
+is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase. My
+dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of arms, if
+he desires it, at the manufacturer's price. And you will forgive me, I am
+sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the Japanese Minister
+and Charles Murphy every moment!"
+
+<p>As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his
+esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War was
+extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases and
+filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse rented
+for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to the
+Hotel Espa&ntilde;ol, Mrs. O'Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from his
+lapel, and said:
+
+<p>"Say, se&ntilde;or, I don't want to 'butt in,' but what does that monkey-faced,
+cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?"
+
+<p>"Sangre de mi vida!" exclaimed the General. "Impossible it is that you
+speak of my good friend, Se&ntilde;or Kelley."
+
+<p>"Come into the summer garden," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I want to have a talk
+with you."
+
+<p>Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.
+
+<p>"And you say," said the General, "that for the sum of $18,000 can be
+purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with
+this garden so lovely&mdash;so resembling unto the patios of my cara
+Colombia?"
+
+<p>"And dirt cheap at that," sighed the lady.
+
+<p>"Ah, Dios!" breathed General Falcon. "What to me is war and politics?
+This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to
+continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of
+mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel
+Espa&ntilde;ol and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on
+guns."
+
+<p>Mrs. O'Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the
+Colombian patriot.
+
+<p>"Oh, se&ntilde;or," she sighed, happily, "ain't you terrible!"
+
+<p>Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to
+the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented
+warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his
+friend Kelley to fetch the victim.
+
+<p>Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Espa&ntilde;ol. He found the
+General behind the desk adding up accounts.
+
+<p>"I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day buy
+the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General
+Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O'Brien."
+
+<p>Mr. Kelley almost strangled.
+
+<p>"Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered, "you're
+a swindler&mdash;that's what you are! You've bought a boarding house with
+money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is."
+
+<p>"Ah," said the General, footing up a column, "that is what you call
+politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best that
+one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to keep
+hotels and be with that Juno&mdash;that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of the
+gold it is that she have!"
+
+<p>Mr. Kelley choked again.
+
+<p>"Ah, Senor Kelley!" said the General, feelingly and finally, "is it that
+you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O'Brien she
+make?"
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="3"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>III<br>
+<br>
+BABES IN THE JUNGLE</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says
+to me once in Little Rock: "If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get
+too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the
+West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in
+chunks of roe&mdash;you can't count 'em!"
+
+<p>Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of the
+Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I
+knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver's advice.
+
+<p>I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And
+I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of
+haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his
+nails with a silk handkerchief.
+
+<p>"Paresis or superannuated?" I asks him.
+
+<p>"Hello, Billy," says Silver; "I'm glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me
+that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I've been
+saving New York for dessert. I know it's a low-down trick to take things
+from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and fro and
+think ever and anon. I'd hate for my mother to know I was skinning these
+weak-minded ones. She raised me better."
+
+<p>"Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
+does skin grafting?" I asks.
+
+<p>"Well, no," says Silver; "you needn't back Epidermis to win to-day.
+I've only been here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the members of
+Willie Manhattan's Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to
+contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well
+send their photos to the <i>Evening Daily</i>.
+
+<p>"I've been studying the town," says Silver, "and reading the papers
+every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an
+O'Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when
+you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my
+room and I'll tell you. We'll work the town together, Billy, for the
+sake of old times."
+
+<p>Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects
+lying about.
+
+<p>"There's more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,"
+says Silver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They'll
+bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are
+in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn't
+a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller,
+Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's celebrated painting of the young Saint John!
+
+<p>"You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's gold
+mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
+hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy
+it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,
+and then I took it off the market. I don't want people to give me their
+money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction
+to keep my pride from being hurt. I want 'em to guess the missing letter
+in Chic&mdash;go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of
+money.
+
+<p>"Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit
+it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor
+on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I was Admiral
+Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but
+I didn't know my uncle's first name. It shows, though, what an easy town
+it is. As for burglars, they won't go in a house now unless there's a
+hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on 'em. They're
+slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess,
+taking the town from end to end, it's a plain case of assault and
+Battery."
+
+<p>"Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattan
+correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only
+been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me that it's ours with a
+cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I'd be
+a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or more in
+their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms.
+They don't look easy to me."
+
+<p>"You've got it, Billy," says Silver. "All emigrants have it. New York's
+bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You'll
+be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because
+they don't send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide
+sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears
+the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper's wife, and
+Bella, the Buncosteerer's bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than a
+blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I'll break
+the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of
+twenties."
+
+<p>"I hope you are right, Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had
+been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of farmers
+is never so short out there but what you can get a few of 'em to sign
+a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200 at
+the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of
+self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured
+enough to tackle this game."
+
+<p>"Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown
+correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River
+ain't a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway
+who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their lives!
+A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous enough here
+inside of three months to incur either Jerome's clemency or Lawson's
+displeasure."
+
+<p>"Hyperbole aside," says I, "do you know of any immediate system of
+buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the
+Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould's doorsteps?"
+
+<p>"Dozens of 'em," says Silver. "How much capital have you got, Billy?"
+
+<p>"A thousand," I told him.
+
+<p>"I've got $1,200," says he. "We'll pool and do a big piece of business.
+There's so many ways we can make a million that I don't know how to
+begin."
+
+<p>The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and
+stirred with a kind of silent joy.
+
+<p>"We're to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon," says he. "A man I know in
+the hotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He says he likes
+to meet people from the West."
+
+<p>"That sounds nice and plausible," says I. "I'd like to know Mr. Morgan."
+
+<p>"It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few
+finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with
+strangers."
+
+<p>The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o'clock Klein brought his
+Wall Street friend to see us in Silver's room. "Mr. Morgan" looked some
+like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left
+foot, and he walked with a cane.
+
+<p>"Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud," says Klein. "It sounds superfluous," says
+he, "to mention the name of the greatest financial&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Cut it out, Klein," says Mr. Morgan. "I'm glad to know you gents; I
+take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you're from Little Rock.
+I think I've a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of you
+guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Now, Pierpont," cuts in Klein, "you forget!"
+
+<p>"Excuse me, gents!" says Morgan; "since I've had the gout so bad I
+sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never
+knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He
+lived in Seattle, New Mexico."
+
+<p>Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane and
+begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.
+
+<p>"They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?"
+asks Klein, smiling.
+
+<p>"Stocks! No!" roars Mr. Morgan. "It's that picture I sent an agent to
+Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it
+ain't to be found in all Italy. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for that
+picture&mdash;yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I
+cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Why, Mr. Morgan," says klein; "I thought you owned all of the De Vinchy
+paintings."
+
+<p>"What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?" asks Silver. "It must be as big
+as the side of the Flatiron Building."
+
+<p>"I'm afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver," says Morgan.
+"The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called 'Love's Idle Hour.' It
+represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank of a
+purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to this
+country. My collection will never be complete without that picture.
+Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours."
+
+<p>Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked
+about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said what
+a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I said I
+thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a stroll
+after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue
+to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his
+admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while he buys 'em.
+
+<p>After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me
+and waves his hands.
+
+<p>"Did you see it?" says he. "Did you see it, Billy?"
+
+<p>"What?" I asks.
+
+<p>"Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It's hanging in that pawnshop,
+behind the desk. I didn't say anything because Klein was there. It's the
+article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can make
+them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any skirts, and
+they're doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with the blues.
+What did Mr. Morgan say he'd give for it? Oh, don't make me tell you.
+They can't know what it is in that pawnshop."
+
+<p>When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing
+there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a drink.
+We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains.
+
+<p>"That's a violent specimen of a chromo you've got up there," remarked
+Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse over the girl
+with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for it
+cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in hurrying
+it off the nail?"
+
+<p>The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.
+
+<p>"That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian
+gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called 'Love's Idle Hour,' and
+it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired, and it
+became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is worn a
+great deal now."
+
+<p>At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and
+walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started
+for Morgan's office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two hours
+Silver comes back.
+
+<p>"Did you see Mr. Morgan?" I asks. "How much did he pay you for it?"
+
+<p>Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.
+
+<p>"I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan," he says, "because Mr. Morgan's been
+in Europe for a month. But what's worrying me, Billy, is this: The
+department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for
+$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone&mdash;that's what I can't
+understand."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="4"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>IV<br>
+<br>
+THE DAY RESURGENT</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes
+to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions
+of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.
+
+<p>First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have
+free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper number
+of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the well-known
+model, will pose for it in the "Lethergogallagher," or whatever it was
+that Trilby called it.
+
+<p>Second&mdash;the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.
+This is magazine-covery, but reliable.
+
+<p>Third&mdash;Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.
+
+<p>Fourth&mdash;Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy
+and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.
+
+<p>Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the
+higher criticism has hard-boiled them.
+
+<p>The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of
+all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception.
+It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back
+still further to the first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a
+new green leaf from the tree <i>ficus carica</i>.
+
+<p>Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth
+the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a
+holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in
+the footsteps of Danny McCree.
+
+<p>Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the
+calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30
+Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his
+face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard,
+smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap,
+and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder
+between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in
+Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front
+room of the flat Danny's father sat by an open window smoking his pipe,
+with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still
+clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years
+before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without
+permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that
+they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to
+you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the
+headlines?
+
+<p>"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.
+
+<p>"Scramble mine," said Danny.
+
+<p>After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of
+the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur&mdash;frock coat, striped
+trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest,
+and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein's
+(between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit stand) Saturday night sale.
+
+<p>"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man McCree,
+a little wistfully. "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it's fine
+spring weather. I can feel it in the air."
+
+<p>"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest
+tones. "Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my
+team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
+you've just eat, I'd like to know? Answer me that!"
+
+<p>"All right, lad," said the old man. "I'm not complainin'. While me two
+eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a Sunday out.
+There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the windy. I have me
+tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your mother
+had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the hippopotamus&mdash;but
+let that be."
+
+<p>"Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?" asked Danny
+of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. "Have you been taking
+him to the Zoo? And for what?"
+
+<p>"I have not," said Mrs. McCree. "He sets by the windy all day. 'Tis
+little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I'm thinkin'
+they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without
+stoppin' for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there's lard burnin'
+in the fryin' pan. There is not. He says I do not understand. 'Tis weary
+days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny. There was
+no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes. 'Tis a fine
+day, son. Injoy yeself ag'inst the morning. There will be cold supper at
+six."
+
+<p>"Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of Mike, the
+janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.
+
+<p>"I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis the
+only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that
+I've not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or
+else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,
+then?"
+
+<p>"It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny. "Likely there's
+nothing in it."
+
+<p>Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into
+the heart of the district where Easter&mdash;modern Easter, in new, bright
+raiment&mdash;leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the
+blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving
+parterres of living flowers&mdash;so it seemed when your eye looked upon the
+Easter girl.
+
+<p>Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the
+background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The
+windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent
+creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
+
+<p>Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked
+Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
+
+<p>"Why, Corrigan," he asked, "is Easter? I know it comes the first time
+you're full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March&mdash;but why? Is
+it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it out of
+politics?"
+
+<p>"'Tis an annual celebration," said Corrigan, with the judicial air of
+the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, "peculiar to New York. It extends
+up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and
+Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion 'tis not political."
+
+<p>"Thanks," said Danny. "And say&mdash;did you ever hear a man complain of
+hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean."
+
+<p>"Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and there
+was wood alcohol in that."
+
+<p>Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously
+a Sunday and a festival day was his.
+
+<p>The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often
+that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made
+garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the
+griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the
+Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,
+attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,
+and took his pleasure sadly.
+
+<p>The family entrance of Dugan's caf&eacute; was feasible; so Danny yielded to
+the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,
+linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the
+mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.
+
+<p>"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"
+
+<p>"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. "Is that a new one?
+All right. Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess. I give it up.
+What's the answer&mdash;two apples or a yard and a half?"
+
+<p>From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in
+him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong
+diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.
+
+<p>A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They
+pumped hands on the corner.
+
+<p>"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's wrong?
+Come away with me to church and be cheerful."
+
+<p>"What's doing at church?" asked Danny.
+
+<p>"Why, it's Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin'
+you might come around to go."
+
+<p>"What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily. "Nobody
+seems to know."
+
+<p>"Nobody as blind as you," said Katy with spirit. "You haven't even
+looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it's when all the girls put on new
+spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?"
+
+<p>"I will," said Danny. "If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought to
+be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain't a beauty. The
+green roses are great."
+
+<p>At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke
+rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;
+but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his
+theme&mdash;resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of
+the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a
+wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth
+pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.
+
+<p>After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique in
+her sky-blue eyes.
+
+<p>"Are you coming along to the house?" she asked. "But don't mind me. I'll
+get there all right. You seem to be studyin' a lot about something. All
+right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr. McCree?"
+
+<p>"I'll be around Wednesday night as usual," said Danny, turning and
+crossing the street.
+
+<p>Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny
+stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,
+at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep
+in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening
+that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender
+than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and
+deeper-rooted than the love of woman&mdash;for had he not turned away from
+green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny
+did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his
+dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow
+the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.
+
+<p>Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.
+
+<p>"Hippopotamus!" he shouted to an elevated road pillar. "Well, how is
+that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was
+driving at now.
+
+<p>"Hippopotamus! Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx! It's been a year
+since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far. We quit at 469
+B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn't have guessed
+what he was trying to get out of him."
+
+<p>Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor
+supported.
+
+<p>Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on
+the sill.
+
+<p>"Will that be you, lad?" he asked.
+
+<p>Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the
+outset of committing a good deed.
+
+<p>"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" he
+snapped, viciously. "Have I no right to come in?"
+
+<p>"Ye're a faithful lad," said old man McCree, with a sigh. "Is it evening
+yet?"
+
+<p>Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt
+letters, "The History of Greece." Dust was on it half an inch thick. He
+laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper.
+And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:
+
+<p>"Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?"
+
+<p>"Did I hear ye open the book?" said old man McCree. "Many and weary be
+the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great
+likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. 'Tis a fine day outside,
+lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair
+by the windy and me pipe."
+
+<p>"Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
+hippopotamus," said Danny. "The war began there. It kept something doing
+for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon,
+in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the
+battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I'll read it."
+
+<p>With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree
+sat for an hour, listening.
+
+<p>Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree
+was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man
+McCree's eyes.
+
+<p>"Do you hear our lad readin' to me?" he said. "There is none finer in
+the land. My two eyes have come back to me again."
+
+<p>After supper he said to Danny: "'Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now
+ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough."
+
+<p>"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" said
+Danny, angrily. "Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is
+yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the
+kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire.
+Am I nothing in this house?"
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="5"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>V<br>
+<br>
+THE FIFTH WHEEL</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They
+were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth
+Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked
+at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted
+them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues. The
+Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture looming
+mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood for the
+tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by the
+winged walking delegate of the Lord.
+
+<p>Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the
+Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north
+wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a
+man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you
+credit.
+
+<p>The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over
+the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and had assumed for
+himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box
+on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for
+other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,
+this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all
+might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and
+the rent man and business go to the deuce.
+
+<p>The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
+dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth's
+monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with
+conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the
+Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
+coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad
+of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms
+beautifully devoid of eloquence&mdash;splendid with the deadly, accusative
+monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must
+hear one phrase of the Preacher's&mdash;the one that formed his theme that
+night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in the
+world.
+
+<p><i>"No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky."</i>
+
+<p>Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to the
+Potter's Field.
+
+<p>A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
+emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his
+coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed
+signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling goose. But,
+conscientiously, I must warn the milliner's apprentice who reads this,
+expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no further. The
+young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for
+drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the
+one-night bed seekers.
+
+<p>If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family
+carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage
+is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van
+Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year's Eve feather
+tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays
+and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady's maid. But it is
+one of the saddest things about romance that a tight shoe or an empty
+commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary heretic of any
+Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas's physical troubles were not few. Therefore,
+his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost lady's maid than it
+was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent things that his
+racked nerves almost convinced him were flying, dancing, crawling, and
+wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above and around the dismal
+campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of straight whisky and
+a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a
+psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by
+phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and intercourse.
+
+<p>The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own
+age, shabby but neat.
+
+<p>"What's the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?" asked Thomas, with the
+freemasonic familiarity of the damned&mdash;"Booze? That's mine. You don't
+look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the
+lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that ever
+made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how
+do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale."
+
+<p>The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy
+ex-coachman.
+
+<p>"No," said he, "mine isn't exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow that
+Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion of my
+unforgiving relatives. I've been out of work for a year because I don't
+know how to work; and I've been sick in Bellevue and other hospitals for
+months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I was turned out
+of the hospital yesterday. And I haven't a cent. That's my tale of woe."
+
+<p>"Tough luck," said Thomas. "A man alone can pull through all right. But
+I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it."
+
+<p>Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,
+so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that
+it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and
+pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.
+
+<p>When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became
+loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake
+of the flying car.
+
+<p>Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the
+Preacher's goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
+swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
+both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
+canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with
+the lost tire.
+
+<p>One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand
+an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save
+his pride.
+
+<p>Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
+chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
+sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.
+
+<p>Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner
+and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be
+suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to
+higher denominations.
+
+<p>But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received
+the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,
+and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
+
+<p>"Strange&mdash;strange!" said he. "Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied
+that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?"
+
+<p>Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful
+Thomas.
+
+<p>"Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
+if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
+Washington Square North?"
+
+<p>"Oughtn't I to?" replied Thomas. "I lived there. Wish I did yet."
+
+<p>The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
+
+<p>"Step in please," he said. "You have been expected."
+
+<p>Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
+motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
+the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
+course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.
+
+<p>"Maybe the guy hasn't got any change," was his diagnosis. "Lots of these
+swell rounders don't lug about any ready money. Guess he'll dump me out
+when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow,
+it's a cinch that I've got that open-air bed convention beat to a
+finish."
+
+<p>Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself,
+to marvel at the surprises of life. "Wonderful! amazing! strange!" he
+repeated to himself constantly.
+
+<p>When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
+a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front
+houses.
+
+<p>"Be kind enough to enter my house with me," said the sealskinned
+gentleman when they had alighted. "He's going to dig up, sure,"
+reflected Thomas, following him inside.
+
+<p>There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a door
+to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness.
+Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly in
+the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly
+appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy
+tales.
+
+<p>The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
+fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
+porti&egrave;res of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The
+furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman's feet
+sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three or
+four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet drapery.
+
+<p>Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one
+eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor&mdash;to find that
+he had disappeared.
+
+<p>"B'gee!" muttered Thomas, "this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn't
+wonder if it ain't one of these Moravian Nights' adventures that you
+read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy."
+
+<p>Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated
+globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant
+electric glow.
+
+<p>With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
+Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
+terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
+crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
+light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
+porti&egrave;res parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the
+room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate
+taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy
+hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave
+him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive
+a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah's throne-room advancing to greet a
+visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his
+manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his <i>d t's</i> to be mindful of his
+<i>p's</i> and <i>q's</i>. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat
+terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.
+
+<p>"Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap.
+I hope I didn't break anything. But I've nearly got the williwalloos,
+and when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a
+snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the
+sideboard."
+
+<p>"That is merely a mechanical toy," said the gentleman with a wave of his
+hand. "May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you to
+my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with the
+psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to the
+point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know the
+Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North."
+
+<p>"Any silver missing?" asked Thomas tartly. "Any joolry displaced? Of
+course I know 'em. Any of the old ladies' sunshades disappeared? Well,
+I know 'em. And then what?"
+
+<p>The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.
+
+<p>"Wonderful!" he murmured. "Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the
+Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you," he continued, "that
+there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you
+that very good fortune awaits you. We will see."
+
+<p>"Do they want me back?" asked Thomas, with something of his old
+professional pride in his voice. "I'll promise to cut out the booze and
+do the right thing if they'll try me again. But how did you get wise,
+doc? B'gee, it's the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its
+flashlight owls and so forth."
+
+<p>With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two
+minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the chauffeur,
+who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious apartment,
+he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by his witty and
+genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the cold streets
+from which he had been so recently and so singularly rescued. A servant
+brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a glass of miraculous
+wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop him. Thus half an
+hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned motor car at the
+door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with another soft
+petition for a brief absence.
+
+<p>Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front
+door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall
+through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was
+screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double
+porti&egrave;res. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely
+tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were
+scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or
+toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.
+
+<p>The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She
+was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,
+took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an
+attendant might have done.
+
+<p>"You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco," said the elder woman, wearily.
+"I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I've about
+lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to
+your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it."
+
+<p>"Madam," said the professor, with his princeliest smile, "the true Art
+cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes
+requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the
+crystal, the stars, the magic formul&aelig; of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of
+Po. But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean
+Chiroscope has been successful in our search."
+
+<p>The professor's voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in
+his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more
+interest.
+
+<p>"Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on
+it," she said. "What do you mean?"
+
+<p>"The words were these," said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full
+magnificent height: "<i>'By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall come.'</i>"
+
+<p>"I haven't seen many chariots," said the lady, "but I never saw one with
+five wheels."
+
+<p>"Progress," said the professor&mdash;"progress in science and mechanics has
+accomplished it&mdash;though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an
+extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I
+repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only answer
+the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before your
+eyes the proof thereof."
+
+<p>And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.
+
+<p>"O professor!" she cried anxiously&mdash;"When?&mdash;where? Has he been found? Do
+not keep me in suspense."
+
+<p>"I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes," said Professor
+Cherubusco, "and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the
+true Art."
+
+<p>Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl
+when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.
+
+<p>"Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
+welcome and restoration to favor?" he asked, with his courteous, royal
+smile.
+
+<p>"Do I look bughouse?" answered Thomas. "Enough of the footback life for
+me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways as
+a nut on a new axle."
+
+<p>"My dear young man," said the other, "she has been searching for you
+everywhere."
+
+<p>"Great!" said Thomas. "I'm on the job. That team of dropsical
+dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman
+like myself; but I'll take the job back, sure, doc. They're good people
+to be with."
+
+<p>And now a change came o'er the suave countenance of the Caliph of
+Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.
+
+<p>"May I ask what your name is?" he said shortly.
+
+<p>"You've been looking for me," said Thomas, "and don't know my name?
+You're a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office
+gumshoers. I'm Thomas McQuade, of course; and I've been chauffeur of
+the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago
+for&mdash;well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on
+booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing
+in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.
+Now, what's the prize for the best answer to all this?"
+
+<p>To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and
+dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was
+opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,
+disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian's shoe.
+
+<p>As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he
+hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.
+
+<p>"Crazy guy," was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. "Just
+wanted to have some fun kiddin', I guess. He might have dug up a dollar,
+anyhow. Now I've got to hurry up and get back to that gang of bum bed
+hunters before they all get preached to sleep."
+
+<p>When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of
+the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the
+proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file
+in front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals and
+something of a wife and child.
+
+<p>"Sorry to see you back again," said the young man, turning to speak to
+him. "I hoped you had struck something better than this."
+
+<p>"Me?" said Thomas. "Oh, I just took a run around the block to keep warm!
+I see the public ain't lending to the Lord very fast to-night."
+
+<p>"In this kind of weather," said the young man, "charity avails itself of
+the proverb, and both begins and ends at home."
+
+<p>And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of
+petition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes
+still registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in.
+
+<p>In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with
+wind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight
+toward him from the opposite sidewalk. "Annie!" he yelled, and ran
+toward her.
+
+<p>"You fool, you fool!" she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging upon
+his neck, "why did you do it?"
+
+<p>"The Stuff," explained Thomas briefly. "You know. But subsequently nit.
+Not a drop." He led her to the curb. "How did you happen to see me?"
+
+<p>"I came to find you," said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. "Oh, you
+big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you here."
+
+<p>"Professor Ch&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash; Don't know the guy. What saloon does he work in?"
+
+<p>"He's a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found you
+with the Chaldean telescope, he said."
+
+<p>"He's a liar," said Thomas. "I never had it. He never saw me have
+anybody's telescope."
+
+<p>"And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something."
+
+<p>"Annie," said Thoms solicitously, "you're giving me the wheels now. If
+I had a chariot I'd have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any
+singing and preaching for a nightcap, either."
+
+<p>"Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she'll take you back. I begged
+her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;
+and your old room over the stable is ready."
+
+<p>"Great!" said Thomas earnestly. "You are It, Annie. But when did these
+stunts happen?"
+
+<p>"To-night at Professor Cherubusco's. He sent his automobile for the
+Missis, and she took me along. I've been there with her before."
+
+<p>"What's the professor's line?"
+
+<p>"He's a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows
+everything. But he hasn't done the Missis any good yet, though she's
+paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told him we
+could find you here."
+
+<p>"What's the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?"
+
+<p>"That's a family secret," said Annie. "And now you've asked enough
+questions. Come on home, you big fool."
+
+<p>They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped.
+
+<p>"Got any dough with you, Annie?" he asked.
+
+<p>Annie looked at him sharply.
+
+<p>"Oh, I know what that look means," said Thomas. "You're wrong. Not
+another drop. But there's a guy that was standing next to me in the bed
+line over there that's in bad shape. He's the right kind, and he's got
+wives or kids or something, and he's on the sick list. No booze. If you
+could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a decent bed I'd like
+it."
+
+<p>Annie's fingers began to wiggle in her purse.
+
+<p>"Sure, I've got money," said she. "Lots of it. Twelve dollars." And then
+she added, with woman's ineradicable suspicion of vicarious benevolence:
+"Bring him here and let me see him first."
+
+<p>Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As
+the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:
+
+<p>"Mr. Walter&mdash; Oh&mdash;Mr. Walter!
+
+<p>"Is that you, Annie?" said the young man meekly.
+
+<p>"Oh, Mr. Walter!&mdash;and the Missis hunting high and low for you!"
+
+<p>"Does mother want to see me?" he asked, with a flush coming out on his
+pale cheek.
+
+<p>"She's been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see you.
+She wants you to come home. She's tried police and morgues and lawyers
+and advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she
+took up clearvoyants. You'll go right home, won't you, Mr. Walter?"
+
+<p>"Gladly, if she wants me," said the young man. "Three years is a long
+time. I suppose I'll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars are
+giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of bays we
+used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?"
+
+<p>"They have," said Thomas, feelingly. "And they'll have 'em ten years
+from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one
+hundred and forty-nine years. I'm the coachman. Just got my
+reappointment five minutes ago. Let's all ride up in a surface car&mdash;that
+is&mdash;er&mdash;if Annie will pay the fares."
+
+<p>On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to
+pay the conductor.
+
+<p>"Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of
+money around," said Thomas sarcastically.
+
+<p>"In that purse," said Annie decidedly, "is exactly $11.85. I shall take
+every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the
+greatest man in the world."
+
+<p>"Well," said Thomas, "I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe off
+things the way he does. I'm glad his spooks told him where you could
+find me. If you'll give me his address, some day I'll go up there,
+myself, and shake his hand."
+
+<p>Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt an
+abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.
+
+<p>"Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last dreams
+of booze, but I've a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile with
+a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights. He
+fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front steps.
+If it was the <i>d t's</i>, why am I so sore?"
+
+<p>"Shut up, you fool," said Annie.
+
+<p>"If I could find that funny guy's house," said Thomas, in conclusion,
+"I'd go up there some day and punch his nose for him."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="6"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>VI<br>
+<br>
+THE POET AND THE PEASANT</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion
+with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.
+
+<p>It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
+song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
+
+<p>When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak
+dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:
+
+<p>"Too artificial."
+
+<p>Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and
+swallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls.
+
+<p>And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a
+well-arrived writer of fiction&mdash;a man who had trod on asphalt all his
+life, and who had never looked upon bucolic scenes except with
+sensations of disgust from the windows of express trains.
+
+<p>Conant wrote a poem and called it "The Doe and the Brook." It was a
+fine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had
+strayed with Amaryllis only as far as the florist's windows, and whose
+sole ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter. Conant
+signed this poem, and we sent it to the same editor.
+
+<p>But this has very little to do with the story.
+
+<p>Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next
+morning, a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped slowly
+up Forty-second Street.
+
+<p>The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and
+hair the exact color of the little orphan's (afterward discovered to be
+the earl's daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney's plays. His trousers were
+corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his
+back. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,
+though in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating
+the suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.
+In his hand was a valise&mdash;description of it is an impossible task; a
+Boston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office
+in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay&mdash;the rustic's
+letter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of the
+Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men.
+
+<p>Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw
+stranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall buildings.
+At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been
+done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney
+"attraction" or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his
+memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the newsboys looked
+bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the way of cabs and
+street cars.
+
+<p>At Eighth Avenue stood "Bunco Harry," with his dyed mustache and shiny,
+good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
+sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who
+had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his
+head.
+
+<p>"Too thick, pal," he said, critically&mdash;"too thick by a couple of inches.
+I don't know what your lay is; but you've got the properties too thick.
+That hay, now&mdash;why, they don't even allow that on Proctor's circuit any
+more."
+
+<p>"I don't understand you, mister," said the green one. "I'm not lookin'
+for any circus. I've just run down from Ulster County to look at the
+town, bein' that the hayin's over with. Gosh! but it's a whopper. I
+thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times
+as big."
+
+<p>"Oh, well," said "Bunco Harry," raising his eyebrows, "I didn't mean
+to butt in. You don't have to tell. I thought you ought to tone down
+a little, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success at your graft,
+whatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow."
+
+<p>"I wouldn't mind having a glass of lager beer," acknowledged the other.
+
+<p>They went to a caf&eacute; frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty eyes,
+and sat at their drinks.
+
+<p>"I'm glad I come across you, mister," said Haylocks. "How'd you like to
+play a game or two of seven-up? I've got the keerds."
+
+<p>He fished them out of Noah's valise&mdash;a rare, inimitable deck, greasy
+with bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields.
+
+<p>"Bunco Harry" laughed loud and briefly.
+
+<p>"Not for me, sport," he said, firmly. "I don't go against that make-up
+of yours for a cent. But I still say you've overdone it. The Reubs
+haven't dressed like that since '79. I doubt if you could work Brooklyn
+for a key-winding watch with that layout."
+
+<p>"Oh, you needn't think I ain't got the money," boasted Haylocks. He drew
+forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and laid it
+on the table.
+
+<p>"Got that for my share of grandmother's farm," he announced. "There's
+$950 in that roll. Thought I'd come to the city and look around for a
+likely business to go into."
+
+<p>"Bunco Harry" took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost
+respect in his smiling eyes.
+
+<p>"I've seen worse," he said, critically. "But you'll never do it in them
+clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw
+hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and
+freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work
+off phony stuff like that."
+
+<p>"What's his line?" asked two or three shifty-eyed men of "Bunco Harry"
+after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed.
+
+<p>"The queer, I guess," said Harry. "Or else he's one of Jerome's men.
+Or some guy with a new graft. He's too much hayseed. Maybe that his&mdash;I
+wonder now&mdash;oh, no, it couldn't have been real money."
+
+<p>Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived
+into a dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight
+of him their eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated
+rusticity became apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion.
+
+<p>Haylocks swung his valise across the bar.
+
+<p>"Keep that a while for me, mister," he said, chewing at the end of a
+virulent claybank cigar. "I'll be back after I knock around a spell. And
+keep your eye on it, for there's $950 inside of it, though maybe you
+wouldn't think so to look at me."
+
+<p>Somewhere outside a phonograph struck up a band piece, and Haylocks was
+off for it, his coat-tail buttons flopping in the middle of his back.
+
+<p>"Divvy, Mike," said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at one
+another.
+
+<p>"Honest, now," said the bartender, kicking the valise to one side. "You
+don't think I'd fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he ain't no jay.
+One of McAdoo's come-on squad, I guess. He's a shine if he made himself
+up. There ain't no parts of the country now where they dress like that
+since they run rural free delivery to Providence, Rhode Island. If he's
+got nine-fifty in that valise it's a ninety-eight cent Waterbury that's
+stopped at ten minutes to ten."
+
+<p>When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse he
+returned for his valise. And then down Broadway he gallivanted, culling
+the sights with his eager blue eyes. But still and evermore Broadway
+rejected him with curt glances and sardonic smiles. He was the oldest of
+the "gags" that the city must endure. He was so flagrantly impossible,
+so ultra rustic, so exaggerated beyond the most freakish products of the
+barnyard, the hayfield and the vaudeville stage, that he excited only
+weariness and suspicion. And the wisp of hay in his hair was so genuine,
+so fresh and redolent of the meadows, so clamorously rural that even a
+shell-game man would have put up his peas and folded his table at the
+sight of it.
+
+<p>Haylocks seated himself upon a flight of stone steps and once more
+exhumed his roll of yellow-backs from the valise. The outer one, a
+twenty, he shucked off and beckoned to a newsboy.
+
+<p>"Son," said he, "run somewhere and get this changed for me. I'm mighty
+nigh out of chicken feed. I guess you'll get a nickel if you'll hurry
+up."
+
+<p>A hurt look appeared through the dirt on the newsy's face.
+
+<p>"Aw, watchert'ink! G'wan and get yer funny bill changed yerself. Dey
+ain't no farm clothes yer got on. G'wan wit yer stage money."
+
+<p>On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He saw
+Haylocks, and his expression suddenly grew cold and virtuous.
+
+<p>"Mister," said the rural one. "I've heard of places in this here town
+where a fellow could have a good game of old sledge or peg a card at
+keno. I got $950 in this valise, and I come down from old Ulster to see
+the sights. Know where a fellow could get action on about $9 or $10? I'm
+goin' to have some sport, and then maybe I'll buy out a business of some
+kind."
+
+<p>The steerer looked pained, and investigated a white speck on his left
+forefinger nail.
+
+<p>"Cheese it, old man," he murmured, reproachfully. "The Central Office
+must be bughouse to send you out looking like such a gillie. You
+couldn't get within two blocks of a sidewalk crap game in them Tony
+Pastor props. The recent Mr. Scotty from Death Valley has got you beat
+a crosstown block in the way of Elizabethan scenery and mechanical
+accessories. Let it be skiddoo for yours. Nay, I know of no gilded halls
+where one may bet a patrol wagon on the ace."
+
+<p>Rebuffed once again by the great city that is so swift to detect
+artificialities, Haylocks sat upon the curb and presented his thoughts
+to hold a conference.
+
+<p>"It's my clothes," said he; "durned if it ain't. They think I'm a
+hayseed and won't have nothin' to do with me. Nobody never made fun of
+this hat in Ulster County. I guess if you want folks to notice you in
+New York you must dress up like they do."
+
+<p>So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through their
+noses and rubbed their hands and ran the tape line ecstatically over the
+bulge in his inside pocket where reposed a red nubbin of corn with an
+even number of rows. And messengers bearing parcels and boxes streamed
+to his hotel on Broadway within the lights of Long Acre.
+
+<p>At 9 o'clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom Ulster
+County would have foresworn. Bright tan were his shoes; his hat the
+latest block. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue
+silk handkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant English
+walking coat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond
+hair was trimmed close; the wisp of hay was gone.
+
+<p>For an instant he stood, resplendent, with the leisurely air of a
+boulevardier concocting in his mind the route for his evening pleasures.
+And then he turned down the gay, bright street with the easy and
+graceful tread of a millionaire.
+
+<p>But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in the
+city had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with gray
+eyes picked two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from the row
+of loungers in front of the hotel.
+
+<p>"The juiciest jay I've seen in six months," said the man with gray eyes.
+"Come along."
+
+<p>It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh
+Street Police Station with the story of his wrongs.
+
+<p>"Nine hundred and fifty dollars," he gasped, "all my share of
+grandmother's farm."
+
+<p>The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust
+Valley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the
+strong-arm gentlemen.
+
+<p>When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was
+received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is
+decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown.
+
+<p>"When I read the first line of 'The Doe and the Brook,'" said the
+editor, "I knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to
+heart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to that
+fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild, free
+child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and walk
+down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show."
+
+<p>"Thanks," said Conant. "I suppose the check will be round on Thursday,
+as usual."
+
+<p>The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your
+choice of "Stay on the Farm" or "Don't Write Poetry."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="7"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>VII<br>
+<br>
+THE ROBE OF PEACE</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>Mysteries follow one another so closely in a great city that the reading
+public and the friends of Johnny Bellchambers have ceased to marvel
+at his sudden and unexplained disappearance nearly a year ago. This
+particular mystery has now been cleared up, but the solution is so
+strange and incredible to the mind of the average man that only a select
+few who were in close touch with Bellchambers will give it full
+credence.
+
+<p>Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically
+inner circle of the <i>&eacute;lite</i>. Without any of the ostentation of the
+fashionable ones who endeavor to attract notice by eccentric display of
+wealth and show he still was <i>au fait</i> in everything that gave deserved
+lustre to his high position in the ranks of society.
+
+<p>Especially did he shine in the matter of dress. In this he was the
+despair of imitators. Always correct, exquisitely groomed, and possessed
+of an unlimited wardrobe, he was conceded to be the best-dressed man in
+New York, and, therefore, in America. There was not a tailor in Gotham
+who would not have deemed it a precious boon to have been granted the
+privilege of making Bellchambers' clothes without a cent of pay. As he
+wore them, they would have been a priceless advertisement. Trousers
+were his especial passion. Here nothing but perfection would he notice.
+He would have worn a patch as quickly as he would have overlooked a
+wrinkle. He kept a man in his apartments always busy pressing his ample
+supply. His friends said that three hours was the limit of time that he
+would wear these garments without exchanging.
+
+<p>Bellchambers disappeared very suddenly. For three days his absence
+brought no alarm to his friends, and then they began to operate the
+usual methods of inquiry. All of them failed. He had left absolutely no
+trace behind. Then the search for a motive was instituted, but none was
+found. He had no enemies, he had no debts, there was no woman. There
+were several thousand dollars in his bank to his credit. He had never
+showed any tendency toward mental eccentricity; in fact, he was of a
+particularly calm and well-balanced temperament. Every means of tracing
+the vanished man was made use of, but without avail. It was one of those
+cases&mdash;more numerous in late years&mdash;where men seem to have gone out like
+the flame of a candle, leaving not even a trail of smoke as a witness.
+
+<p>In May, Tom Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam, two of Bellchambers' old
+friends, went for a little run on the other side. While pottering around
+in Italy and Switzerland, they happened, one day, to hear of a monastery
+in the Swiss Alps that promised something outside of the ordinary
+tourist-beguiling attractions. The monastery was almost inaccessible to
+the average sightseer, being on an extremely rugged and precipitous spur
+of the mountains. The attractions it possessed but did not advertise
+were, first, an exclusive and divine cordial made by the monks that was
+said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse. Next a huge brass bell
+so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceased sounding since it
+was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it was asserted that no
+Englishman had ever set foot within its walls. Eyres and Gilliam decided
+that these three reports called for investigation.
+
+<p>It took them two days with the aid of two guides to reach the monastery
+of St. Gondrau. It stood upon a frozen, wind-swept crag with the snow
+piled about it in treacherous, drifting masses. They were hospitably
+received by the brothers whose duty it was to entertain the infrequent
+guest. They drank of the precious cordial, finding it rarely potent and
+reviving. They listened to the great, ever-echoing bell, and learned
+that they were pioneer travelers, in those gray stone walls, over the
+Englishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly every corner of the
+earth.
+
+<p>At three o'clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young Gothamites
+stood with good Brother Cristofer in the great, cold hallway of the
+monastery to watch the monks march past on their way to the refectory.
+They came slowly, pacing by twos, with their heads bowed, treading
+noiselessly with sandaled feet upon the rough stone flags. As the
+procession slowly filed past, Eyres suddenly gripped Gilliam by the arm.
+"Look," he whispered, eagerly, "at the one just opposite you now&mdash;the
+one on this side, with his hand at his waist&mdash;if that isn't Johnny
+Bellchambers then I never saw him!"
+
+<p>Gilliam saw and recognized the lost glass of fashion.
+
+<p>"What the deuce," said he, wonderingly, "is old Bell doing here? Tommy,
+it surely can't be he! Never heard of Bell having a turn for the
+religious. Fact is, I've heard him say things when a four-in-hand didn't
+seem to tie up just right that would bring him up for court-martial
+before any church."
+
+<p>"It's Bell, without a doubt," said Eyres, firmly, "or I'm pretty badly
+in need of an oculist. But think of Johnny Bellchambers, the Royal High
+Chancellor of swell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here in cold
+storage doing penance in a snuff-colored bathrobe! I can't get it
+straight in my mind. Let's ask the jolly old boy that's doing the honors."
+
+<p>Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the
+monks had passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one they
+referred. Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned their
+worldly names when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to speak
+with one of the brothers? If they would come to the refectory and
+indicate the one they wished to see, the reverend abbot in authority
+would, doubtless, permit it.
+
+<p>Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother
+Cristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They
+saw his face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never
+looking up, eating broth from a coarse, brown bowl.
+
+<p>Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two
+travelers by the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to
+come. When he did come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and
+Gilliam looked at him in perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny
+Bellchambers, but he had a different look. Upon his smooth-shaven face
+was an expression of ineffable peace, of rapturous attainment, of
+perfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly erect, his eyes
+shone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and well-groomed
+as in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now he
+seemed clothed in but a single garment&mdash;a long robe of rough brown
+cloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose
+folds nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old
+ease and grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that meeting
+it was not manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no seats;
+they stood to converse.
+
+<p>"Glad to see you, old man," said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. "Wasn't
+expecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all.
+Society's an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and
+retire to&mdash;er&mdash;contemplation and&mdash;er&mdash;prayer and hymns, and those
+things.
+
+<p>"Oh, cut that, Tommy," said Bellchambers, cheerfully. "Don't be afraid
+that I'll pass around the plate. I go through these thing-um-bobs with
+the rest of these old boys because they are the rules. I'm Brother
+Ambrose here, you know. I'm given just ten minutes to talk to you
+fellows. That's rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn't it,
+Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?"
+
+<p>"It's the same old Johnny," said Gilliam, joyfully. "What the devil&mdash;I
+mean why&mdash; Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?"
+
+<p>"Peel the bathrobe," pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, "and go back with
+us. The old crowd'll go wild to see you. This isn't in your line, Bell.
+I know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you
+shook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a
+dispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice
+factory. You'll get catarrh here, Johnny&mdash;and&mdash; My God! you haven't any
+socks on!"
+
+<p>Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled.
+
+<p>"You fellows don't understand," he said, soothingly. "It's nice of you
+to want me to go back, but the old life will never know me again. I
+have reached here the goal of all my ambitions. I am entirely happy
+and contented. Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days. You
+see this robe that I wear?" Bellchambers caressingly touched the
+straight-hanging garment: "At last I have found something that will not
+bag at the knees. I have attained&mdash;"
+
+<p>At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated
+through the monastery. It must have been a summons to immediate
+devotions, for Brother Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the
+chamber without another word. A slight wave of his hand as he passed
+through the stone doorway seemed to say a farewell to his old friends.
+They left the monastery without seeing him again.
+
+<p>And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought back
+with them from their latest European tour.
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="8"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>VIII<br>
+<br>
+THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is
+a conscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is
+the Western Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from
+speculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden
+toys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to a
+pulp.
+
+<p>Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for
+a rest. He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the
+wilderness business is about as much rest and pleasure to him as sliding
+down the bumps at Coney would be to President Taft. "Give me," says
+Pogue, "a big city for my vacation. Especially New York. I'm not much
+fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the globe
+where I don't find any."
+
+<p>While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places.
+One is a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads
+books about his hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at
+the other&mdash;his hall bedroom in Eighteenth Street&mdash;where he sat in his
+stocking feet trying to pluck "The Banks of the Wabash" out of a small
+zither. Four years he has practised this tune without arriving near
+enough to cast the longest trout line to the water's edge. On the
+dresser lay a blued-steel Colt's forty-five and a tight roll of tens and
+twenties large enough around to belong to the spring rattlesnake-story
+class. A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air fluttered nearby in the
+hall, unable to enter or to flee, scandalized by the stocking feet,
+aghast at the Colt's, yet powerless, with her metropolitan instincts,
+to remove herself beyond the magic influence of the yellow-hued roll.
+
+<p>I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker
+or more candid in his conversation. Beside his expression the cry of
+Henry James for lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have
+seemed like a Chaldean cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession
+with pride, for he considered it an art. And I was curious enough to ask
+him whether he had known any women who followed it.
+
+<p>"Ladies?" said Pogue, with Western chivalry. "Well, not to any great
+extent. They don't amount to much in special lines of graft, because
+they're all so busy in general lines. What? Why, they have to. Who's got
+the money in the world? The men. Did you ever know a man to give a woman
+a dollar without any consideration? A man will shell out his dust to
+another man free and easy and gratis. But if he drops a penny in one of
+the machines run by the Madam Eve's Daughters' Amalgamated Association
+and the pineapple chewing gum don't fall out when he pulls the lever you
+can hear him kick to the superintendent four blocks away. Man is the
+hardest proposition a woman has to go up against. He's the low-grade
+one, and she has to work overtime to make him pay. Two times out of
+five she's salted. She can't put in crushers and costly machinery. He'd
+notice 'em and be onto the game. They have to pan out what they get, and
+it hurts their tender hands. Some of 'em are natural sluice troughs and
+can carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones have to depend on
+signed letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo walk, cowhide whips,
+ability to cook, sentimental juries, conversational powers, silk
+underskirts, ancestry, rouge, anonymous letters, violet sachet powders,
+witnesses, revolvers, pneumatic forms, carbolic acid, moonlight, cold
+cream and the evening newspapers."
+
+<p>"You are outrageous, Ferg," I said. "Surely there is none of this
+'graft' as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious matrimonial union!"
+
+<p>"Well," said Pogue, "nothing that would justify you every time in
+calling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a
+vaudeville manager on a dead run. But it's this way: Suppose you're a
+Fifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and
+cappers.
+
+<p>"You come home at night and bring a $9,000,000 diamond brooch to the
+lady who's staked you for a claim. You hand it over. She says, 'Oh,
+George!' and looks to see if it's backed. She comes up and kisses you.
+You've waited for it. You get it. All right. It's graft.
+
+<p>"But I'm telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and she
+suggested corn in all of its phases. Her hair was as yellow as the silk;
+her form was as tall and graceful as a stalk in the low grounds during a
+wet summer; her eyes were as big and startling as bunions, and green was
+her favorite color.
+
+<p>"On my last trip into the cool recesses of your sequestered city I met a
+human named Vaucross. He was worth&mdash;that is, he had a million. He told
+me he was in business on the street. 'A sidewalk merchant?' says I,
+sarcastic. 'Exactly,' says he, 'Senior partner of a paving concern.'
+
+<p>"I kind of took to him. For this reason, I met him on Broadway one night
+when I was out of heart, luck, tobacco and place. He was all silk hat,
+diamonds and front. He was all front. If you had gone behind him you
+would have only looked yourself in the face. I looked like a cross
+between Count Tolstoy and a June lobster. I was out of luck. I had&mdash;but
+let me lay my eyes on that dealer again.
+
+<p>"Vaucross stopped and talked to me a few minutes and then he took me to
+a high-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then some
+Beethoven, and Bordelaise sauce, and cussing in French, and frangipangi,
+and some hauteur and cigarettes. When I am flush I know them places.
+
+<p>"I declare, I must have looked as bad as a magazine artist sitting there
+without any money and my hair all rumpled like I was booked to read a
+chapter from 'Elsie's School Days' at a Brooklyn Bohemian smoker. But
+Vaucross treated me like a bear hunter's guide. He wasn't afraid of
+hurting the waiter's feelings.
+
+<p>"'Mr. Pogue,' he explains to me, 'I am using you.'
+
+<p>"'Go on,' says I; 'I hope you don't wake up.'
+
+<p>"And then he tells me, you know, the kind of man he was. He was a
+New Yorker. His whole ambition was to be noticed. He wanted to be
+conspicuous. He wanted people to point him out and bow to him, and tell
+others who he was. He said it had been the desire of his life always. He
+didn't have but a million, so he couldn't attract attention by spending
+money. He said he tried to get into public notice one time by planting
+a little public square on the east side with garlic for free use of
+the poor; but Carnegie heard of it, and covered it over at once with a
+library in the Gaelic language. Three times he had jumped in the way of
+automobiles; but the only result was five broken ribs and a notice in
+the papers that an unknown man, five feet ten, with four amalgam-filled
+teeth, supposed to be the last of the famous Red Leary gang had been run
+over.
+
+<p>"'Ever try the reporters,' I asked him.
+
+<p>"'Last month,' says Mr. Vaucross, 'my expenditure for lunches to
+reporters was $124.80.'
+
+<p>"'Get anything out of that?' I asks.
+
+<p>"'That reminds me,' says he; 'add $8.50 for pepsin. Yes, I got
+indigestion.'
+
+<p>"'How am I supposed to push along your scramble for prominence?' I
+inquires. 'Contrast?'
+
+<p>"'Something of that sort to-night,' says Vaucross. 'It grieves me; but
+I am forced to resort to eccentricity.' And here he drops his napkin in
+his soup and rises up and bows to a gent who is devastating a potato
+under a palm across the room.
+
+<p>"'The Police Commissioner,' says my climber, gratified. 'Friend', says
+I, in a hurry, 'have ambitions but don't kick a rung out of your ladder.
+When you use me as a stepping stone to salute the police you spoil my
+appetite on the grounds that I may be degraded and incriminated. Be
+thoughtful.'
+
+<p>"At the Quaker City squab en casserole the idea about Artemisia Blye
+comes to me.
+
+<p>"'Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,' says I&mdash;'a column or
+two every day in all of 'em and your picture in most of 'em for a week.
+How much would it be worth to you?'
+
+<p>"'Ten thousand dollars,' says Vaucross, warm in a minute. 'But no
+murder,' says he; 'and I won't wear pink pants at a cotillon.'
+
+<p>"'I wouldn't ask you to,' says I. 'This is honorable, stylish and
+uneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and some other
+beans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.'
+
+<p>"We closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I
+telegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple
+of photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth
+Presbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and $80.
+She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior and a
+valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage book
+and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band.
+
+<p>"The fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all d&eacute;collet&eacute;e
+and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to dinner in one of
+these New York feminine apartment houses where a man can't get in unless
+he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder cigarettes.
+
+<p>"'She's a stunner,' says Vaucross when he saw her. 'They'll give her a
+two-column cut sure.'
+
+<p>"This was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business straight
+through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and display
+and emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to nothing as
+far as his ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a white tie
+and patent leather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large end of
+a cornucopia to purchase nutriment and heartsease for tall, willowy
+blondes in New York is as common a sight as blue turtles in delirium
+tremens. But he was to write her love letters&mdash;the worst kind of love
+letters, such as your wife publishes after you are dead&mdash;every day. At
+the end of the month he was to drop her, and she would bring suit for
+$100,000 for breach of promise.
+
+<p>"Miss Artemisia was to get $10,000. If she won the suit that was all;
+and if she lost she was to get it anyhow. There was a signed contract to
+that effect.
+
+<p>"Sometimes they had me out with 'em, but not often. I couldn't keep up
+to their style. She used to pull out his notes and criticize them like
+bills of lading.
+
+<p>"'Say, you!' she'd say. 'What do you call this&mdash;letter to a Hardware
+Merchant from His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash? You
+Eastern duffers know as much about writing love letters as a Kansas
+grasshopper does about tugboats. "My dear Miss Blye!"&mdash;wouldn't that put
+pink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake? How long do
+you expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?
+You want to get down to business, and call me "Tweedlums Babe" and
+"Honeysuckle," and sign yourself "Mama's Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy" if
+you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs. Get
+sappy.'
+
+<p>"After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His notes
+read like something or other in the original. I could see a jury
+sitting up, and women tearing one another's hats to hear 'em read. And I
+could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop
+Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever enjoyed. He
+seemed mighty pleased at the prospects.
+
+<p>"They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn
+restaurant and watched 'em. A process-server walked in and handed
+Vaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at 'em; and he
+looked as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent
+cigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.
+
+<p>"About two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood Vaucross
+and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging&mdash;yes, sir, clinging&mdash;to his
+arm. And they tells me they'd been out and got married. And they
+articulated some trivial cadences about love and such. And they laid
+down a bundle on the table and said 'Good night' and left.
+
+<p>"And that's why I say," concluded Ferguson Pogue, "that a woman is too
+busy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft such as is
+given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great success
+in special lines."
+
+<p>"What was in the bundle that they left?" I asked, with my usual
+curiosity.
+
+<p>"Why," said Ferguson, "there was a scalper's railroad ticket as far as
+Kansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross's old pants."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="9"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>IX<br>
+<br>
+THE CALL OF THE TAME</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>When the inauguration was accomplished&mdash;the proceedings were made smooth
+by the presence of the Rough Riders&mdash;it is well known that a herd of
+those competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The
+newspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats
+and leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed
+with the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the
+wonderful plural "tenderfeet" in each of the scribe's stories. The
+Westerners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third
+story, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel
+corridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of Ye
+Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from his
+valet.
+
+<p>Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy's Gentlemen of
+the Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz.
+
+<p>The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue's rush hour swept him away from the
+company of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts
+filled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky
+deafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes
+confused his vision.
+
+<p>The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier's first impulse
+was to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the
+disturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with
+a grin into a doorway.
+
+<p>The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West
+was not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their
+eyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the
+bright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar,
+pattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters
+on the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the
+out-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of
+the half-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the
+circling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest
+sun of Cape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that
+unconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they were
+being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and solemnity
+of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have not
+intruded upon him nearer than a day's ride&mdash;these brands of the West
+were set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat,
+gentle reader&mdash;just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail
+carriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons.
+
+<p>Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan
+cattle, seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him
+a buffet upon his collar-bone that sent him reeling against a wall.
+
+<p>The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who
+has suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But
+he looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration
+of love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its
+friends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its
+enemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the
+welcoming bullet demands.
+
+<p>"God in the mountains!" cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg of
+his cull. "Can this be Longhorn Merritt?"
+
+<p>The other man was&mdash;oh, look on Broadway any day for the
+pattern&mdash;business man&mdash;latest rolled-brim derby&mdash;good barber, business,
+digestion and tailor.
+
+<p>"Greenbrier Nye!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten him.
+"My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to&mdash;oh, to be
+sure&mdash;the inaugural ceremonies&mdash;I remember you joined the Rough Riders.
+You must come and have luncheon with me, of course."
+
+<p>Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the size,
+shape and color of a McClellan saddle.
+
+<p>"Longy," he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic, "what
+have they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen. They done made
+you into an inmate of the city directory. You never made no such Johnny
+Branch execration of yourself as that out on the Gila. 'Come and have
+lunching with me!' You never defined grub by any such terms of reproach
+in them days."
+
+<p>"I've been living in New York seven years," said Merritt. "It's been
+eight since we punched cows together in Old Man Garcia's outfit. Well,
+let's go to a caf&eacute;, anyhow. It sounds good to hear it called 'grub'
+again."
+
+<p>They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by
+a natural law, to the bar.
+
+<p>"Speak up," invited Greenbrier.
+
+<p>"A dry Martini," said Merritt.
+
+<p>"Oh, Lord!" cried Greenbrier; "and yet me and you once saw the same pink
+Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in Ca&ntilde;on Diablo! A
+dry&mdash;but let that pass. Whiskey straight&mdash;and they're on you."
+
+<p>Merritt smiled, and paid.
+
+<p>They lunched in a small extension of the dining room that connected with
+the caf&eacute;. Merritt dexterously diverted his friend's choice, that hovered
+over ham and eggs, to a pur&eacute;e of celery, a salmon cutlet, a partridge
+pie and a desirable salad.
+
+<p>"On the day," said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, "when I can't
+hold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I ain't seen in
+eight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o'clock on the
+third day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me forty times over a
+640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?"
+
+<p>"Right, old man," laughed Merritt. "Waiter, bring an absinthe frapp&eacute;
+and&mdash;what's yours, Greenbrier?"
+
+<p>"Whiskey straight," mourned Nye. "Out of the neck of a bottle you used
+to take it, Longy&mdash;straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping
+pony&mdash;Arizona redeye, not this ab&mdash;oh, what's the use? They're on you."
+
+<p>Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass.
+
+<p>"All right. I suppose you think I'm spoiled by the city. I'm as good a
+Westerner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can't make up my mind
+to go back out there. New York is comfortable&mdash;comfortable. I make a
+good living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in
+snowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months
+for me. I reckon I'll hang out here in the future. We'll take in the
+theatre to-night, Greenbrier, and after that we'll dine at&mdash;"
+
+<p>"I'll tell you what you are, Merritt," said Greenbrier, laying one elbow
+in his salad and the other in his butter. "You are a concentrated,
+effete, unconditional, short-sleeved, gotch-eared Miss Sally Walker. God
+made you perpendicular and suitable to ride straddle and use cuss words
+in the original. Wherefore you have suffered his handiwork to elapse
+by removing yourself to New York and putting on little shoes tied with
+strings, and making faces when you talk. I've seen you rope and tie a
+steer in 42&frac12;. If you was to see one now you'd write to the Police
+Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks that you inoculate
+your system with&mdash;these little essences of cowslip with acorns in 'em,
+and paregoric flip&mdash;they ain't anyways in assent with the cordiality of
+manhood. I hate to see you this way."
+
+<p>"Well, Mr. Greenbrier," said Merritt, with apology in his tone, "in a
+way you are right. Sometimes I do feel like I was being raised on the
+bottle. But, I tell you, New York is comfortable&mdash;comfortable. There's
+something about it&mdash;the sights and the crowds, and the way it changes
+every day, and the very air of it that seems to tie a one-mile-long
+stake rope around a man's neck, with the other end fastened somewhere
+about Thirty-fourth Street. I don't know what it is."
+
+<p>"God knows," said Greenbrier sadly, "and I know. The East has gobbled
+you up. You was venison, and now you're veal. You put me in mind of a
+japonica in a window. You've been signed, sealed and diskivered.
+Requiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty."
+
+<p>"A green chartreuse here," said Merritt to the waiter.
+
+<p>"Whiskey straight," sighed Greenbrier, "and they're on you, you renegade
+of the round-ups."
+
+<p>"Guilty, with an application for mercy," said Merritt. "You don't know
+how it is, Greenbrier. It's so comfortable here that&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Please loan me your smelling salts," pleaded Greenbrier. "If I hadn't
+seen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an empty gun
+in Phoenix&mdash;"
+
+<p>Greenbrier's voice died away in pure grief.
+
+<p>"Cigars!" he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion.
+
+<p>"A pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine," said Merritt.
+
+<p>"They're on you," chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal his
+contempt.
+
+<p>At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column.
+
+<p>That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o'er
+fair women and br&mdash;let it go, anyhow&mdash;brave men. The orchestra played
+charmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a
+waiter when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you
+contributed to it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity.
+
+<p>Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old
+friend, and he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail.
+
+<p>"I take the horehound tea," said Greenbrier, "for old times' sake. But
+I'd prefer whiskey straight. They're on you."
+
+<p>"Right!" said Merritt. "Now, run your eye down that bill of fare and see
+if it seems to hitch on any of these items."
+
+<p>"Lay me on my lava bed!" said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. "All these
+specimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What's this? Horse with the
+heaves? I pass. But look along! Here's truck for twenty round-ups all
+spelled out in different directions. Wait till I see."
+
+<p>The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list.
+
+<p>"This Medoc isn't bad," he suggested.
+
+<p>"You're the doc," said Greenbrier. "I'd rather have whiskey straight.
+It's on you."
+
+<p>Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took
+dishes away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd
+enjoying itself.
+
+<p>"How was the range when you left the Gila?" asked Merritt.
+
+<p>"Fine," said Greenbrier. "You see that lady in the red speckled silk at
+that table. Well, she could warm over her beans at my campfire. Yes, the
+range was good. She looks as nice as a white mustang I see once on Black
+River."
+
+<p>When the coffee came, Greenbrier put one foot on the seat of the chair
+next to him.
+
+<p>"You said it was a comfortable town, Longy," he said, meditatively.
+"Yes, it's a comfortable town. It's different from the plains in a blue
+norther. What did you call that mess in the crock with the handle,
+Longy? Oh, yes, squabs in a cash roll. They're worth the roll. That
+white mustang had just such a way of turning his head and shaking his
+mane&mdash;look at her, Longy. If I thought I could sell out my ranch at a
+fair price, I believe I'd&mdash;
+
+<p>"Gyar&mdash;song!" he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed every knife
+and fork in the restaurant.
+
+<p>The waiter dived toward the table.
+
+<p>"Two more of them cocktail drinks," ordered Greenbrier.
+
+<p>Merritt looked at him and smiled significantly.
+
+<p>"They're on me," said Greenbrier, blowing a puff of smoke to the
+ceiling.
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="10"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>X<br>
+<br>
+THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>The poet Longfellow&mdash;or was it Confucius, the inventor of
+wisdom?&mdash;remarked:
+
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote>
+ "Life is real, life is earnest;<br>
+  &nbsp;And things are not what they seem."<br>
+</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote>
+<br>
+
+<p>As mathematics are&mdash;or is: thanks, old subscriber!&mdash;the only just rule
+by which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means,
+adjust our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the
+great goddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures&mdash;unassailable sums in
+addition&mdash;shall be set over against whatever opposing element there
+may be.
+
+<p>A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would
+say: "Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus&mdash;that is, that
+life is real&mdash;then things (all of which life includes) are real.
+Anything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the
+proposition that 'things are not what they seem,' why&mdash;"
+
+<p>But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we
+would conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued,
+satisfying, mysterious X.
+
+<p>Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an
+old New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that bread
+is made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flour
+crop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no perceptible
+effect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the flour market.
+
+<p>The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never
+had to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought a
+five-cent loaf of bread you laid down an additional two cents, which
+went to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity.
+
+<p>A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000
+prof&mdash;er&mdash;rake-off.
+
+<p>Mr. Kinsolving's son Dan was at college when the mathematical experiment
+in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found the
+old gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading "Little Dorrit" on the
+porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He had
+retired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from bread
+buyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the earth
+and lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay.
+
+<p>Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village
+to see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired
+Kenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical,
+studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of oligarchies.
+Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning watch-making in his
+father's jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial, easy-tempered and
+tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two foregathered joyously,
+being opposites. And then Dan went back to college, and Kenwitz to his
+mainsprings&mdash;and to his private library in the rear of the jewelry shop.
+
+<p>Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the
+accumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took a
+filial look at Septimus Kinsolving's elaborate tombstone in Greenwood
+and a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the family
+lawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire,
+hurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue.
+
+<p>Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parent
+from a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches for
+outdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington
+Square. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity
+that was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more
+intense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic.
+
+<p>"I know about it now," said Dan, finally. "I pumped it out of the
+eminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad's collections
+of bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that
+he squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of
+bread at little bakeries around the corner. You've studied economics,
+Dan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses,
+and the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those things
+before. Football and trying to be white to my fellow-man were about the
+extent of my college curriculum.
+
+<p>"But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I've been
+thinking. I'd like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to give
+up too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income
+for a good many yards; but I'd like to make it square with 'em. Is there
+any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?"
+
+<p>Kenwitz's big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face
+took on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan's arm with the grip of a
+friend and a judge.
+
+<p>"You can't do it!" he said, emphatically. "One of the chief punishments
+of you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find that
+you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I admire
+your good intentions, Dan, but you can't do anything. Those people were
+robbed of their precious pennies. It's too late to remedy the evil. You
+can't pay them back"
+
+<p>"Of course," said Dan, lighting his pipe, "we couldn't hunt up every one
+of the duffers and hand 'em back the right change. There's an awful lot
+of 'em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have&mdash;I never cared
+for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the Roquefort.
+But we might find a few of 'em and chuck some of dad's cash back where
+it came from. I'd feel better if I could. It seems tough for people to be
+held up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn't mind standing a rise
+in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and think, Ken. I want
+to pay back all of that money I can."
+
+<p>"There are plenty of charities," said Kenwitz, mechanically.
+
+<p>"Easy enough," said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. "I suppose I could give
+the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don't
+want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold Peter.
+It's the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken."
+
+<p>The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.
+
+<p>"Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of
+consumers during that corner in flour?" he asked.
+
+<p>"I do not." said Dan, stoutly. "My lawyer tells me that I have two
+millions."
+
+<p>"If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn't
+repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You cannot
+conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.
+Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a
+thousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how
+hopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance
+can it be done."
+
+<p>"Back up, philosopher!" said Dan. "The penny has no sorrow that the
+dollar cannot heal."
+
+<p>"Not in one instance," repeated Kenwitz. "I will give you one, and let
+us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.
+He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he
+had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,
+Boyne's business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital&mdash;all he had in
+the world."
+
+<p>Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
+
+<p>"I accept the instance," he cried. "Take me to Boyne. I will repay his
+thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery."
+
+<p>"Write your check," said Kenwitz, without moving, "and then begin to
+write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one
+for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the
+building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to
+that much. Boyne died in an asylum."
+
+<p>"Stick to the instance," said Dan. "I haven't noticed any insurance
+companies on my charity list."
+
+<p>"Draw your next check for $100,000," went on Kenwitz. "Boyne's son fell
+into bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He was
+acquitted last week after a three years' legal battle, and the state
+draws upon taxpayers for that much expense."
+
+<p>"Back to the bakery!" exclaimed Dan, impatiently. "The Government
+doesn't need to stand in the bread line."
+
+<p>"The last item of the instance is&mdash;come and I will show you," said
+Kenwitz, rising.
+
+<p>The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by
+nature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath
+that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch
+needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.
+
+<p>He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,
+poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid brick
+tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked on a
+door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.
+
+<p>In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She
+nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of
+sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color
+of an ancient Tuscan's shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz
+and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.
+
+<p>Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in
+heart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last
+item of the Instance.
+
+<p>"How many this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker. A mountain of
+coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
+
+<p>"Nearly thirty dozen," said the young woman cheerfully. "I've made
+almost $4. I'm improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so
+much money." Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A
+little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
+
+<p>Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
+
+<p>"Miss Boyne," he said, "let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the
+man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do
+something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act."
+
+<p>The smile left the young woman's face. She rose and pointed her
+forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in
+the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
+
+<p>The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism
+and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the
+moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to
+be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him
+warmly.
+
+<p>"I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely&mdash;"a thousand times
+obliged."
+
+<p>"Mein Gott! you are crazy!" cried the watchmaker, dropping his
+spectacles for the first time in years.
+
+<p>Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway
+with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the
+proprietor.
+
+<p>A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
+
+<p>"These loaves are ten cents," said the clerk.
+
+<p>"I always get them at eight cents uptown," said the lady. "You need not
+fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home."
+
+<p>The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.
+
+<p>"Mr. Kenwitz!" cried the lady, heartily. "How do you do?"
+
+<p>Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension
+on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
+
+<p>"Why, Miss Boyne!" he began.
+
+<p>"Mrs. Kinsolving," she corrected. "Dan and I were married a month ago."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="11"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XI<br>
+<br>
+THE THING'S THE PLAY</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free
+passes, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the
+popular vaudeville houses.
+
+<p>One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much
+past forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a
+taste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I
+regarded the man.
+
+<p>"There was a story about that chap a month or two ago," said the
+reporter. "They gave me the assignment. It was to run a column and was
+to be on the extremely light and joking order. The old man seems to like
+the funny touch I give to local happenings. Oh, yes, I'm working on
+a farce comedy now. Well, I went down to the house and got all the
+details; but I certainly fell down on that job. I went back and turned
+in a comic write-up of an east side funeral instead. Why? Oh, I couldn't
+seem to get hold of it with my funny hooks, somehow. Maybe you could
+make a one-act tragedy out of it for a curtain-raiser. I'll give you the
+details."
+
+<p>After the performance my friend, the reporter, recited to me the facts
+over the W&uuml;rzburger.
+
+<p>"I see no reason," said I, when he had concluded, "why that shouldn't
+make a rattling good funny story. Those three people couldn't have acted
+in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had been real actors in
+a real theatre. I'm really afraid that all the stage is a world, anyhow,
+and all the players men and women. 'The thing's the play,' is the way I
+quote Mr. Shakespeare."
+
+<p>"Try it," said the reporter.
+
+<p>"I will," said I; and I did, to show him how he could have made a
+humorous column of it for his paper.
+
+<br><br><br>
+<p>There stands a house near Abingdon Square. On the ground floor there has
+been for twenty-five years a little store where toys and notions and
+stationery are sold.
+
+<p>One night twenty years ago there was a wedding in the rooms above the
+store. The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen was
+married to Frank Barry. John Delaney was best man. Helen was eighteen,
+and her picture had been printed in a morning paper next to the
+headlines of a "Wholesale Female Murderess" story from Butte, Mont. But
+after your eye and intelligence had rejected the connection, you seized
+your magnifying glass and read beneath the portrait her description as
+one of a series of Prominent Beauties and Belles of the lower west side.
+
+<p>Frank Barry and John Delaney were "prominent" young beaux of the same
+side, and bosom friends, whom you expected to turn upon each other every
+time the curtain went up. One who pays his money for orchestra seats and
+fiction expects this. That is the first funny idea that has turned up in
+the story yet. Both had made a great race for Helen's hand. When Frank
+won, John shook his hand and congratulated him&mdash;honestly, he did.
+
+<p>After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was
+getting married in a traveling dress. She and Frank were going to Old
+Point Comfort for a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering
+cave-dwellers were waiting with their hands full of old Congress gaiters
+and paper bags of hominy.
+
+<p>Then there was a rattle of the fire-escape, and into her room jumps the
+mad and infatuated John Delaney, with a damp curl drooping upon his
+forehead, and made violent and reprehensible love to his lost one,
+entreating her to flee or fly with him to the Riviera, or the Bronx, or
+any old place where there are Italian skies and <i>dolce far niente</i>.
+
+<p>It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him. With
+blazing and scornful eyes she fairly withered him by demanding whatever
+he meant by speaking to respectable people that way.
+
+<p>In a few moments she had him going. The manliness that had possessed him
+departed. He bowed low, and said something about "irresistible impulse"
+and "forever carry in his heart the memory of"&mdash;and she suggested that
+he catch the first fire-escape going down.
+
+<p>"I will away," said John Delaney, "to the furthermost parts of the
+earth. I cannot remain near you and know that you are another's. I will
+to Africa, and there amid other scenes strive to for&mdash;"
+
+<p>"For goodness sake, get out," said Helen. "Somebody might come in."
+
+<p>He knelt upon one knee, and she extended him one white hand that he
+might give it a farewell kiss.
+
+<p>Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever
+vouchsafed you&mdash;to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the
+one you don't want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to
+you and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall
+forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to
+feel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky
+one, broken-hearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself
+as he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are well
+manicured&mdash;say, girls, it's galluptious&mdash;don't ever let it get by you.
+
+<p>And then, of course&mdash;how did you guess it?&mdash;the door opened and in
+stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.
+
+<p>The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen's hand, and out of the window
+and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.
+
+<p>A little slow music, if you please&mdash;faint violin, just a breath in the
+clarinet and a touch of the 'cello. Imagine the scene. Frank, white-hot,
+with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him. Helen, rushing
+and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her wrists and tears
+them from his shoulders&mdash;once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and
+that&mdash;the stage manager will show you how&mdash;and throws her from him to
+the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he
+look upon her face again, and rushes from the house through the staring
+groups of astonished guests.
+
+<p>And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must
+stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray,
+rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which
+must precede the rising of the curtain again.
+
+<p>Mrs. Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could
+have bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and
+general results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but
+she made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth balls,
+nor did she sell it to a magazine.
+
+<p>One day a middle-aged money-making lawyer, who bought his legal cap and
+ink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him.
+
+<p>"I'm really much obliged to you," said Helen, cheerfully, "but I married
+another man twenty years ago. He was more a goose than a man, but I
+think I love him yet. I have never seen him since about half an hour
+after the ceremony. Was it copying ink that you wanted or just writing
+fluid?"
+
+<p>The lawyer bowed over the counter with old-time grace and left a
+respectful kiss on the back of her hand. Helen sighed. Parting salutes,
+however romantic, may be overdone. Here she was at thirty-eight,
+beautiful and admired; and all that she seemed to have got from her
+lovers were approaches and adieus. Worse still, in the last one she had
+lost a customer, too.
+
+<p>Business languished, and she hung out a Room to Let card. Two large
+rooms on the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers
+came, and went regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode
+of neatness, comfort and taste.
+
+<p>One day came Ramonti, the violinist, and engaged the front room above.
+The discord and clatter uptown offended his nice ear; so a friend had
+sent him to this oasis in the desert of noise.
+
+<p>Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short,
+pointed, foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and
+his artist's temperament&mdash;revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic
+manner&mdash;was a welcome tenant in the old house near Abingdon Square.
+
+<p>Helen lived on the floor above the store. The architecture of it was
+singular and quaint. The hall was large and almost square. Up one side
+of it, and then across the end of it ascended an open stairway to the
+floor above. This hall space she had furnished as a sitting room and
+office combined. There she kept her desk and wrote her business letters;
+and there she sat of evenings by a warm fire and a bright red light and
+sewed or read. Ramonti found the atmosphere so agreeable that he spent
+much time there, describing to Mrs. Barry the wonders of Paris, where he
+had studied with a particularly notorious and noisy fiddler.
+
+<p>Next comes lodger No. 2, a handsome, melancholy man in the early 40's,
+with a brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes.
+He, too, found the society of Helen a desirable thing. With the eyes of
+Romeo and Othello's tongue, he charmed her with tales of distant climes
+and wooed her by respectful innuendo.
+
+<p>From the first Helen felt a marvelous and compelling thrill in the
+presence of this man. His voice somehow took her swiftly back to the
+days of her youth's romance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to
+it, and it led her to an instinctive belief that he had been a factor
+in that romance. And then with a woman's reasoning (oh, yes, they do,
+sometimes) she leaped over common syllogisms and theory, and logic, and
+was sure that her husband had come back to her. For she saw in his eyes
+love, which no woman can mistake, and a thousand tons of regret and
+remorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously near to love requited,
+which is the <i>sine qua non</i> in the house that Jack built.
+
+<p>But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twenty
+years and then drops in again should not expect to find his slippers
+laid out too conveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar.
+There must be expiation, explanation, and possibly execration. A little
+purgatory, and then, maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be
+trusted with a harp and crown. And so she made no sign that she knew or
+suspected.
+
+<p>And my friend, the reporter, could see nothing funny in this! Sent out
+on an assignment to write up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing
+story of&mdash;but I will not knock a brother&mdash;let us go on with the story.
+
+<p>One evening Ramonti stopped in Helen's hall-office-reception-room and
+told his love with the tenderness and ardor of the enraptured artist.
+His words were a bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the heart
+of a man who is a dreamer and doer combined.
+
+<p>"But before you give me an answer," he went on, before she could accuse
+him of suddenness, "I must tell you that 'Ramonti' is the only name I
+have to offer you. My manager gave me that. I do not know who I am or
+where I came from. My first recollection is of opening my eyes in a
+hospital. I was a young man, and I had been there for weeks. My life
+before that is a blank to me. They told me that I was found lying in the
+street with a wound on my head and was brought there in an ambulance.
+They thought I must have fallen and struck my head upon the stones.
+There was nothing to show who I was. I have never been able to remember.
+After I was discharged from the hospital, I took up the violin. I have
+had success. Mrs. Barry&mdash;I do not know your name except that&mdash;I love
+you; the first time I saw you I realized that you were the one woman in
+the world for me&mdash;and"&mdash;oh, a lot of stuff like that.
+
+<p>Helen felt young again. First a wave of pride and a sweet little thrill
+of vanity went all over her; and then she looked Ramonti in the eyes,
+and a tremendous throb went through her heart. She hadn't expected that
+throb. It took her by surprise. The musician had become a big factor in
+her life, and she hadn't been aware of it.
+
+<p>"Mr. Ramonti," she said sorrowfully (this was not on the stage,
+remember; it was in the old home near Abingdon Square), "I'm awfully
+sorry, but I'm a married woman."
+
+<p>And then she told him the sad story of her life, as a heroine must do,
+sooner or later, either to a theatrical manager or to a reporter.
+
+<p>Ramonti took her hand, bowed low and kissed it, and went up to his room.
+
+<p>Helen sat down and looked mournfully at her hand. Well she might. Three
+suitors had kissed it, mounted their red roan steeds and ridden away.
+
+<p>In an hour entered the mysterious stranger with the haunting eyes. Helen
+was in the willow rocker, knitting a useless thing in cotton-wool. He
+ricocheted from the stairs and stopped for a chat. Sitting across the
+table from her, he also poured out his narrative of love. And then he
+said: "Helen, do you not remember me? I think I have seen it in your
+eyes. Can you forgive the past and remember the love that has lasted
+for twenty years? I wronged you deeply&mdash;I was afraid to come back to
+you&mdash;but my love overpowered my reason. Can you, will you, forgive me?"
+
+<p>Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a
+strong and trembling clasp.
+
+<p>There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene
+like that and her emotions to portray.
+
+<p>For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal
+love for her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory
+of her first choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure
+feeling. Honor and faith and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it. But
+the other half of her heart and soul was filled with something else&mdash;a
+later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against the new.
+
+<p>And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,
+petitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the
+noblest. The daws may peck upon one's sleeve without injury, but whoever
+wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the neck.
+
+<p>This music and the musician caller her, and at her side honor and the
+old love held her back.
+
+<p>"Forgive me," he pleaded.
+
+<p>"Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you
+love," she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
+
+<p>"How could I tell?" he begged. "I will conceal nothing from you. That
+night when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark
+street I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had
+struck a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and
+jealousy. I hid near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although you
+married him, Helen&mdash;"
+
+<p>"<i>Who Are You?</i>" cried the woman, with wide-open eyes, snatching her
+hand away.
+
+<p>"Don't you remember me, Helen&mdash;the one who has always loved you best? I
+am John Delaney. If you can forgive&mdash;"
+
+<p>But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs
+toward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for
+his in each of his two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed,
+cried and sang: "Frank! Frank! Frank!"
+
+<p>Three mortals thus juggling with years as though they were billiard
+balls, and my friend, the reporter, couldn't see anything funny in it!
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="12"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XII<br>
+<br>
+A RAMBLE IN APHASIA</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She
+left her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she
+plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of
+woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I had
+no cold. Next came her kiss of parting&mdash;the level kiss of domesticity
+flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the extemporaneous,
+of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft touch of long
+malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf pin; and then, as I
+closed the door, I heard her morning slippers pattering back to her
+cooling tea.
+
+<p>When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur.
+The attack came suddenly.
+
+<p>For many weeks I had been toiling, almost night and day, at a famous
+railroad law case that I won triumphantly but a few days previously. In
+fact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for
+many years. Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician,
+had warned me.
+
+<p>"If you don't slacken up, Bellford," he said, "you'll go suddenly to
+pieces. Either your nerves or your brain will give way. Tell me,
+does a week pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of
+aphasia&mdash;of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his
+identity blotted out&mdash;and all from that little brain clot made by
+overwork or worry?"
+
+<p>"I always thought," said I, "that the clot in those instances was really
+to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters."
+
+<p>Doctor Volney shook his head.
+
+<p>"The disease exists," he said. "You need a change or a rest. Court-room,
+office and home&mdash;there is the only route you travel. For recreation
+you&mdash;read law books. Better take warning in time."
+
+<p>"On Thursday nights," I said, defensively, "my wife and I play cribbage.
+On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. That law
+books are not a recreation remains yet to be established."
+
+<p>That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I was
+feeling as well as I usually did&mdash;possibly in better spirits than usual.
+
+<br><br><br>
+<p>I woke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the
+incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and
+tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: "I must have a name
+of some sort." I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a
+paper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly
+$3,000 in bills of large denomination. "I must be some one, of course,"
+I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.
+
+<p>The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must
+have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed
+in the best good humor and spirits. One of them&mdash;a stout, spectacled
+gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes&mdash;took the
+vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper.
+In the intervals between his periods of reading, we conversed, as
+travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the
+conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and
+by my companion said:
+
+<p>"You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this
+time. I'm glad they held the convention in New York; I've never been
+East before. My name's R. P. Bolder&mdash;Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove,
+Missouri."
+
+<p>Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it.
+Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent.
+My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of
+drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper,
+where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.
+
+<p>"My name," said I, glibly, "is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and
+my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas."
+
+<p>"I knew you were a druggist," said my fellow traveler, affably. "I saw
+the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle
+rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention."
+
+<p>"Are all these men druggists?" I asked, wonderingly.
+
+<p>"They are. This car came through from the West. And they're your
+old-time druggists, too&mdash;none of your patent tablet-and-granule
+pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk.
+We percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain't
+above handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side
+line of confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I've got an idea
+to spring on this convention&mdash;new ideas is what they want. Now, you
+know the shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot.
+Tart. and Sod. et Pot. Tart.&mdash;one's poison, you know, and the other's
+harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do
+druggists mostly keep 'em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different
+shelves. That's wrong. I say keep 'em side by side, so when you want one
+you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you
+catch the idea?"
+
+<p>"It seems to me a very good one," I said.
+
+<p>"All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We'll
+make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream professors
+that think they're the only lozenges in the market look like hypodermic
+tablets."
+
+<p>"If I can be of any aid," I said, warming, "the two bottles of&mdash;er&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash."
+
+<p>"Shall henceforth sit side by side," I concluded, firmly.
+
+<p>"Now, there's another thing," said Mr. Bolder. "For an excipient in
+manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer&mdash;the magnesia carbonate or
+the pulverised glycerrhiza radix?"
+
+<p>"The&mdash;er&mdash;magnesia," I said. It was easier to say than the other word.
+
+<p>Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
+
+<p>"Give me the glycerrhiza," said he. "Magnesia cakes."
+
+<p>"Here's another one of these fake aphasia cases," he said, presently,
+handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. "I
+don't believe in 'em. I put nine out of ten of 'em down as frauds. A man
+gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time.
+He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost
+his memory&mdash;don't know his own name, and won't even recognize the
+strawberry mark on his wife's left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why can't
+they stay at home and forget?"
+
+<p>I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+"<span class="smallcaps">Denver</span>, June 12.&mdash;Elwyn C. Bellford, a
+prominent lawyer, is mysteriously
+missing from his home since three days ago, and all efforts to locate
+him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known citizen of the
+highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and lucrative law practice. He
+is married and owns a fine home and the most extensive private library
+in the State. On the day of his disappearance, he drew quite a large sum
+of money from his bank. No one can be found who saw him after he left
+the bank. Mr. Bellford was a man of singularly quiet and domestic
+tastes, and seemed to find his happiness in his home and profession.
+If any clue at all exists to his strange disappearance, it may be found
+in the fact that for some months he has been deeply absorbed in an
+important law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z. Railroad Company.
+It is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort is
+being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man."
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>"It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder," I said,
+after I had read the despatch. "This has the sound, to me, of a genuine
+case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected,
+choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of
+memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name,
+a history or a home."
+
+<p>"Oh, gammon and jalap!" said Mr. Bolder. "It's larks they're after.
+There's too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they
+use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it's all over they
+look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: 'He
+hypnotized me.'"
+
+<p>Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and
+philosophy.
+
+<p>We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel,
+and I wrote my name "Edward Pinkhammer" in the register. As I did so
+I felt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy&mdash;a sense of
+unlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born into
+the world. The old fetters&mdash;whatever they had been&mdash;were stricken from
+my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an
+infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man's
+learning and experience.
+
+<p>I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no
+baggage.
+
+<p>"The Druggists' Convention," I said. "My trunk has somehow failed to
+arrive." I drew out a roll of money.
+
+<p>"Ah!" said he, showing an auriferous tooth, "we have quite a number of
+the Western delegates stopping here." He struck a bell for the boy.
+
+<p>I endeavored to give color to my r&ocirc;le.
+
+<p>"There is an important movement on foot among us Westerners," I said,
+"in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles
+containing the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of
+sodium and potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf."
+
+<p>"Gentleman to three-fourteen," said the clerk, hastily. I was whisked
+away to my room.
+
+<p>The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life
+of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve
+problems of the past.
+
+<p>It was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up to
+my lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to him
+who is able to bear them. You must be either the city's guest or its
+victim.
+
+<p>The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet
+counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having
+come upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat
+entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens,
+that transported one into strange and delightful lands full of
+frolicsome music, pretty girls and grotesque drolly extravagant parodies
+upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will, bound by
+no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird cabarets, at
+weirder <i>tables d'h&ocirc;te</i> to the sound of Hungarian music and the wild
+shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or, again, where the night
+life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic picture, and the
+millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they adorn,
+and the men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the
+spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that I have mentioned I
+learned one thing that I never knew before. And that is that the key to
+liberty is not in the hands of License, but Convention holds it. Comity
+has a toll-gate at which you must pay, or you may not enter the land
+of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming disorder, the parade, the
+abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail. Therefore,
+in Manhattan you must obey these unwritten laws, and then you will be
+freest of the free. If you decline to be bound by them, you put on
+shackles.
+
+<p>Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly
+murmuring palm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate
+restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in
+steamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks
+and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there
+was always Broadway&mdash;glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable
+Broadway&mdash;growing upon one like an opium habit.
+
+<p>One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a
+black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed
+around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.
+
+<p>"Hello, Bellford!" he cried, loudly. "What the deuce are you doing in
+New York? Didn't know anything could drag you away from that old book
+den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,
+eh?"
+
+<p>"You have made a mistake, sir," I said, coldly, releasing my hand from
+his grasp. "My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me."
+
+<p>The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the
+clerk's desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about
+telegraph blanks.
+
+<p>"You will give me my bill," I said to the clerk, "and have my baggage
+brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed
+by confidence men."
+
+<p>I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on
+lower Fifth Avenue.
+
+<p>There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be
+served almost <i>al fresco</i> in a tropic array of screening flora. Quiet
+and luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to take
+luncheon or refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way to a
+table among the ferns when I felt my sleeve caught.
+
+<p>"Mr. Bellford!" exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.
+
+<p>I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone&mdash;a lady of about thirty,
+with exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been
+her very dear friend.
+
+<p>"You were about to pass me," she said, accusingly. "Don't tell me you
+do not know me. Why should we not shake hands&mdash;at least once in fifteen
+years?"
+
+<p>I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the
+table. I summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was
+philandering with an orange ice. I ordered a <i>cr&egrave;me de menthe</i>. Her hair
+was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you could not look
+away from her eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are conscious of
+sunset while you look into the profundities of a wood at twilight.
+
+<p>"Are you sure you know me?" I asked.
+
+<p>"No," she said, smiling. "I was never sure of that."
+
+<p>"What would you think," I said, a little anxiously, "if I were to tell
+you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas?"
+
+<p>"What would I think?" she repeated, with a merry glance. "Why, that you
+had not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I do wish
+you had. I would have liked to see Marian." Her voice lowered
+slightly&mdash;"You haven't changed much, Elwyn."
+
+<p>I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
+
+<p>"Yes, you have," she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in
+her latest tones; "I see it now. You haven't forgotten. You haven't
+forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could."
+
+<p>I poked my straw anxiously in the <i>cr&egrave;me de menthe</i>.
+
+<p>"I'm sure I beg your pardon," I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. "But
+that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I've forgotten everything."
+
+<p>She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed
+to see in my face.
+
+<p>"I've heard of you at times," she went on. "You're quite a big lawyer
+out West&mdash;Denver, isn't it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of
+you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You
+may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand
+dollars."
+
+<p>She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
+
+<p>"Would it be too late," I asked, somewhat timorously, "to offer you
+congratulations?"
+
+<p>"Not if you dare do it," she answered, with such fine intrepidity that
+I was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb
+nail.
+
+<p>"Tell me one thing," she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly&mdash;"a
+thing I have wanted to know for many years&mdash;just from a woman's
+curiosity, of course&mdash;have you ever dared since that night to touch,
+smell or look at white roses&mdash;at white roses wet with rain and dew?"
+
+<p>I took a sip of <i>cr&egrave;me de menthe</i>.
+
+<p>"It would be useless, I suppose," I said, with a sigh, "for me to repeat
+that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory is
+completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it."
+
+<p>The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained
+my words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She
+laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound&mdash;it was a laugh of
+happiness&mdash;yes, and of content&mdash;and of misery. I tried to look away from
+her.
+
+<p>"You lie, Elwyn Bellford," she breathed, blissfully. "Oh, I know you
+lie!"
+
+<p>I gazed dully into the ferns.
+
+<p>"My name is Edward Pinkhammer," I said. "I came with the delegates to
+the Druggists' National Convention. There is a movement on foot for
+arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and
+tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little
+interest."
+
+<p>A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her
+hand, and bowed.
+
+<p>"I am deeply sorry," I said to her, "that I cannot remember. I could
+explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
+Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the&mdash;the roses and
+other things."
+
+<p>"Good-by, Mr. Bellford," she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as
+she stepped into her carriage.
+
+<p>I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet
+man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails
+with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
+
+<p> "Mr. Pinkhammer," he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his
+forefinger, "may I request you to step aside with me for a little
+conversation? There is a room here."
+
+<p>"Certainly," I answered.
+
+<p>He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman
+were there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually good-looking
+had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen worry and
+fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring and
+features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling dress;
+she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and pressed an
+unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started forward, but
+the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative motion of his
+hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of forty, a little
+gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful face.
+
+<p>"Bellford, old man," he said, cordially, "I'm glad to see you again. Of
+course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you
+were overdoing it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in
+no time."
+
+<p>I smiled ironically.
+
+<p>"I have been 'Bellforded' so often," I said, "that it has lost its edge.
+Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to
+entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I
+never saw you before in my life?"
+
+<p>Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She sprang
+past his detaining arm. "Elwyn!" she sobbed, and cast herself upon me,
+and clung tight. "Elwyn," she cried again, "don't break my heart. I am
+your wife&mdash;call my name once&mdash;just once. I could see you dead rather
+than this way."
+
+<p>I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
+
+<p>"Madam," I said, severely, "pardon me if I suggest that you accept a
+resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity," I went on, with an amused
+laugh, as the thought occurred to me, "that this Bellford and I could
+not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium
+and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the
+allusion," I concluded airily, "it may be necessary for you to keep an
+eye on the proceedings of the Druggists' National Convention."
+
+<p>The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
+
+<p>"What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?" she moaned.
+
+<p>He led her to the door.
+
+<p>"Go to your room for a while," I heard him say. "I will remain and talk
+with him. His mind? No, I think not&mdash;only a portion of the brain. Yes,
+I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him."
+
+<p>The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still
+manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
+
+<p>"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may," said
+the gentleman who remained.
+
+<p>"Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take it
+comfortably; I am rather tired." I stretched myself upon a couch by a
+window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
+
+<p>"Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly. "Your name is not
+Pinkhammer."
+
+<p>"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly. "But a man must have a
+name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire
+the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self suddenly, the
+fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been
+Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer."
+
+<p>"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford. You
+are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack
+of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of
+it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too
+bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the
+room is your wife."
+
+<p>"She is what I would call a fine-looking woman," I said, after a
+judicial pause. "I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair."
+
+<p>"She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two
+weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in
+New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from
+Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did
+not recognize him."
+
+<p>"I think I remember the occasion," I said. "The fellow called me
+'Bellford,' if I am not mistaken. But don't you think it about time,
+now, for you to introduce yourself?"
+
+<p>"I am Robert Volney&mdash;Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for
+twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford
+to trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man&mdash;try to
+remember!"
+
+<p>"What's the use to try?" I asked, with a little frown. "You say you are
+a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it
+return slowly, or suddenly?"
+
+<p>"Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it went."
+
+<p>"Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?" I asked.
+
+<p>"Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power, and will have
+done everything that science can do to cure you."
+
+<p>"Very well," said I. "Then you will consider that I am your patient.
+Everything is in confidence now&mdash;professional confidence."
+
+<p>"Of course," said Doctor Volney.
+
+<p>I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the
+centre table&mdash;a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.
+I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the couch
+again.
+
+<p>"It will be best, Bobby," I said, "to have this cure happen suddenly.
+I'm rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in.
+But, oh, Doc," I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin&mdash;"good
+old Doc&mdash;it was glorious!"
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="13"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XIII<br>
+<br>
+A MUNICIPAL REPORT</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote>
+     The cities are full of pride,<br>
+        &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Challenging each to each&mdash;<br>
+     This from her mountainside,<br>
+        &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That from her burthened beach.<br>
+        &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+        &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+        &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+        &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smallcaps">R. Kipling</span>.
+</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<blockquote>
+Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,
+Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States
+that are "story cities"&mdash;New York, of course, New Orleans, and,
+best of the lot, San Francisco.&mdash;<span class="smallcaps">Frank Norris</span>.
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.
+Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a
+State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less
+loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak
+of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into
+detail.
+
+<p>Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half
+an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.
+But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness
+comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the
+Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation
+is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it
+is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town
+there can be no romance&mdash;what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and
+a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and
+McNally.
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote>
+<span class="smallcaps">Nashville</span>&mdash;A city, port of delivery,
+  and the capital of the
+  State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the
+  N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads.  This city is regarded
+  as the most important educational centre in the South.
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain
+for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the
+form of a recipe.
+
+<p>Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;
+dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of
+honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.
+
+<p>The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville
+drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup;
+but 'tis enough&mdash;'twill serve.
+
+<p>I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for
+me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of
+Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and
+driven by something dark and emancipated.
+
+<p>I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it
+the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).
+I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old
+"marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah."
+
+<p>The hotel was one of the kind described as "renovated." That means
+$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass
+cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of
+Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management
+was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy,
+the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as
+Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There
+is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers <i>en
+brochette</i>.
+
+<p>At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He
+pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: "Well, boss, I don't
+really reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown."
+
+<p>Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long
+before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the
+streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote>
+It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted
+by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a
+company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with&mdash;no, I saw with
+relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan
+of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, "Kyar you
+anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned that I was
+merely a "fare" instead of a victim.
+
+<p>I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those
+streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn't until they were
+"graded." On a few of the "main streets" I saw lights in stores here and
+there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon;
+saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of
+semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor.
+The streets other than "main" seemed to have enticed upon their borders
+houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights
+shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled
+orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little "doing."
+I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote>
+In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against
+Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas.
+The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a
+terrible conflict.
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine
+marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the
+tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There
+were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the
+great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the
+crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a
+ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible
+battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.
+Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of
+Jefferson Brick! the tile floor&mdash;the beautiful tile floor! I could not
+avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my
+foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.
+
+<p>Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew
+him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat
+has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so
+well said almost everything:
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote><blockquote>
+  Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,<br>
+  And curse me the British vermin, the rat.
+</blockquote></blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>Let us regard the word "British" as interchangeable <i>ad lib</i>. A rat
+is a rat.
+
+<p>This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had
+forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage,
+red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.
+He possessed one single virtue&mdash;he was very smoothly shaven. The mark
+of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a
+stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have
+repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have
+been spared the addition of one murder.
+
+<p>I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major
+Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive
+that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles;
+so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to
+apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he
+had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.
+
+<p>I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by
+profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince
+Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug
+chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little
+lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another W&uuml;rzburger
+and wish that Longstreet had&mdash;but what's the use?
+
+<p>Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort
+Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to
+hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam
+was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.
+Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family
+matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and
+profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in
+the land of Nod.
+
+<p>By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure
+by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that
+I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he
+crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another
+serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of him
+brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained my
+release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and
+showed a handful of silver money.
+
+<p>When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: "If that
+man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint,
+we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any
+known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the
+time. But we don't seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him
+out legally."
+
+<p>"Why, no," said I, after some reflection; "I don't see my way clear
+to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as
+asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town," I continued,
+"seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or
+excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?"
+
+<p>"Well, sir," said the clerk, "there will be a show here next Thursday.
+It is&mdash;I'll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room
+with the ice water. Good night."
+
+<p>After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about
+ten o'clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued,
+spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the
+Ladies' Exchange.
+
+<p>"A quiet place," I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling
+of the occupant of the room beneath mine. "Nothing of the life here that
+gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a good,
+ordinary, humdrum, business town."
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote>
+Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing
+centres of the country.  It is the fifth boot and shoe market
+in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing
+city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods,
+grocery, and drug business.
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the
+digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was
+traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a
+Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal
+connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea
+Adair.
+
+<p>Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had
+sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors
+swear approvingly over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had
+commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or her
+output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten
+or twenty.
+
+<p>At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken livers <i>en brochette</i>
+(try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle,
+which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner I came
+upon Uncle C&aelig;sar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids,
+with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second
+afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat
+that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his ankles and had
+once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and sun and age had so
+variegated it that Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale
+monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it has to do with the
+story&mdash;the story that is so long in coming, because you can hardly
+expect anything to happen in Nashville.
+
+<p>Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it
+had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled
+magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead
+had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving "black mammy")
+new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine
+was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a
+substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking
+devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing
+frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all
+its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone
+remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the
+buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There
+was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many
+mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of
+yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine.
+
+<p>This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have
+started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals
+hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a
+feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling
+tones:
+
+<p>"Step right in, suh; ain't a speck of dust in it&mdash;jus' got back from a
+funeral, suh."
+
+<p>I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra
+cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was
+little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked
+in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.
+
+<p>"I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street," I said, and was about to step
+into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of
+the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of
+sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly
+returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: "What are you gwine there
+for, boss?"
+
+<p>"What is it to you?" I asked, a little sharply.
+
+<p>"Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome kind of part of town
+and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is
+clean&mdash;jes' got back from a funeral, suh."
+
+<p>A mile and a half it must have been to our journey's end. I could hear
+nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick
+paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with
+coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms.
+All I could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim
+houses.
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote>
+The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets,
+of which 137 miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost
+$2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards
+back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees
+and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid
+the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose
+that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when
+you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former
+grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside.
+
+<p>When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came
+to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter,
+feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.
+
+<p>"It's two dollars, suh," he said.
+
+<p>"How's that?" I asked. "I plainly heard you call out at the hotel:
+'Fifty cents to any part of the town.'"
+
+<p>"It's two dollars, suh," he repeated obstinately. "It's a long ways from
+the hotel."
+
+<p>"It is within the city limits and well within them." I argued. "Don't
+think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills
+over there?" I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them,
+myself, for the drizzle); "well, I was born and raised on their other
+side. You old fool nigger, can't you tell people from other people when
+you see 'em?"
+
+<p>The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. "Is you from the South, suh?
+I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin' sharp
+in the toes for a Southern gen'l'man to wear."
+
+<p>"Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?" said I inexorably.
+
+<p>His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned,
+remained ten seconds, and vanished.
+
+<p>"Boss," he said, "fifty cents is right; but I <i>needs</i> two dollars, suh;
+I'm <i>obleeged</i> to have two dollars. I ain't <i>demandin'</i> it now, suh;
+after I know whar you's from; I'm jus' sayin' that I <i>has</i> to have two
+dollars to-night, and business is mighty po'."
+
+<p>Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been
+luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn,
+ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.
+
+<p>"You confounded old rascal," I said, reaching down to my pocket, "you
+ought to be turned over to the police."
+
+<p>For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; <i>he knew</i>. HE KNEW.
+
+<p>I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that
+one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was
+missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A
+strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its
+negotiability.
+
+<p>Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted
+the rope and opened a creaky gate.
+
+<p>The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in
+twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled
+it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that
+hugged it close&mdash;the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still
+drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and
+cold.
+
+<p>Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the
+cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the
+cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a
+queen's, received me.
+
+<p>The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in
+it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a
+cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two
+or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon
+drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of
+Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.
+
+<p>Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated
+to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the
+sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid
+originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at
+home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from inference and
+by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists
+made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers, trying,
+unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the
+half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne
+and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly
+everybody nowadays knows too much&mdash;oh, so much too much&mdash;of real life.
+
+<p>I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a
+dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to
+the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas
+in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like
+a harpsichord's, and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the
+presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower
+the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy after
+I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three
+o'clock of the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the business
+proposition.
+
+<p>"Your town," I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the
+time for smooth generalities), "seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A
+home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever
+happen."
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote>
+It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with
+the West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity
+of more than 2,000 barrels.
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.
+
+<p>"I have never thought of it that way," she said, with a kind of sincere
+intensity that seemed to belong to her. "Isn't it in the still, quiet
+places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the
+earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one's window
+and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the
+everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world&mdash;I mean
+the building of the Tower of Babel&mdash;result in finally? A page and a half
+of Esperanto in the <i>North American Review</i>."
+
+<p>"Of course," said I platitudinously, "human nature is the same
+everywhere; but there is more color&mdash;er&mdash;more drama and movement
+and&mdash;er&mdash;romance in some cities than in others."
+
+<p>"On the surface," said Azalea Adair. "I have traveled many times around
+the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings&mdash;print and dreams. I
+have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring
+with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in
+public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets
+because his wife was going out with her face covered&mdash;with rice powder.
+In San Francisco's Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped
+slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would
+never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had
+reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville
+the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates
+and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The
+boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have
+seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh,
+yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud
+and lumber yards."
+
+<p>Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair
+breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back
+in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and
+ten years lifted from her shoulders.
+
+<p>"You must have a cup of tea before you go," she said, "and a sugar
+cake."
+
+<p>She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl
+about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in
+mouth and bulging eyes.
+
+<p>Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill,
+a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two
+pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It
+was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro&mdash;there was no doubt
+about it.
+
+<p>"Go up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy," she said, handing the
+girl the dollar bill, "and get a quarter of a pound of tea&mdash;the kind he
+always sends me&mdash;and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The
+supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted," she explained to
+me.
+
+<p>Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet
+had died away on the back porch, a wild shriek&mdash;I was sure it was
+hers&mdash;filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry
+man's voice mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible
+words.
+
+<p>Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two
+minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man's voice; then something
+like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.
+
+<p>"This is a roomy house," she said, "and I have a tenant for part of it.
+I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible
+to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr. Baker
+will be able to supply me."
+
+<p>I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired
+concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on
+my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair's name. But
+to-morrow would do.
+
+<p>That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this
+uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but
+in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an
+accomplice&mdash;after the fact, if that is the correct legal term&mdash;to a
+murder.
+
+<p>As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the
+polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of
+his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his
+ritual: "Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean&mdash;jus' got back from a
+funeral. Fifty cents to any&mdash;"
+
+<p>And then he knew me and grinned broadly. "'Scuse me, boss; you is de
+gen'l'man what rid out with me dis mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh."
+
+<p>"I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three," said I,
+"and if you will be here, I'll let you drive me. So you know Miss
+Adair?" I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.
+
+<p>"I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh," he replied.
+
+<p>"I judge that she is pretty poor," I said. "She hasn't much money to
+speak of, has she?"
+
+<p>For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King
+Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack
+driver.
+
+<p>"She ain't gwine to starve, suh," he said slowly. "She has reso'ces,
+suh; she has reso'ces."
+
+<p>"I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip," said I.
+
+<p>"Dat is puffeckly correct, suh," he answered humbly. "I jus' <i>had</i> to
+have dat two dollars dis mawnin', boss."
+
+<p>I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: "A.
+Adair holds out for eight cents a word."
+
+<p>The answer that came back was: "Give it to her quick you duffer."
+
+<p>Just before dinner "Major" Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the
+greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so
+instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was
+standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the
+white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks,
+hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable,
+roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks
+attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.
+
+<p>With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a
+pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the
+dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the
+middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar
+bill again. It could have been no other.
+
+<p>I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary,
+eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that
+just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar
+bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective
+story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: "Seems as if a
+lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver's Trust. Pays dividends
+promptly, too. Wonder if&mdash;" Then I fell asleep.
+
+<p>King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over
+the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I
+was ready.
+
+<p>Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked
+on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per
+word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without
+much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa
+and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored
+Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him,
+he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the
+value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired
+and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight
+cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of
+mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old
+Negro.
+
+<p>"Uncle C&aelig;sar," he said calmly, "Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to
+give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port
+wine. And hurry back. Don't drive&mdash;run. I want you to get back sometime
+this week."
+
+<p>It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the
+speeding powers of the land-pirate's steeds. After Uncle C&aelig;sar was
+gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me
+over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he
+had decided that I might do.
+
+<p>"It is only a case of insufficient nutrition," he said. "In other words,
+the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many
+devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept
+nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle C&aelig;sar, who was once owned by
+her family."
+
+<p>"Mrs. Caswell!" said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract
+and saw that she had signed it "Azalea Adair Caswell."
+
+<p>"I thought she was Miss Adair," I said.
+
+<p>"Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir," said the doctor. "It
+is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant
+contributes toward her support."
+
+<p>When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea
+Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that
+were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to
+her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart.
+Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere,
+and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power
+and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on
+future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.
+
+<p>"By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had
+royalty for a coachman. Old C&aelig;sar's grandfather was a king in Congo.
+C&aelig;sar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed."
+
+<p>As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle C&aelig;sar's voice inside: "Did
+he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?"
+
+<p>"Yes, C&aelig;sar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in
+and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the
+responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary
+formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle C&aelig;sar drove me back
+to the hotel.
+
+<p>Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The
+rest must be only bare statements of facts.
+
+<p>At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle C&aelig;sar was at his
+corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster
+and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to
+anywhere in the city&mdash;hack's puffickly clean, suh&mdash;jus' got back from a
+funeral&mdash;"
+
+<p>And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His
+coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings
+were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button&mdash;the button of
+yellow horn&mdash;was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle C&aelig;sar!
+
+<p>About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of a
+drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I wedged
+my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs was
+stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A doctor
+was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was that it
+was conspicuous by its absence.
+
+<p>The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by
+curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had
+been engaged in terrific battle&mdash;the details showed that. Loafer and
+reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had
+lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not
+be opened. The gentle citizens who had know him stood about and searched
+their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were possible, to
+speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought: "When 'Cas'
+was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in school."
+
+<p>While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of "the man that was"
+which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped
+something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little
+later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last
+struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it
+in a death grip.
+
+<p>At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the
+possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major
+Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners:
+
+<p>"In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these
+no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon
+which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found
+the money was not on his person."
+
+<p>I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing
+the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow
+horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends
+of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the
+slow, muddy waters below.
+
+<p><i>I wonder what's doing in Buffalo!</i>
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="14"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XIV<br>
+<br>
+PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>If you are a philosopher you can do this thing: you can go to the top
+of a high building, look down upon your fellow-men 300 feet below, and
+despise them as insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on
+summer ponds, they crawl and circle and hustle about idiotically without
+aim or purpose. They do not even move with the admirable intelligence
+of ants, for ants always know when they are going home. The ant is of
+a lowly station, but he will often reach home and get his slippers on
+while you are left at your elevated station.
+
+<p>Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a creeping,
+contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires, bootblacks, beauties,
+hod-carriers and politicians become little black specks dodging bigger
+black specks in streets no wider than your thumb.
+
+<p>From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an
+unintelligible mass of distorted buildings and impossible perspectives;
+the revered ocean is a duck pond; the earth itself a lost golf ball. All
+the minutiae of life are gone. The philosopher gazes into the infinite
+heavens above him, and allows his soul to expand to the influence of
+his new view. He feels that he is the heir to Eternity and the child of
+Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his immortal heritage,
+and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind shall traverse
+those mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet. The tiny world
+beneath his feet upon which this towering structure of steel rests as a
+speck of dust upon a Himalayan mountain&mdash;it is but one of a countless
+number of such whirling atoms. What are the ambitions, the achievements,
+the paltry conquests and loves of those restless black insects below
+compared with the serene and awful immensity of the universe that lies
+above and around their insignificant city?
+
+<p>It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They
+have been expressly compiled from the philosophies of the world and set
+down with the proper interrogation point at the end of them to represent
+the invariable musings of deep thinkers on high places. And when the
+philosopher takes the elevator down his mind is broader, his heart is at
+peace, and his conception of the cosmogony of creation is as wide as the
+buckle of Orion's summer belt.
+
+<p>But if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an Eighth
+Avenue candy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet
+by eight, and earned $6 per week, and ate ten-cent lunches and were
+nineteen years old, and got up at 6.30 and worked till 9, and never had
+studied philosophy, maybe things wouldn't look that way to you from the
+top of a skyscraper.
+
+<p>Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who
+kept the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a tool-box
+of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow's nest against a corner
+of a down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit, candies,
+newspapers, song books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season. When stern
+winter shook his congealed locks and Joe had to move himself and the
+fruit inside, there was exactly room in the store for the proprietor,
+his wares, a stove the size of a vinegar cruet, and one customer.
+
+<p>Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues
+and fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and
+wanted Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her.
+
+<p>"I got money saved up, Daisy," was his love song; "and you know how bad
+I want you. That store of mine ain't very big, but&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Oh, ain't it?" would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one. "Why,
+I heard Wanamaker's was trying to get you to sublet part of your floor
+space to them for next year."
+
+<p>Daisy passed Joe's corner every morning and evening.
+
+<p>"Hello, Two-by-Four!" was her usual greeting. "Seems to me your store
+looks emptier. You must have sold a pack of chewing gum."
+
+<p>"Ain't much room in here, sure," Joe would answer, with his slow grin,
+"except for you, Daise. Me and the store are waitin' for you whenever
+you'll take us. Don't you think you might before long?"
+
+<p>"Store!"&mdash;a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy's uptilted nose&mdash;"sardine
+box! Waitin' for me, you say? Gee! you'd have to throw out about a
+hundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of it, Joe."
+
+<p>"I wouldn't mind an even swap like that," said Joe, complimentary.
+
+<p>Daisy's existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways
+between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall
+bedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were
+so near to one another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of
+noise. She could light the gas with one hand and close the door with the
+other without taking her eyes off the reflection of her brown pompadour
+in the mirror. She had Joe's picture in a gilt frame on the dresser, and
+sometimes&mdash;but her next thought would always be of Joe's funny little
+store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great building, and
+away would go her sentiment in a breeze of laughter.
+
+<p>Daisy's other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board
+in the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a
+philosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like
+continental labels on a Passaic (N. J.) suit-case. Knowledge he had
+kidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as
+for wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without
+so much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the
+proportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the
+shortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails
+required to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the
+population of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of Mr.
+H. McKay Twombly's second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac Tunnel,
+the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway post-office
+messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, Pa., and the number
+of bones in the foreleg of a cat.
+
+<p>The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were
+the sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk
+that he would set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And
+again he used them as breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse.
+Firing at you a volley of figures concerning the weight of a lineal
+foot of bar-iron 5 &times; 2&frac34; inches, and the average annual rainfall at
+Fort Snelling, Minn., he would transfix with his fork the best piece of
+chicken on the dish while you were trying to rally sufficiently to ask
+him weakly why does a hen cross the road.
+
+<p>Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good looks,
+of a hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon kind, it
+seems that Joe, of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival worthy of his
+steel. But Joe carried no steel. There wouldn't have been room in his store
+to draw it if he had.
+
+<p>One Saturday afternoon, about four o'clock, Daisy and Mr. Dabster
+stopped before Joe's booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and&mdash;well, Daisy
+was a woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until Joe
+had seen it. A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible object
+of the call. Joe supplied it through the open side of his store. He did
+not pale or falter at sight of the hat.
+
+<p>"Mr. Dabster's going to take me on top of the building to observe the
+view," said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. "I never was
+on a skyscraper. I guess it must be awfully nice and funny up there."
+
+<p>"H'm!" said Joe.
+
+<p>"The panorama," said Mr. Dabster, "exposed to the gaze from the top of
+a lofty building is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy has
+a decided pleasure in store for her."
+
+<p>"It's windy up there, too, as well as here," said Joe. "Are you dressed
+warm enough, Daise?"
+
+<p>"Sure thing! I'm all lined," said Daisy, smiling slyly at his clouded
+brow. "You look just like a mummy in a case, Joe. Ain't you just put in
+an invoice of a pint of peanuts or another apple? Your stock looks awful
+over-stocked."
+
+<p>Daisy giggled at her favorite joke; and Joe had to smile with her.
+
+<p>"Your quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.&mdash;er&mdash;er," remarked Dabster,
+"in comparison with the size of this building. I understand the area
+of its side to be about 340 by 100 feet. That would make you occupy
+a proportionate space as if half of Beloochistan were placed upon a
+territory as large as the United States east of the Rocky Mountains,
+with the Province of Ontario and Belgium added."
+
+<p>"Is that so, sport?" said Joe, genially. "You are Weisenheimer on
+figures, all right. How many square pounds of baled hay do you think
+a jackass could eat if he stopped brayin' long enough to keep still a
+minute and five eighths?"
+
+<p>A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to
+the top floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and out
+upon the roof. Dabster led her to the parapet so she could look down at
+the black dots moving in the street below.
+
+<p>"What are they?" she asked, trembling. She had never been on a
+height like this before.
+
+<p>And then Dabster must needs play the philosopher on the tower, and
+conduct her soul forth to meet the immensity of space.
+
+<p>"Bipeds," he said, solemnly. "See what they become even at the small
+elevation of 340 feet&mdash;mere crawling insects going to and fro at
+random."
+
+<p>"Oh, they ain't anything of the kind," exclaimed Daisy,
+suddenly&mdash;"they're folks! I saw an automobile. Oh, gee! are we that
+high up?"
+
+<p>"Walk over this way," said Dabster.
+
+<p>He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far
+below, starred here and there, early as it was, by the first beacon
+lights of the winter afternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south
+and east vanishing mysteriously into the sky.
+
+<p>"I don't like it," declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes. "Say we go
+down."
+
+<p>But the philosopher was not to be denied his opportunity. He would let
+her behold the grandeur of his mind, the half-nelson he had on the
+infinite, and the memory he had for statistics. And then she would
+nevermore be content to buy chewing gum at the smallest store in New
+York. And so he began to prate of the smallness of human affairs, and
+how that even so slight a removal from earth made man and his works look
+like one tenth part of a dollar thrice computed. And that one should
+consider the sidereal system and the maxims of Epictetus and be
+comforted.
+
+<p>"You don't carry me with you," said Daisy. "Say, I think it's awful to
+be up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them we saw might have
+been Joe. Why, Jiminy! we might as well be in New Jersey! Say, I'm
+afraid up here!"
+
+<p>The philosopher smiled fatuously.
+
+<p>"The earth," said he, "is itself only as a grain of wheat in space. Look
+up there."
+
+<p>Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short day was spent and the stars
+were coming out above.
+
+<p>"Yonder star," said Dabster, "is Venus, the evening star. She is
+66,000,000 miles from the sun."
+
+<p>"Fudge!" said Daisy, with a brief flash of spirit, "where do you think
+I come from&mdash;Brooklyn? Susie Price, in our store&mdash;her brother sent her
+a ticket to go to San Francisco&mdash;that's only three thousand miles."
+
+<p>The philosopher smiled indulgently.
+
+<p>"Our world," he said, "is 91,000,000 miles from the sun. There are
+eighteen stars of the first magnitude that are 211,000 times further
+from us than the sun is. If one of them should be extinguished it would
+be three years before we would see its light go out. There are six
+thousand stars of the sixth magnitude. It takes thirty-six years for the
+light of one of them to reach the earth. With an eighteen-foot telescope
+we can see 43,000,000 stars, including those of the thirteenth
+magnitude, whose light takes 2,700 years to reach us. Each of these
+stars&mdash;"
+
+<p>"You're lyin'," cried Daisy, angrily. "You're tryin' to scare me. And
+you have; I want to go down!"
+
+<p>She stamped her foot.
+
+<p>"Arcturus&mdash;" began the philosopher, soothingly, but he was interrupted
+by a demonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was
+endeavoring to portray with his memory instead of his heart. For to the
+heart-expounder of nature the stars were set in the firmament expressly
+to give soft light to lovers wandering happily beneath them; and if you
+stand tiptoe some September night with your sweetheart on your arm you
+can almost touch them with your hand. Three years for their light to
+reach us, indeed!
+
+<p>Out of the west leaped a meteor, lighting the roof of the skyscraper
+almost to midday. Its fiery parabola was limned against the sky toward
+the east. It hissed as it went, and Daisy screamed.
+
+<p>"Take me down," she cried, vehemently, "you&mdash;you mental arithmetic!"
+
+<p>Dabster got her to the elevator, and inside of it. She was wild-eyed,
+and she shuddered when the express made its debilitating drop.
+
+<p>Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her.
+She vanished; and he stood, bewildered, without figures or statistics
+to aid him.
+
+<p>Joe had a lull in trade, and by squirming among his stock succeeded in
+lighting a cigarette and getting one cold foot against the attenuated
+stove.
+
+<p>The door was burst open, and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit
+and candies, tumbled into his arms.
+
+<p>"Oh, Joe, I've been up on the skyscraper. Ain't it cozy and warm and
+homelike in here! I'm ready for you, Joe, whenever you want me."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="15"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XV<br>
+<br>
+A BIRD OF BAGDAD</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al
+Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
+
+<p>Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue&mdash;that street that the city seems
+to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue&mdash;born and bred in the
+Bowery&mdash;staggers northward full of good resolutions.
+
+<p>Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly
+in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit
+mate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring,
+polyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and
+here the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling
+the tread of marching hosts&mdash;Hooray! But now come the silent and
+terrible mountains&mdash;buildings square as forts, high as the clouds,
+shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day.
+On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and book
+shops, where you see copies of "Littell's Living Age" and G. W. M.
+Reynold's novels in the windows. And next&mdash;poor Fourth Avenue!&mdash;the
+street glides into a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted
+to "Antiques."
+
+<p>Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and
+menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks and
+helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and
+the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully
+in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with
+Jack-o'-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound
+citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown
+that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the fighting
+dead. What street could live inclosed by these mortuary relics, and trod
+by these spectral citizens in whose sunken hearts scarce one good whoop
+or tra-la-la remained?
+
+<p>Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the
+Little Rialto&mdash;not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There
+need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; 'tis but the suicide of a
+street. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the
+tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
+
+<p>Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the modest
+restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its
+crumbling red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges,
+tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus&mdash;its papier-m&acirc;ch&eacute; lobster
+and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce&mdash;if you care to
+sit at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the
+yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance&mdash;to sit
+there with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle
+from which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed
+charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the "Nobleman
+in India."
+
+<p>Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a
+Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of
+the dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become
+a reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a
+restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave
+him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house
+bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other gave him
+the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg,
+the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave&mdash;the Caliph&mdash;the Prince
+of Bohemia&mdash;going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious,
+the inexplicable, the recondite.
+
+<p>One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth
+upon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and
+the artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his
+short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward toward the more
+central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an
+assortment of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out of
+doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its face
+value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and coffee;
+others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of full
+meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in effect,
+meal tickets good for a week.
+
+<p>Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph's
+heart&mdash;it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of
+Harun Al Rashid's. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put
+less warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars than had
+Quigg's beef stew among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of
+Manhattan.
+
+<p>Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of
+distress that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd
+that whooped and fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and the
+crosstown street that he was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld
+a young man of an exceedingly melancholy and preoccupied demeanor
+engaged in the pastime of casting silver money from his pockets in the
+middle of the street. With each motion of the generous one's hand the
+crowd huddled upon the falling largesse with yells of joy. Traffic was
+suspended. A policeman in the centre of the mob stooped often to the
+ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
+
+<p>The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after
+knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his
+way swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm. "Come with me at
+once," he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had
+learned to fear.
+
+<p>"Pinched," remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionless
+eyes. "Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me
+gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?"
+
+<p>Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed
+Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
+
+<p>There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph's
+mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to
+know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving
+him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and
+stores.
+
+<p>"I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn't
+I?" asked the young man.
+
+<p>"You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to
+scramble after," said the Margrave.
+
+<p>"That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw
+chicken feed to&mdash; Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,
+roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!"
+
+<p>"Young sir," said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, "though I do
+not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know
+humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist
+eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his
+bounty&mdash;through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure
+and distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated
+misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You may
+be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler, the
+Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among his
+people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so
+much of their distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I seek
+for romance and adventure in city streets&mdash;not in ruined castles or in
+crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those that
+take place in men's hearts when acted upon by the furious and diverse
+forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this evening
+I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper than the
+wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance the
+certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat&mdash;I invite your
+confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise. Will
+you not trust me?"
+
+<p>"Gee, how you talk!" exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration
+supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. "You've got the
+Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that
+old Turk you speak of. I read 'The Arabian Nights' when I was a kid. He
+was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say,
+you might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon
+giants all night without ever touching me. My case won't yield to that
+kind of treatment."
+
+<p>"If I could hear your story," said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious
+smile.
+
+<p>"I'll spiel it in about nine words," said the young man, with a deep
+sigh, "but I don't think you can help me any. Unless you're a peach at
+guessing it's back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum."
+
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<b>THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN<br>
+   AND THE HARNESS MAKER'S RIDDLE</b>
+</center>
+
+<p>"I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street.
+I've worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's enough to marry
+on, ain't it? Well, I'm not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is
+one of these funny Dutchmen&mdash;you know the kind&mdash;always getting off bum
+jokes. He's got about a million riddles and things that he faked from
+Rogers Brothers' great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and
+Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it?
+Well, jobs ain't to be picked off every Anheuser bush&mdash; And then there's
+Laura.
+
+<p>"What? The old man's daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About
+nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of
+the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of
+straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness
+blacking&mdash;think of that!
+
+<p>"Me? well, it's either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill
+is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?&mdash;well, you saw me plating
+the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-night. That was on
+account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of
+what I wouldst.
+
+<p>"How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: 'Boys,
+one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles
+antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide&mdash;is
+not that&mdash;hein?' And he hands us a riddle&mdash;a conundrum, some calls
+it&mdash;and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till to-morrow
+morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us
+guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o' Wednesday night to
+his daughter's birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us
+goes, for she's naturally aching for a husband, and it's either me or
+Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry
+somebody that'll carry on the business after he's stitched his last pair
+of traces.
+
+<p>"The riddle? Why, it was this: 'What kind of a hen lays the longest?
+Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain't it like a
+Dutchman to risk a man's happiness on a fool proposition like that?
+Now, what's the use? What I don't know about hens would fill several
+incubators. You say you're giving imitations of the old Arab guy that
+gave away&mdash;libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy
+that'll solve this hen query, or not?"
+
+<p>When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the
+park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave
+and impressive tones:
+
+<p>"I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in
+search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered
+a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have
+overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their
+habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and
+cross-breedings, their span of life, their&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!" interrupted the young man,
+flippantly. "Riddles&mdash;especially old Hildebrant's riddles&mdash;don't have
+to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and
+Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can't strike just
+the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well,
+Your Majesty, I'm glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time
+away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of
+his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I'll say good
+night. Peace fo' yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah."
+
+<p>The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
+
+<p>"I cannot express my regret," he said, sadly. "Never before have I
+found myself unable to assist in some way. 'What kind of a hen lays the
+longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called
+the Plymouth Rock that&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Cut it out," said the young man. "The Caliph trade is a mighty serious
+one. I don't suppose you'd even see anything funny in a preacher's
+defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs."
+
+<p>From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth
+a card and handed it to the young man.
+
+<p>"Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow," he said. "The time may come
+when it might be of use to you."
+
+<p>"Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name is
+Simmons."
+
+<br><br>
+<center>
+*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*
+</center>
+
+<p>Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall altogether
+pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray
+if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser's heart would
+follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of
+Hildebrant, harness maker.
+
+<p>Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw
+leather martingale.
+
+<p>Bill Watson came in first.
+
+<p>"Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the
+joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
+
+<p>"Er&mdash;why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so,
+Mr. Hildebrant&mdash;the one that lives the longest&mdash; Is that right?"
+
+<p>"Nein!" said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. "You haf not
+guessed der answer."
+
+<p>Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
+
+<p>In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco&mdash;pale, melancholy,
+hopeless.
+
+<p>"Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays
+der longest?'"
+
+<p>Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this
+mountain of pernicious humor&mdash;curse him and die? Why should&mdash; But there
+was Laura.
+
+<p>Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood.
+His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's card. He drew
+it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling
+fly. There was written on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: "Good for one
+roast chicken to bearer."
+
+<p>Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
+
+<p>"A dead one!" said he.
+
+<p>"Goot!" roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. "Dot is
+right! You gome at mine house at 8 o'clock to der party."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="16"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XVI<br>
+<br>
+COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted;
+and newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young
+journalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic
+view of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced
+to very questionable sources&mdash;facts and philosophy. We will begin
+with&mdash;whichever you choose to call it.
+
+<p>Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope
+under a bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish
+sorrows overwhelm them are we put to our wits' end. We exhaust our
+paltry store of consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep. Then
+we grovel in the dust of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we call
+out of the rat-trap. As for the children, no one understands them except
+old maids, hunchbacks, and shepherd dogs.
+
+<p>Now comes the facts in the case of the Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion,
+and the Twenty-fifth of December.
+
+<p>On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her
+rag-doll. There were many servants in the Millionaire's palace on the
+Hudson, and these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding
+the lost treasure. The child was a girl of five, and one of those
+perverse little beasts that often wound the sensibilities of wealthy
+parents by fixing their affections upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy
+instead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and pony phaetons.
+
+<p>The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the
+Millionaire, to whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as Bay
+State Gas; and to the Lady, the Child's mother, who was all form&mdash;that
+is, nearly all, as you shall see.
+
+<p>The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed,
+spindling, and corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire
+smiled and tapped his coffers confidently. The pick of the output of
+the French and German toymakers was rushed by special delivery to the
+mansion; but Rachel refused to be comforted. She was weeping for her
+rag child, and was for a high protective tariff against all foreign
+foolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside manners and
+stop-watches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely about
+peptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their
+stop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or
+place. Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon
+as possible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at
+therapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this
+time cablegrams were coming from Santa Claus saying that he would soon
+be here and enjoining us to show a true Christian spirit and let up on
+the pool-rooms and tontine policies and platoon systems long enough to
+give him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing
+itself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawn-brokers had doubled
+their gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red
+sleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you
+waited on one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows of
+the stores, they who had 'em were getting their furs. You hardly knew
+which was the best bet in balls&mdash;three, high, moth, or snow. It was no
+time at which to lose the rag-doll or your heart.
+
+<p>If Doctor Watson's investigating friend had been called in to solve this
+mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the Millionaire's
+wall a copy of "The Vampire." That would have quickly suggested, by
+induction, "A rag and a bone and a hank of hair." "Flip," a Scotch
+terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child's heart, frisked through the
+halls. The hank of hair! Aha! X, the unfound quantity, represented the
+rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones they&mdash;Done! It were
+an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip's forefeet. Look, Watson!
+Earth&mdash;dried earth between the toes. Of course, the dog&mdash;but Sherlock
+was not there. Therefore it devolves. But topography and architecture
+must intervene.
+
+<p>The Millionaire's palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a
+lawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man's face two days after a shave.
+At one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce
+trimmed to a leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had
+ravished the rag-doll from the nursery, dragged it to a corner of
+the lawn, dug a hole, and buried it after the manner of careless
+undertakers. There you have the mystery solved, and no checks to write
+for the hypodermical wizard or fi'-pun notes to toss to the sergeant.
+Then let's get down to the heart of the thing, tiresome readers&mdash;the
+Christmas heart of the thing.
+
+<p>Fuzzy was drunk&mdash;not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or
+I might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes
+a gentleman down on his luck.
+
+<p>Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the
+park bench, the kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary
+beds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly
+garnered largesse of great cities&mdash;these formed the chapters of his
+history.
+
+<p>Fuzzy walked toward the river, down the street that bounded one side of
+the Millionaire's house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost
+rag-doll, protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputian murder mystery,
+from its untimely grave in a corner of the fence. He dragged forth the
+maltreated infant, tucked it under his arm, and went on his way crooning
+a road song of his brethren that no doll that has been brought up to the
+sheltered life should hear. Well for Betsy that she had no ears. And
+well that she had no eyes save unseeing circles of black; for the faces
+of Fuzzy and the Scotch terrier were those of brothers, and the heart of
+no rag-doll could withstand twice to become the prey of such fearsome
+monsters.
+
+<p>Though you may not know it, Grogan's saloon stands near the river and
+near the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled. In Grogan's,
+Christmas cheer was already rampant.
+
+<p>Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast of
+Saturn he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup.
+
+<p>He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously,
+seasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as
+one entertaining his lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught
+the farce of it, and roared. The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many
+of us carry rag-dolls.
+
+<p>"One for the lady?" suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another
+contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat.
+
+<p>He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a
+success. Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.
+
+<p>In a group near the stove sat "Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and
+"One-ear" Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring
+district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a
+newspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and
+blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed "One Hundred
+Dollars Reward." To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed,
+or stolen from the Millionaire's mansion. It seemed that grief still
+ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the
+terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to
+distract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking,
+mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The
+advertisement was a last resort.
+
+<p>Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his
+one-sided parabolic way.
+
+<p>The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his
+arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates
+elsewhere.
+
+<p>"Say, 'Bo," said Black Riley to him, "where did you cop out dat doll?"
+
+<p>"This doll?" asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure
+that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by
+the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country
+home in Newport. This doll&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Cheese the funny business," said Riley. "You swiped it or picked it up
+at de house on de hill where&mdash;but never mind dat. You want to take fifty
+cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother's kid at home might be
+wantin' to play wid it. Hey&mdash;what?"
+
+<p>He produced the coin.
+
+<p>Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to
+the office of Sarah Bernhardt's manager and propose to him that she be
+released from a night's performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum
+and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy's laugh.
+
+<p>Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler
+does. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine
+from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel
+unaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three inches
+of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy
+linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small,
+circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed
+the quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the
+moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without
+abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black
+Riley temporized.
+
+<p>"Wot'll you take for it, den?" he asked.
+
+<p>"Money," said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, "cannot buy her."
+
+<p>He was intoxicated with the artist's first sweet cup of attainment.
+To set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic
+converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of
+plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in
+his honor&mdash;could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will
+perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament.
+
+<p>Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other
+caf&eacute;s to conquer.
+
+<p>Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were
+beginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet.
+Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the
+hour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted
+red. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the
+Saturnalians.
+
+<p>"Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and "One-ear" Mike held a hasty converse
+outside Grogan's. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings, not
+fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare than
+the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have eaten
+the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already
+doomed.
+
+<p>They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan's Casino.
+They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy could
+read&mdash;and more.
+
+<p>"Boys," said he, "you are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week to
+think it over."
+
+<p>The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
+
+<p>The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless,
+and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the
+morrow.
+
+<p>"A cool hundred," said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
+
+<p>"Boys," said he, "you are true friends. I'll go up and claim the reward.
+The show business is not what it used to be."
+
+<p>Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot
+of the rise on which stood the Millionaire's house. There Fuzzy turned
+upon them acrimoniously.
+
+<p>"You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds," he roared. "Go away."
+
+<p>They went away&mdash;a little way.
+
+<p>In "Pigeon" McCarthy's pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight
+inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.
+One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a
+slung-shot, being a conventional thug. "One-ear" Mike relied upon a
+pair of brass knucks&mdash;an heirloom in the family.
+
+<p>"Why fetch and carry," said Black Riley, "when some one will do it for
+ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey&mdash;what?"
+
+<p>"We can chuck him in the river," said "Pigeon" McCarthy, "with a stone
+tied to his feet."
+
+<p>"Youse guys make me tired," said "One-ear" Mike sadly. "Ain't progress
+ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on 'im, and
+drop 'im on the Drive&mdash;well?"
+
+<p>Fuzzy entered the Millionaire's gate and zigzagged toward the softly
+glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate
+and lingered&mdash;one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They
+fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.
+
+<p>Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic
+instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he
+wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.
+
+<p>The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces
+shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his passport,
+his card of admission, his surety of welcome&mdash;the lost rag-doll of the
+daughter of the house dangling under his arm.
+
+<p>Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen
+lights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child.
+The doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling
+to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of
+childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious
+being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy
+wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic
+smile and blattering small talk that is supposed to charm the budding
+intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging
+her Betsy close.
+
+<p>There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and
+worshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy's hand ten
+ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to
+James, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with
+the other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial
+regions.
+
+<p>James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far
+as the front door.
+
+<p>When the money touched fuzzy's dingy palm his first instinct was to take
+to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that blunder
+of etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It&mdash;and, oh, what an
+elysium it opened to the gaze of his mind's eye! He had tumbled to the
+foot of the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged, cold,
+drifting; and he held in his hand the key to a paradise of the mud-honey
+that he craved. The fairy doll had waved a wand with her rag-stuffed
+hand; and now wherever he might go the enchanted palaces with shining
+foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glassware would be open to
+him.
+
+<p>He followed James to the door.
+
+<p>He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for
+him to pass into the vestibule.
+
+<p>Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his
+two pals casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably
+fatal weapons that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.
+
+<p>Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire's door and bethought himself. Like
+little sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green thoughts
+and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite drunk,
+mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths and
+festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall
+gay&mdash;where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known
+polished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and&mdash;and some one
+was singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before.
+Some one singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas&mdash;Fuzzy
+though he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that.
+
+<p>And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of
+some impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white,
+transient, forgotten ghost&mdash;the spirit of <i>noblesse oblige</i>. Upon a
+gentleman certain things devolve.
+
+<p>James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled
+walk to the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and "One-ear" Mike saw,
+and carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate.
+
+<p>With a more imperious gesture than James's master had ever used or could
+ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a gentleman
+certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season.
+
+<p>"It is cust&mdash;customary," he said to James, the flustered, "when a
+gentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the season
+with the lady of the house. You und'stand? I shall not move shtep till
+I pass compl'ments season with lady the house. Und'stand?"
+
+<p>There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it
+through the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He was
+simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.
+
+<p>A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy
+in the hall. James explained somewhere to some one.
+
+<p>Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.
+
+<p>The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than
+any picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a
+doll. Fuzzy didn't understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.
+
+<p>A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped
+sterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to
+Fuzzy.
+
+<p>As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities dropped
+from him for one brief moment. He straightened himself; and Time, so
+disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate Fuzzy.
+
+<p>Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most
+opulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan's whisky. What
+had the Millionaire's mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia
+hall, where the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl, drinking
+the ancient toast of the House? And why should the patter of the cab
+horses' hoofs on the frozen street be in any wise related to the sound
+of the saddled hunters stamping under the shelter of the west veranda?
+And what had Fuzzy to do with any of it?
+
+<p>The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile
+fade away like a false dawn. Her eyes turned serious. She saw something
+beneath the rags and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not
+understand. But it did not matter.
+
+<p>Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly.
+
+<p>"P-pardon, lady," he said, "but couldn't leave without exchangin'
+comp'ments sheason with lady th' house. 'Gainst princ'ples gen'leman do
+sho."
+
+<p>And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the
+House when men wore lace ruffles and powder.
+
+<p>"The blessings of another year&mdash;"
+
+<p>Fuzzy's memory failed him. The Lady prompted:
+
+<p>"&mdash;Be upon this hearth."
+
+<p>"&mdash;The guest&mdash;" stammered Fuzzy.
+
+<p>"&mdash;And upon her who&mdash;" continued the Lady, with a leading smile.
+
+<p>"Oh, cut it out," said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly. "I can't remember. Drink
+hearty."
+
+<p>Fuzzy had shot his arrow. They drank. The Lady smiled again the smile of
+her caste. James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front door.
+The harp music still softly drifted through the house.
+
+<p>Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate.
+
+<p>"I wonder," said the Lady to herself, musing, "who&mdash;but there were so
+many who came. I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing to them
+after they have fallen so low."
+
+<p>Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door. The Lady called: "James!"
+
+<p>James stalked back obsequiously, leaving Fuzzy waiting unsteadily, with
+his brief spark of the divine fire gone.
+
+<p>Outside, Black Riley stamped his cold feet and got a firmer grip on his
+section of gas-pipe.
+
+<p>"You will conduct this gentleman," said the lady, "Downstairs. Then tell
+Louis to get out the Mercedes and take him to whatever place he wishes
+to go."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="17"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XVII<br>
+<br>
+A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces,
+bazaars, khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers
+disguises, seeking diversion and victims for their unbridled generosity.
+You can scarcely find a poor beggar whom they are willing to let enjoy
+his spoils unsuccored, nor a wrecked unfortunate upon whom they will not
+reshower the means of fresh misfortune. You will hardly find anywhere a
+hungry one who has not had the opportunity to tighten his belt in gift
+libraries, nor a poor pundit who has not blushed at the holiday basket
+of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly through his door by the
+eleemosynary press.
+
+<p>So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed
+calenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber's Sixth Brother, hoping
+to escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans.
+
+<p>Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories
+of those who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of the
+Faithful. Until dawn you might sit on the enchanted rug and listen to
+such stories as are told of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent the
+Forty Thieves to soak up the oil plant of Ali Baba; of the good Caliph
+Kar-Neg-Ghe, who gave away palaces; of the Seven Voyages of Sailbad, the
+Sinner, who frequented wooden excursion steamers among the islands; of
+the Fisherman and the Bottle; of the Barmecides' Boarding house; of
+Aladdin's rise to wealth by means of his Wonderful Gas-meter.
+
+<p>But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too
+valuable to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of
+narrative languishes. And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy
+poor and the resigned unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap
+upon them strange mercies and mysterious benefits, too often comes the
+report from Arabian headquarters that the captive refused "to talk."
+
+<p>This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of
+their philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the
+shortcomings of this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called
+
+<br><br>
+<center><b>
+THE STORY OF THE CALIPH<br>
+WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE
+</b></center>
+
+<p>Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water
+at his $1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its
+imbibition, for immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak
+soundly with his fist and shouted to the empty dining room:
+
+<p>"By the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If
+I can get that squared, it'll do the trick."
+
+<p>Thus, by the commonest artifice of the trade, having gained your
+interest, the action of the story will now be suspended, leaving you
+grumpily to consider a sort of dull biography beginning fifteen years
+before.
+
+<p>When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania
+coal mine. I don't know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems
+to be standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have
+his picture taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But,
+instead of dying of overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents
+and brothers at the mercy of the union strikers' reserve fund, he
+hitched up his galluses, put a dollar or two in a side proposition now
+and then, and at forty-five was worth $20,000,000.
+
+<p>There now! it's over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I've seen
+biographies that&mdash;but let us dissemble.
+
+<p>I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at
+the seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble
+origin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth,
+capitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh,
+caliph; eighth, <i>x</i>. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher
+mathematics.
+
+<p>At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a
+czar was still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil,
+railroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched
+Jacob's hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully
+cleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage
+of untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private
+secretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot
+fronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the
+mantle of the late H. A. Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob
+slipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand, and
+became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat.
+
+<p>When a man's income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends
+him the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul's
+salvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be
+forgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his
+wealth. The trust magnate "estimates" it. The rich malefactor hands you
+a cigar and denies that he has bought the P. D. & Q. The caliph merely
+smiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a
+record of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a "Where-to-Dine-Well"
+tavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being
+that the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher
+than did her future <i>divorc&eacute;</i>. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar
+quarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in
+his pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human&mdash;Count
+Tolstoi, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us.
+
+<p>Don't lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort
+of moral essay for intellectual readers.
+
+<p>There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon.
+
+<p>When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels
+in the Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send
+a check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the
+Globe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed
+warehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is neither
+here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his favor of
+the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double line, but
+still mighty close to the matter under the caption of "Oddities of the
+Day's News" in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read that one "Jasper
+Spargyous" had "donated $100,000 to the U. B. A. of G." A camel may have
+a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not venture to accord him
+whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at Washington; but if he
+have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem to have been inserted in
+the eye of a needle by that effort of that rich man to enter the K. of
+H. The right is reserved to reject any and all bids; signed, S. Peter,
+secretary and gatekeeper.
+
+<p>Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and
+presented it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain
+a scientific course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate
+lavatory instead, which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever
+discovered.
+
+<p>The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C
+degree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added
+the proper punctuation marks, and all was well.
+
+<p>While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw
+two professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor
+acoustics, undesignedly reached his ear.
+
+<p>"There goes the latest <i>chevalier d'industrie</i>," said one of them, "to
+buy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree to-morrow."
+
+<p>"<i>In foro conscienti&aelig;</i>," said the other. "Let's 'eave 'arf a brick at
+'im."
+
+<p>Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for
+him. There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that he
+had bought. That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs Act.
+
+<p>Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale.
+
+<p>"If I could see folks made happier," he said to himself&mdash;"If I could see
+'em myself and hear 'em express their gratitude for what I done for 'em
+it would make me feel better. This donatin' funds to institutions and
+societies is about as satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot
+machine."
+
+<p>So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to the
+homes of the poorest.
+
+<p>"The very thing!" said Jacob. "I will charter two river steamboats, pack
+them full of these unfortunate children and&mdash;say ten thousand dolls and
+drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a delightful
+outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to blow the
+taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than I can work
+it off my mind."
+
+<p>Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an immense
+person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought to have a
+"Drop Letters Here" sign over it hooked a finger around him and set him
+in a space between a barber's pole and a stack of ash cans. Words came
+out of the post-office slit&mdash;smooth, husky words with gloves on 'em, but
+sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment.
+
+<p>"Say, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O'Grady's
+district you're buttin' into&mdash;see? Mike's got de stomach-ache privilege
+for every kid in dis neighborhood&mdash;see? And if dere's any picnics or red
+balloons to be dealt out here, Mike's money pays for 'em&mdash;see? Don't
+you butt in, or something'll be handed to you. Youse d&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash; settlers and
+reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have
+got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students
+and professors rough-housing de soda-water stands and dem rubber-neck
+coaches fillin' de streets, de folks down here are 'fraid to go out of
+de houses. Now, you leave 'em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows
+how to handle 'em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser
+now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit' Mike O'Grady for de Santa Claus
+belt in dis district?"
+
+<p>Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph
+Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side.
+To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized
+charity, presented the Y. M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000
+collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers
+in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth
+for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring
+peace to the caliph's heart. He tried to get a personal note into his
+benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got
+well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with
+respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out
+an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the
+star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of
+his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to
+write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while
+his capital still kept piling up, and his <i>optikos needleorum
+camelibus</i>&mdash;or rich man's disease&mdash;was unrelieved.
+
+<p>In Caliph Spraggins's $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who
+used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in
+Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two
+fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back
+from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors
+in the restaurant languages and those &eacute;tudes and things.
+
+<p>Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist's delineation of her charms
+on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized
+description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful,
+brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a
+perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain
+food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too
+much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth
+that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the
+slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep
+this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.
+
+<p>Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the
+grocer's young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged
+in conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the
+ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse
+should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid
+eggs out of the wagon.
+
+<p>Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer's young man
+yourself. But you wouldn't have given him your heart, because you are
+saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid
+liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I
+know about it. So I am glad the grocer's young man was for Celia, and
+not for you.
+
+<p>The grocer's young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy
+in his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the
+new frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the
+back of his head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his
+sunburned face looked like one that smiled a good deal when he was not
+preaching the doctrine of everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon
+horses. He slung imported A1 fancy groceries about as though they were
+only the stuff he delivered at boarding-houses; and when he picked up
+his whip, your mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the
+buttonless foils.
+
+<p>Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the house.
+The grocer's wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days Celia
+watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time to
+admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing around
+the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories. Then she
+consulted Annette.
+
+<p>To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a
+paragraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novels
+which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of
+the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia's side-kicker and
+chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn't know it, you may hazard a bean or
+two.
+
+<p>"Oh, canary-bird seed!" exclaimed Annette. "Ain't it a corkin'
+situation? You a heiress, and fallin' in love with him on sight! He's a
+sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain't susceptible like
+the common run of grocer's assistants. He never pays no attention to
+me."
+
+<p>"He will to me," said Celia.
+
+<p>"Riches&mdash;" began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine
+sting.
+
+<p>"Oh, you're not so beautiful," said Celia, with her wide, disarming
+smile. "Neither am I; but he sha'n't know that there's any money mixed
+up with my looks, such as they are. That's fair. Now, I want you to lend
+me one of your caps and an apron, Annette."
+
+<p>"Oh, marshmallows!" cried Annette. "I see. Ain't it lovely? It's just
+like 'Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker's Wrongs.' I'll
+bet he'll turn out to be a count."
+
+<p>There was a long hallway (or "passageway," as they call it in the land
+of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the
+house. The grocer's young man went through this to deliver his goods.
+One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow
+complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid's cap and apron. But
+as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy
+tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most
+expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of the
+maids.
+
+<p>But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling
+"Fisher's Hornpipe" so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the
+world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for
+shame.
+
+<p>The grocer's young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on
+his collar button behind.
+
+<p>"That's out o' sight, Kid," said he.
+
+<p>"My name is Celia, if you please," said the whistler, dazzling him with
+a three-inch smile.
+
+<p>That's all right. I'm Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you work
+in?"
+
+<p>"I'm the&mdash;the second parlor maid."
+
+<p>"Do you know the 'Falling Waters'?"
+
+<p>"No," said Celia, "we don't know anybody. We got rich too quick&mdash;that
+is, Mr. Spraggins did."
+
+<p>"I'll make you acquainted," said Thomas McLeod. "It's a strathspey&mdash;the
+first cousin to a hornpipe."
+
+<p>If Celia's whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas McLeod's
+surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could actually
+whistle <i>bass</i>.
+
+<p>When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and ride
+with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of the
+Charon line.
+
+<p>"I'll be around to-morrow at 10:15," said Thomas, "with some spinach and
+a case of carbonic."
+
+<p>"I'll practice that what-you-may-call-it," said Celia. "I can whistle a
+fine second."
+
+<p>The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general
+literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements
+of iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman's Auxiliary of
+the Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a
+description of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon
+the province of the X-ray or of park policemen.
+
+<p>A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the
+latticed "passage."
+
+<p>"Sixteen a week isn't much," said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his
+shoulder blades.
+
+<p>Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march.
+Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for
+a dozen handkerchiefs.
+
+<p>"Maybe I'll get a raise next month," said Thomas. "I'll be around
+to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap."
+
+<p>"All right," said Celia. "Annette's married cousin pays only $20 a month
+for a flat in the Bronx."
+
+<p>Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt
+Henrietta's invincible pride of caste and pa's mightiness as a Colossus
+of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her
+grocer's young man might go whistle for a living.
+
+<p>Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with
+"The Devil's Dream," whistled keenly between his teeth.
+
+<p>"Raised to eighteen a week yesterday," he said. "Been pricing flats
+around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and
+unpinning that cap, old girl."
+
+<p>"Oh, Tommy!" said Celia, with her broadest smile. "Won't that be enough?
+I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess we could
+call it a flat pudding if we wanted to."
+
+<p>"And tell no lie," said Thomas.
+
+<p>"And I can sweep and polish and dust&mdash;of course, a parlor maid learns
+that. And we could whistle duets of evenings."
+
+<p>"The old man said he'd raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan couldn't
+think of any harder name to call a Republican than a 'postponer,'" said
+the grocer's young man.
+
+<p>"I can sew," said Celia; "and I know that you must make the gas
+company's man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and I
+know how to put up quince jam and window curtains."
+
+<p>"Bully! you're all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off on
+eighteen."
+
+<p>As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved discovery
+by running swiftly to the gate.
+
+<p>"And, oh, Tommy, I forgot," she called, softly. "I believe I could make
+your neckties."
+
+<p>"Forget it," said Thomas decisively.
+
+<p>"And another thing," she continued. "Sliced cucumbers at night will
+drive away cockroaches."
+
+<p>"And sleep, too, you bet," said Mr. McLeod. "Yes, I believe if I have a
+delivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I'll look in at a
+furniture store I know over there."
+
+<p>It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck
+the sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about
+ten thousand dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the
+reflection that some stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into
+wells, move around in circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light
+on Jacob's words.
+
+<p>The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor
+coal-digger (ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and
+bought a small tract of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise
+corn. Not a nubbin. Jacob, whose nose was a divining-rod, told him there
+was a vein of coal beneath. He bought the land from the miner for $125
+and sold it a month afterward for $10,000. Luckily the miner had enough
+left of his sale money to drink himself into a black coat opening in the
+back, as soon as he heard the news.
+
+<p>And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the
+sudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money
+to the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe might
+be his.
+
+<p>And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand
+words and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle
+cracked.
+
+<p>Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any
+existed, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
+
+<p>Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going
+to be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold
+back your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so
+people can stop reading there if they want to.
+
+<p>After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand
+dollars&mdash;I mean miles&mdash;they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his
+confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there
+were no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one
+morning in one of their offices.
+
+<p>Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked straight
+at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap over the top
+of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
+
+<p>There was a slight flaw in Jacob's system of restitution. He did not
+consider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he
+represented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who had
+sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
+
+<p>"Well, sir," said Thomas, "this sounds to me like an illustrated
+post-card from South Boston with 'We're having a good time here' written
+on it. I don't know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars money, or do
+I have to save so many coupons to get it?"
+
+<p>Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
+
+<p>That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully
+into his pocket.
+
+<p>"Grandfather's best thanks," he said, "to the party who sends it."
+
+<p>Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure
+time, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas,
+the better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so
+frank and wholesome.
+
+<p>"I would like to have you visit my house," he said. "I might help you in
+investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have a
+daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are
+not many young men I would care to have call on her."
+
+<p>"I'm obliged," said Thomas. "I'm not much at making calls. It's
+generally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I'm engaged to a
+girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She's a
+parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won't be working
+there much longer, though. Say, don't forget to give your friend my
+grandfather's best regards. You'll excuse me now; my wagon's outside
+with a lot of green stuff that's got to be delivered. See you again,
+sir."
+
+<p>At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the
+Spraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back,
+he took out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them
+carelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the
+cook.
+
+<p>"I told you he was a count," she said, after relating. "He never would
+carry on with me."
+
+<p>"But you say he showed money," said the cook.
+
+<p>"Hundreds of thousands," said Annette. "Carried around loose in his
+pockets. And he never would look at me."
+
+<p>"It was paid to me to-day," Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. "It
+came from my grandfather's estate. Say, Cele, what's the use of waiting
+now? I'm going to quit the job to-night. Why can't we get married next
+week?"
+
+<p>"Tommy," said Celia. "I'm no parlor maid. I've been fooling you. I'm
+Miss Spraggins&mdash;Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I'll be worth forty
+million dollars some day."
+
+<p>Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time since
+we have known him.
+
+<p>"I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me
+next week. But you <i>can</i> whistle."
+
+<p>"No," said Celia, "I'll not be marrying you next week. My father would
+never let me marry a grocer's clerk. But I'll marry you to-night, Tommy,
+if you say so."
+
+<p>Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make
+of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized
+fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage
+and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had
+bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her say what a kind,
+thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
+
+<p>There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,
+glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy
+and histrionics.
+
+<p>"Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just
+this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be
+married. I couldn't stop her, sir. They went in a cab."
+
+<p>"What young man?" roared old Jacob.
+
+<p>"A millionaire, if you please, sir&mdash;a rich nobleman in disguise. He
+carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only
+to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me."
+
+<p>Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been
+delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
+
+<p>"Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the
+corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run
+it down."
+
+<p>There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes
+half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly
+crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it.
+
+<p>"What t'ell you doin'?" yelled the cabman.
+
+<p>"Pa!" shrieked Celia.
+
+<p>"Grandfather's remorseful friend's agent!" said Thomas. "Wonder what's
+on his conscience now."
+
+<p>"A thousand thunders," said Gaston, or Mike. "I have no other match."
+
+<p>"Young man," said old Jacob, severely, "how about that parlor maid you
+were engaged to?"
+
+<br><br><br>
+<p>A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his
+private secretary.
+
+<p>"The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000
+toward the conversion of the Koreans," said the secretary.
+
+<p>"Pass 'em up," said Jacob.
+
+<p>"The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
+$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due."
+
+<p>"Tell 'em it's been cut out."
+
+<p>"The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
+buy alcohol to preserve specimens."
+
+<p>"Waste basket."
+
+<p>"The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants
+$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course."
+
+<p>"Tell 'em to see an undertaker."
+
+<p>"Cut 'em all out," went on Jacob. "I've quit being a good thing. I need
+every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors
+of every company that I'm interested in and recommend a 10 per cent. cut
+in salaries. And say&mdash;I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of
+the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about
+waste. I've got no money to throw away. And say&mdash;we've got vinegar
+pretty well in hand, haven't we?'
+
+<p>"The Globe Spice & Seasons Company," said secretary, "controls the
+market at present."
+
+<p>"Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches."
+
+<p>Suddenly Jacob Spraggins's plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He
+walked over to the secretary's desk and showed a small red mark on his
+thick forefinger.
+
+<p>"Bit it," he said, "darned if he didn't, and he ain't had the tooth
+three weeks&mdash;Jaky McLeod, my Celia's kid. He'll be worth a hundred
+millions by the time he's twenty-one if I can pile it up for him."
+
+<p>As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
+
+<p>"Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I'll be back
+in an hour and sign the letters."
+
+<br><br><br>
+<p>The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the
+end of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded
+all his former favorites and companions of his "Arabian Nights" rambles.
+Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only death warrant
+the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a tradesman's bill.
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="18"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XVIII<br>
+<br>
+THE GIRL AND THE HABIT</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<blockquote>
+<span class="smallcaps">Habit</span>&mdash;a tendency or aptitude
+acquired by custom or frequent repetition.
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that
+one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters
+of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we
+strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate
+Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving
+Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us
+of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart&mdash;and they
+said something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew
+or&mdash;er&mdash;yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the
+inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,
+we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable
+vade mecum&mdash;the unabridged dictionary.
+
+<p>Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle's. Hinkle's is one of the big
+downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the "financial
+district." Each day from 12 o'clock to 2 Hinkle's was full of hungry
+customers&mdash;messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
+stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending&mdash;and also people with
+money.
+
+<p>The cashiership at Hinkle's was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted
+and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched
+(as good a word as "dined") many more. It might be said that Hinkle's
+breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted
+to a horde.
+
+<p>Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a
+strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at
+the bottom you thrust your waiter's check and the money, while your
+heart went pit-a-pat.
+
+<p>For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of
+a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could&mdash;Next!&mdash;lost
+your chance&mdash;please don't shove. She could keep cool and collected while
+she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
+indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better
+than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper
+an egg with one of Hinkle's casters.
+
+<p>There is an old and dignified allusion to the "fierce light that beats
+upon a throne." The light that beats upon the young lady cashier's cage
+is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang.
+
+<p>Every male patron of Hinkle's, from the A. D. T. boys up to the curbstone
+brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks they wooed her
+with every wile known to Cupid's art. Between the meshes of the brass
+railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows, invitations to
+dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that was wafted
+pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.
+
+<p>There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young
+lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she
+is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin,
+leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a
+Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the cheery
+word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and
+you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the brass-bound
+inaccessibility multiplies her charms&mdash;anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted
+angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready,
+alert&mdash;Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your
+circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
+
+<p>The young men who broke bread at Hinkle's never settled with the cashier
+without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went
+to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets
+and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms, generally
+withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem flats. One
+broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss Merriam more
+regularly than he ate.
+
+<p>During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam's conversation, while she took
+money for checks, would run something like this:
+
+<p>"Good morning, Mr. Haskins&mdash;sir?&mdash;it's natural, thank you&mdash;don't be
+quite so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny&mdash;ten, fifteen, twenty&mdash;chase along
+now or they'll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon&mdash;count
+it again, please&mdash;Oh, don't mention it . . . Vaudeville?&mdash;thanks;
+not on your moving picture&mdash;I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on
+Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons . . . 'Scuse me, I thought that
+was a quarter . . . Twenty-five and seventy-five's a dollar&mdash;got
+that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you
+addressing?&mdash;say&mdash;you'll get all that's coming to you in a
+minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett&mdash;you're always fooling&mdash;no&mdash;?
+Well, maybe I'll marry you some day&mdash;three, four and sixty-five
+is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
+please . . . Ten cents?&mdash;'scuse me; the check calls for seventy&mdash;well,
+maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that
+way, Mr. Saunders?&mdash;some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de
+Merody does suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike
+along there, buddy; don't take this for a Coney Island ticket
+booth . . . Huh?&mdash;why, Macy's&mdash;don't it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn't too
+cool&mdash;these light-weight fabrics is all the go this season . . . Come
+again, please&mdash;that's the third time you've tried to&mdash;what?&mdash;forget
+it&mdash;that lead quarter is an old friend of mine . . . Sixty-five?&mdash;must
+have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth
+Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De Forest&mdash;swell?&mdash;oh, my!&mdash;who
+is she? . . . What's the matter with it?&mdash;why, it ain't
+money&mdash;what?&mdash;Columbian half?&mdash;well, this ain't South
+America . . . Yes, I like the mixed best&mdash;Friday?&mdash;awfully
+sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday&mdash;Thursday,
+then . . . Thanks&mdash;that's sixteen times I've been told that this
+morning&mdash;I guess I must be beautiful . . . Cut that out, please&mdash;who
+do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr. Westbrook&mdash;do you really think
+so?&mdash;the idea!&mdash;one&mdash;eighty and twenty's a dollar&mdash;thank you ever so
+much, but I don't ever go automobile riding with gentlemen&mdash;your
+aunt?&mdash;well, that's different&mdash;perhaps . . . Please don't get
+fresh&mdash;your check was fifteen cents, I believe&mdash;kindly step aside and
+let . . . Hello, Ben&mdash;coming around Thursday evening?&mdash;there's a
+gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
+and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . ."
+
+<p>About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo&mdash;whose other
+name is Fortune&mdash;suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
+while he was walking past Hinkle's, on his way to a street car. A
+wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is&mdash;move up,
+please; there are others.
+
+<p>A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the
+spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle's restaurant.
+When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a
+beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing
+his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frapp&eacute;
+out of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed
+with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered
+consciousness.
+
+<p>To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker
+McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward
+Miss Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with
+interest&mdash;not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.
+The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple
+were childless&mdash;they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.
+
+<p>To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts
+of the good old couple. They came to Hinkle's again and again; they
+invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East
+Seventies. Miss Merriam's winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
+impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
+Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
+matron, n&eacute;e Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
+of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
+smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of the
+fatuity of parents.
+
+<p>A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she
+stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
+
+<p>"They're going to adopt me," she told the bereft restaurateur. "They're
+funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
+Say, Hinkle, there isn't any use of talking&mdash;I'm on the &agrave; la carte to
+wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
+Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I've been cashiering
+so long I feel funny doing anything else. I'll miss joshing the fellows
+awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and. But I can't let
+this chance slide. And they're awfully good, Hinkle; I know I'll have a
+swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for the week. Cut out
+the half if it hurts you, Hinkle."
+
+<p>And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced the
+transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to
+the skin. Nerve&mdash;but just here will you oblige by perusing again the
+quotation with which this story begins?
+
+<p>The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their
+adopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
+Miss&mdash;er&mdash;McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle's.
+To give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle's
+did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.
+
+<p>Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
+Seventy&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash; Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without
+debts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember
+the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the
+W&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;f-A&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie
+on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that&mdash;you did not?
+Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.
+
+<p>At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer&mdash;er&mdash;McRamsey was
+exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
+her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity bazaar
+the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a finish. An
+earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be lower, but his
+outstanding accounts are also lower.
+
+<p>Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
+sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
+proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
+the slums a Christmas din&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;Say! did you ever
+wonder where they get the other 364?
+
+<p>Miss McRamsey&mdash;beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
+radiant&mdash;fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
+a little arched opening, fenced her in.
+
+<p>Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring&mdash;admiring
+greatly, and faced the open wicket.
+
+<p>"You look chawming, you know&mdash;'pon my word you do&mdash;my deah," he said,
+beguilingly.
+
+<p>Miss McRamsey whirled around.
+
+<p>"Cut that joshing out," she said, coolly and briskly. "Who do you think
+you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!&mdash;"
+
+<p>Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
+certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond
+and puzzled whisker.
+
+<p>"Miss McRamsey has fainted," some one explained.
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="19"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XIX<br>
+<br>
+PROOF OF THE PUDDING</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the <i>Minerva
+Magazine</i>, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his
+favorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office
+when his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette. Which
+is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street,
+safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and
+meandered along the walks of budding Madison Square.
+
+<p>The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a
+pastoral; the color motif was green&mdash;the presiding shade at the creation
+of man and vegetation.
+
+<p>The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a
+poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had
+breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree
+buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the
+garnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above
+was of that pale aquamarine tint that ballroom poets rhyme with "true"
+and "Sue" and "coo." The one natural and frank color visible was the
+ostensible green of the newly painted benches&mdash;a shade between the color
+of a pickled cucumber and that of a last year's fast-black cravenette
+raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape
+appeared a masterpiece.
+
+<p>And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle
+concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of
+the editor's mind.
+
+<p>Editor Westbrook's spirit was contented and serene. The April number of
+the <i>Minerva</i> had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the
+month&mdash;a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty
+copies more if he had 'em. The owners of the magazine had raised his
+(the editor's) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a
+recently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning
+papers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers'
+banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a
+splendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he
+left his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic
+interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When
+he had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly
+hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic
+medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards
+of the convalescent city.
+
+<p>While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches
+(already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood)
+he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be
+panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his
+captor was&mdash;Dawe&mdash;Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel
+scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
+
+<p>While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight
+biography of Dawe is offered.
+
+<p>He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances.
+At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had
+some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near
+Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners
+together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became "dearest" friends.
+Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself,
+ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park
+neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's
+trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble
+mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live
+by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many
+to Westbrook. The <i>Minerva</i> printed one or two of them; the rest were
+returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter
+with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons
+for considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear
+conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was
+mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food
+that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to
+her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they sat
+down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp.
+Dawe commented.
+
+<p>"It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe. "It may not be art, but I do
+wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella
+Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry."
+
+<p>As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor
+Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor
+had seen Dawe in several months.
+
+<p>"Why, Shack, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the
+form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance.
+
+<p>"Sit down for a minute," said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. "This is my
+office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down&mdash;you won't
+be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take
+you for a swell porch-climber. They won't know you are only an editor."
+
+<p>"Smoke, Shack?" said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the
+virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield.
+
+<p>Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl
+pecks at a chocolate cream.
+
+<p>"I have just&mdash;" began the editor.
+
+<p>"Oh, I know; don't finish," said Dawe. "Give me a match. You have just
+ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and
+invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that
+couldn't read the 'Keep off the Grass' signs."
+
+<p>"How goes the writing?" asked the editor.
+
+"Look at me," said Dawe, "for your answer. Now don't put on that
+embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don't get a job
+as a wine agent or a cab driver. I'm in the fight to a finish. I know I
+can write good fiction and I'll force you fellows to admit it yet. I'll
+make you change the spelling of 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm
+done with you."
+
+<p>Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly
+sorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression&mdash;the
+copyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable
+contributor.
+
+<p>"Have you read the last story I sent you&mdash;'The Alarum of the Soul'?"
+asked Dawe.
+
+<p>"Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had
+some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it
+goes back to you. I regret&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Never mind the regrets," said Dawe, grimly. "There's neither salve nor
+sting in 'em any more. What I want to know is <i>why</i>. Come now; out with
+the good points first."
+
+<p>"The story," said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh, "is
+written around an almost original plot. Characterization&mdash;the best you
+have done. Construction&mdash;almost as good, except for a few weak joints
+which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good
+story, except&mdash;"
+
+<p>"I can write English, can't I?" interrupted Dawe.
+
+<p>"I have always told you," said the editor, "that you had a style."
+
+<p>"Then the trouble is&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Same old thing," said Editor Westbrook. "You work up to your climax
+like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don't
+know what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what you
+do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison
+with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its
+impossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth.
+But you spoil every d&eacute;nouement by those flat, drab, obliterating strokes
+of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would rise to
+the literary pinnacle of your dramatic senses, and paint them in the
+high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer bulky,
+self-addressed envelopes at your door."
+
+<p>"Oh, fiddles and footlights!" cried Dawe, derisively. "You've got that
+old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black
+mustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother
+kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: 'May high heaven
+witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless
+villain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another's
+vengeance!'"
+
+<p>Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious complacency.
+
+<p>"I think," said he, "that in real life the woman would express herself
+in those words or in very similar ones."
+
+<p>"Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere but on the stage," said Dawe
+hotly. "I'll tell you what she'd say in real life. She'd say: 'What!
+Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after
+another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station.
+Why wasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake,
+get out of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat&mdash;the brown one
+with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she's usually shy of
+strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm upset!'
+
+<p>"That's the way she'd talk," continued Dawe. "People in real life don't
+fly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can't
+do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same
+vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas
+a little more, that's all."
+
+<p>"Shack," said Editor Westbrook impressively, "did you ever pick up the
+mangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street
+car, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted
+mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and
+despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?"
+
+<p>"I never did," said Dawe. "Did you?"
+
+<p>"Well, no," said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. "But I can well
+imagine what she would say."
+
+<p>"So can I," said Dawe.
+
+<p>And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the
+oracle and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an
+unarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and
+heroines of the <i>Minerva Magazine</i>, contrary to the theories of the
+editor thereof.
+
+<p>"My dear Shack," said he, "if I know anything of life I know that every
+sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an
+apposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of
+feeling. How much of this inevitable accord between expression and
+feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of
+art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of the
+lioness that has been deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far above
+her customary whine and purr as the kingly and transcendent utterances
+of Lear are above the level of his senile vaporings. But it is also true
+that all men and women have what may be called a sub-conscious dramatic
+sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep and powerful emotion&mdash;a
+sense unconsciously acquired from literature and the stage that prompts
+them to express those emotions in language befitting their importance
+and histrionic value."
+
+<p>"And in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius,
+where did the stage and literature get the stunt?" asked Dawe.
+
+<p>"From life," answered the editor, triumphantly.
+
+<p>The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but
+dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately his
+dissent.
+
+<p>On a bench nearby a frowzy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that
+his moral support was due a downtrodden brother.
+
+<p>"Punch him one, Jack," he called hoarsely to Dawe. "W'at's he come
+makin' a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen'lemen that comes in
+the square to set and think?"
+
+<p>Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure.
+
+<p>"Tell me," asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, "what especial faults in
+'The Alarum of the Soul' caused you to throw it down?"
+
+<p>"When Gabriel Murray," said Westbrook, "goes to his telephone and is
+told that his fianc&eacute;e has been shot by a burglar, he says&mdash;I do not
+recall the exact words, but&mdash;"
+
+<p>"I do," said Dawe. "He says: 'Damn Central; she always cuts me off.'
+(And then to his friend) 'Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a
+big hole? It's kind of hard luck, ain't it? Could you get me a drink
+from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.'"
+
+<p>"And again," continued the editor, without pausing for argument, "when
+Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has
+fled with the manicure girl, her words are&mdash;let me see&mdash;"
+
+<p>"She says," interposed the author: "'Well, what do you think of that!'"
+
+<p>"Absurdly inappropriate words," said Westbrook, "presenting an
+anti-climax&mdash;plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they
+mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms
+when confronted by sudden tragedy."
+
+<p>"Wrong," said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. "I say no man
+or woman ever spouts 'high-falutin' talk when they go up against a real
+climax. They talk naturally and a little worse."
+
+<p>The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside
+information.
+
+<p>"Say, Westbrook," said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, "would you have
+accepted 'The Alarum of the Soul' if you had believed that the actions
+and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story
+that we discussed?"
+
+<p>"It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way," said the
+editor. "But I have explained to you that I do not."
+
+<p>"If I could prove to you that I am right?"
+
+<p>"I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't time to argue any further
+just now."
+
+<p>"I don't want to argue," said Dawe. "I want to demonstrate to you from
+life itself that my view is the correct one."
+
+<p>"How could you do that?" asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
+
+<p>"Listen," said the writer, seriously. "I have thought of a way. It is
+important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as
+correct by the magazines. I've fought for it for three years, and I'm
+down to my last dollar, with two months' rent due."
+
+<p>"I have applied the opposite of your theory," said the editor, "in
+selecting the fiction for the <i>Minerva Magazine</i>. The circulation has
+gone up from ninety thousand to&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Four hundred thousand," said Dawe. "Whereas it should have been boosted
+to a million."
+
+<p>"You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory."
+
+<p>"I will. If you'll give me about half an hour of your time I'll prove to
+you that I am right. I'll prove it by Louise."
+
+<p>"Your wife!" exclaimed Westbrook. "How?"
+
+<p>"Well, not exactly by her, but <i>with</i> her," said Dawe. "Now, you know
+how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I'm the only
+genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor's signature.
+She's been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I've been cast for
+the neglected genius part."
+
+<p>"Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion," agreed the
+editor. "I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once
+were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring
+Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we'll have one of those informal
+chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much."
+
+<p>"Later," said Dawe. "When I get another shirt. And now I'll tell you my
+scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast&mdash;if you can call
+tea and oatmeal breakfast&mdash;Louise told me she was going to visit her
+aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three o'clock.
+She is always on time to a minute. It is now&mdash;"
+
+<p>Dawe glanced toward the editor's watch pocket.
+
+<p>"Twenty-seven minutes to three," said Westbrook, scanning his
+time-piece.
+
+<p>"We have just enough time," said Dawe. "We will go to my flat at once. I
+will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where she
+will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room
+concealed by the porti&egrave;res. In that note I'll say that I have fled from
+her forever with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic
+soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and
+hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one&mdash;yours
+or mine."
+
+<p>"Oh, never!" exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. "That would be
+inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe's feelings
+played upon in such a manner."
+
+<p>"Brace up," said the writer. "I guess I think as much of her as you do.
+It's for her benefit as well as mine. I've got to get a market for my
+stories in some way. It won't hurt Louise. She's healthy and sound. Her
+heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It'll last for only a
+minute, and then I'll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to
+me to give me the chance, Westbrook."
+
+<p>Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in
+the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all
+of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place.
+Pity 'tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go
+around.
+
+<p>The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and
+then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood.
+Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat
+of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside
+the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone
+gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the
+vanished quality. <i>Sic transit gloria urbis</i>.
+
+<p>A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again
+eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow
+flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated fa&ccedil;ade. To the fifth
+story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door
+of one of the front flats.
+
+<p>When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how
+meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
+
+<p>"Get a chair, if you can find one," said Dawe, "while I hunt up pen and
+ink. Hello, what's this? Here's a note from Louise. She must have left
+it there when she went out this morning."
+
+<p>He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.
+He began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having
+begun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words
+that Editor Westbrook heard:
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote><font size="+1">
+"<span class="smallcaps">Dear Shackleford</span>:<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and
+still a-going. I've got a place in the chorus of the Occidental Opera
+Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o'clock. I didn't want to
+starve to death, and so I decided to make my own living. I'm not coming
+back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She said she was tired of living
+with a combination phonograph, iceberg and dictionary, and she's not
+coming back, either. We've been practising the songs and dances for two
+months on the quiet. I hope you will be successful, and get along all
+right! Good-bye.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+"<span class="smallcaps">Louise</span>."
+</font></blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and
+cried out in a deep, vibrating voice:
+
+<p><i>"My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,
+then let Thy Heaven's fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting
+by-words of traitors and fiends!"</i>
+
+<p>Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand
+fumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted between his pale lips:
+
+<p><i>"Say, Shack, ain't that a hell of a note? Wouldn't that knock you off
+your perch, Shack? Ain't it hell, now, Shack&mdash;ain't it?"</i>
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="20"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XX<br>
+<br>
+PAST ONE AT ROONEY'S</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet and
+Montagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If
+you but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have
+work cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a
+dozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but in
+the domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the
+niceties of deportment to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch of
+elbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house and
+kin.
+
+<p>So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted
+into Dutch Mike's for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of
+Montagus making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest
+parliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his
+thirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where the
+mirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy's movements that his
+indifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that the
+finger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at Dutch
+Mike's that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio,
+companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the Mulberry
+Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P's and Q's so
+solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and the other
+on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom to seek
+safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival associations
+congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
+
+<p>But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry
+Docks. We must to Rooney's, where, on the most blighted dead branch of
+the tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
+
+<p>Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first
+overstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were
+immediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like
+swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane deck.
+But McManus's simile must be the torpedo. He glided in under the guns
+and slipped a scant three inches of knife blade between the ribs of the
+Mulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a devotee to strategy,
+had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch of the
+electrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire alone.
+Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying for the
+watch instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian shindy.
+
+<p>The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by three
+distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the ethics of
+the gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no Capulet to be
+seen.
+
+<p>"Raus mit der interrogatories," said Buck Malone to the officer. "Sure I
+know who done it. I always manages to get a bird's eye view of any guy
+that comes up an' makes a show case for a hardware store out of me. No.
+I'm not telling you his name. I'll settle with um meself. Wow&mdash;ouch!
+Easy, boys! Yes, I'll attend to his case meself. I'm not making any
+complaint."
+
+<p>At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Side
+dock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick Cleary
+drifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. "He'll maybe
+not croak," said Brick; "and he won't tell, of course. But Dutch Mike
+did. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up. It's
+unhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan's in Europe for a week's end with
+Kings. He'll be back on the <i>Kaiser Williams</i> next Friday. You'll have
+to duck out of sight till then. Tim'll fix it up all right for us when
+he comes back."
+
+<p>This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney's one night and
+there looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the first
+time in his precarious career.
+
+<p>Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princes
+and hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe for
+Cork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the high
+rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing the
+slow paddle wheels of the <i>Kaiser Wilhelm</i>.
+
+<p>It was on Thursday evening that Cork's seclusion became intolerable to
+him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool touch
+of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the hollow
+of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and repartee
+along and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the district where
+he was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere, for news was
+scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the failure of the
+police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back,
+the big white finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then.
+But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would be
+small danger in a little excursion that night among the crass pleasures
+that represented life to him.
+
+<p>At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street looking
+up at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent lights against
+a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the place
+as a tough "hang-out"; with its frequenters and its locality he was
+unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all such
+resorts, he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over the
+caf&eacute;.
+
+<p>Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled
+with Rooney's guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human
+pianola with drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furious
+unprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak a
+song&mdash;songs full of "Mr. Johnsons" and "babes" and "coons"&mdash;historical
+word guaranties of the genuineness of African melodies composed by red
+waistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the cotton fields and rice
+swamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.
+
+<p>For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives,
+seats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He
+has Wellington's nose, Dante's chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois,
+the smile of Talleyrand, Corbett's foot work, and the poise of an
+eleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assisted
+by a lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who
+goes among the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now,
+what is there about Rooney's to inspire all this pother? It is more
+respectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens and
+bundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and a
+chat. Even by gaslight the diversions are melancholy i' the mouth&mdash;drink
+and rag-time, and an occasional surprise when the waiter swabs the suds
+from under your sticky glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! The
+soul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed doublet
+to a kindred home under Rooney's visible plaid waistcoat. Rooney's is
+twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has removed the embargo. Rooney
+has spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of public opinion, and any
+Elizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as another. Attend to
+the revelation of the secret. In Rooney's ladies may smoke!
+
+<p>McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer
+that he ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his
+brick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and
+heaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his innermost
+soul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his taste. The sham
+gaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious,
+joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving the
+hour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presence
+of well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney's removal of the
+restrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked
+lemon peel, flat beer, and <i>peau d'Espagne</i>&mdash;all these were manna to
+Cork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet's high
+rear room.
+
+<p>A girl, alone, entered Rooney's, glanced around with leisurely
+swiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested upon
+him for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres all men
+whom she for the first time confronts. In that space of time she will
+decide upon one of two things&mdash;either to scream for the police, or that
+she may marry him later on.
+
+<p>Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn red
+morocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed lace
+handkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a small
+beer from the immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of cigarettes
+and lighted one with slightly exaggerated ease of manner. Then she
+looked again in the eyes of Cork McManus and smiled.
+
+<p>Instantly the doom of each was sealed.
+
+<p>The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for a
+woman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among
+that humble portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or
+coats-of-arms or Shaw's plays. Love at first sight has occurred a time
+or two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be found
+among unsophisticated creatures such as the dove, the blue-tailed
+dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk. Poets, subscribers to all
+fiction magazines, and schatchens, take notice.
+
+<p>With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each of
+them the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which is
+the worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as love.
+
+<p>"Have another beer?" suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was
+considered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and
+references.
+
+<p>"No, thanks," said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her
+conventional words carefully. "I&mdash;merely dropped in for&mdash;a slight
+refreshment." The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require
+explanation. "My aunt is a Russian lady," she concluded, "and we often
+have a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home."
+
+<p>"Cheese it!" said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. "Your fingers are
+as yellow as mine."
+
+<p>"Say," said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,
+"what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?
+What?"
+
+<p>She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and
+bright. Under her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, her
+crinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in a
+thick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still lingered in
+her chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.
+She looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.
+Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below her
+black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk underskirt.
+
+<p>"Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't mean
+anything. Sure, it's no harm to smoke, Maudy."
+
+<p>"Rooney's," said the girl, softened at once by his amends, "is the only
+place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain't a nice habit, but
+aunty lets us at home. And my name ain't Maudy, if you please; it's Ruby
+Delamere."
+
+<p>"That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine's
+McManus&mdash;Cor&mdash;er&mdash;Eddie McManus."
+
+<p>"Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize."
+
+<p>Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl's
+ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
+
+<p>"I know it's late," she said, reaching for her bag; "but you know how
+you want a smoke when you want one. Ain't Rooney's all right? I never
+saw anything wrong here. This is twice I've been in. I work in a
+bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been working
+overtime three nights a week. They won't let you smoke there, of course.
+I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain't it all right in
+here? If it ain't, I won't come any more."
+
+<p>"It's a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere," said Cork.
+"I'm not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don't want to
+have your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday School
+teacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home."
+
+<p>"But I don't know you," said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. "I don't
+accept the company of gentlemen I ain't acquainted with. My aunt never
+would allow that."
+
+<p>"Why," said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, "I'm the latest thing in
+suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin' a
+lady. You bet you'll find me all right, Ruby. And I'll give you a tip as
+to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the Wall
+Street push. Morgan's cab horse casts a shoe every time the old man
+sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I'm in trainin' down the
+Street. The old man's goin' to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in my
+stockin' my next birthday. But it all sounds like a lemon to me. What I
+like is golf and yachtin' and&mdash;er&mdash;well, say a corkin' fast ten-round
+bout between welter-weights with walkin' gloves."
+
+<p>"I guess you can walk to the door with me," said the girl hesitatingly,
+but with a certain pleased flutter. "Still I never heard anything extra
+good about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights, either.
+Ain't you got any other recommendations?"
+
+<p>"I think you're the swellest looker I've had my lamps on in little old
+New York," said Cork impressively.
+
+<p>"That'll be about enough of that, now. Ain't you the kidder!" She
+modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished
+look at her cavalier. "We'll drink our beer before we go, ha?"
+
+<p>A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in
+spirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended
+fogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.
+Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney's liquids and
+Rooney's gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine.
+
+<p>One o'clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and
+locking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows
+carefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front
+door, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforth
+whoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar to
+Rooney's hawk's eye&mdash;the countenance of a true sport.
+
+<p>Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their
+elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,
+scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.
+Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney's had become
+renovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,
+but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The flattest
+glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punch
+struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial company
+became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of one
+in such places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had,
+drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.
+It is the law.
+
+<p>"Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent
+chest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you workin' in the
+bookbindery and livin' at home&mdash;and just happenin' in here&mdash;and&mdash;and
+all that spiel you gave me?"
+
+<p>"Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you think?
+Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask 'em. I handed
+it to you on the level."
+
+<p>"On the dead level?" said Cork. "That's the way I want it; because&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Because what?"
+
+<p>"I throw up my hands," said Cork. "You've got me goin'. You're the girl
+I've been lookin' for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?"
+
+<p>"Would you like me to&mdash;Eddie?"
+
+<p>"Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about&mdash;about yourself, you
+know. When a fellow had a girl&mdash;a steady girl&mdash;she's got to be all
+right, you know. She's got to be straight goods."
+
+<p>"You'll find I'll be straight goods, Eddie."
+
+<p>"Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can't blame me
+for wantin' to find out. You don't see many girls smokin' cigarettes in
+places like Rooney's after midnight that are like you."
+
+<p>The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," she
+said meekly. "I didn't know how bad it looked. But I won't do it any
+more. And I'll go straight home every night and stay there. And I'll
+give up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie&mdash;I'll cut 'em out from this
+minute on."
+
+<p>Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.
+"A lady can smoke," he decided, slowly, "at times and places. Why?
+Because it's bein' a lady that helps her pull it off."
+
+<p>"I'm going to quit. There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flicked
+the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
+
+<p>"At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you of
+evenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a
+puff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock&mdash;see?"
+
+<p>"Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searched his hard but frank
+features eagerly with anxious eyes.
+
+<p>"On the dead level."
+
+<p>"When are you coming to see me&mdash;where I live?"
+
+<p>"Thursday&mdash;day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?"
+
+<p>"Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with me
+to-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now. And don't
+you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you will,
+though."
+
+<p>"On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-dolls to
+me. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the dead level, I do."
+
+<p>Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.
+The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a
+policeman's foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney
+jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric
+lights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except
+for the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of
+crashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring
+panic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring,
+could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table
+to table.
+
+<p>"All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise!
+Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm. We'll
+take care of you all."
+
+<p>Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers. "Are
+you afraid, Eddie?" she whispered. "Are you afraid you'll get a free
+ride?"
+
+<p>"Nothin' doin' in the teeth-chatterin' line," said Cork. "I guess
+Rooney's been slow with his envelope. Don't you worry, girly; I'll look
+out for you all right."
+
+<p>Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the police
+looking everywhere for Buck Malone's assailant, and with Corrigan still
+on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would mean
+an ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high rear room
+of the true Capulet reading the pink extras.
+
+<p>Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the police
+in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their voices
+came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of himself at
+the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the extreme rear
+of the room and lighted a dim gas jet.
+
+<p>"This way, everybody!" he called sharply. "In a hurry; but no noise,
+please!"
+
+<p>The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney's lieutenant swung
+open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder
+already placed for the escape.
+
+<p>"Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less talking,
+please! Don't crowd! There's no danger."
+
+<p>Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.
+Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
+
+<p>"Before we go out," she whispered in his ear&mdash;"before anything happens,
+tell me again, Eddie, do you l&mdash;do you really like me?"
+
+<p>"On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm, "when it
+comes to you, I'm all in."
+
+<p>When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last of
+the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they bore
+the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an adjoining
+low building over the roof of which their only route to safety.
+
+<p>"We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will stand
+the cops off, anyhow."
+
+<p>They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
+
+<p>A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. One
+of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the electric
+light. The other man was a cop of the old r&eacute;gime&mdash;a big cop, a thick
+cop, a fuming, abrupt cop&mdash;not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair at
+the table and sneered familiarly at the girl.
+
+<p>"What are youse doin' in here?" he asked.
+
+<p>"Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly.
+
+<p>"Had any drinks?"
+
+<p>"Not later than one o'clock."
+
+<p>"Get out&mdash;quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he countermanded.
+
+<p>He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Your
+name's McManus."
+
+<p>"Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson."
+
+<p>"Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a knife
+into a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago."
+
+<p>"Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
+officer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's."
+
+<p>"Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be looked
+over. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted his fingers
+under Cork's collar. "Come on!" he ordered roughly.
+
+<p>Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered.
+Her quick eye danced from one man's face to the other as they spoke or
+moved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking&mdash;Corrigan on the briny; and
+Ruby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station
+would recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck!
+
+<p>But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms
+extended against the cop. His hold on Cork's collar was loosened and he
+stumbled back two or three paces.
+
+<p>"Don't go so fast, Maguire!" she cried in shrill fury. "Keep your hands
+off my man! You know me, and you know I'm givin' you good advice. Don't
+you touch him again! He's not the guy you are lookin' for&mdash;I'll stand
+for that."
+
+<p>"See here, Fanny," said the Cop, red and angry, "I'll take you, too, if
+you don't look out! How do you know this ain't the man I want? What are
+you doing in here with him?"
+
+<p>"How do I know?" said the girl, flaming red and white by turns. "Because
+I've known him a year. He's mine. Oughtn't I to know? And what am I
+doin' here with him? That's easy."
+
+<p>She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted
+draperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the
+table toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened
+itself with little leisurely jerks.
+
+<p>"Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin' the
+usual dividends, Maguire," she said to the officer. "You had your usual
+five-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten."
+
+<p>"A lie!" said the cop, turning purple. "You go on my beat again and I'll
+arrest you every time I see you."
+
+<p>"No, you won't," said the girl. "And I'll tell you why. Witnesses saw me
+give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I've been getting fixed
+for you."
+
+<p>Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: "Come on,
+Fanny; let's have some chop suey before we go home."
+
+<p>"Clear out, quick, both of you, or I'll&mdash;"
+
+<p>The cop's bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
+
+<p>At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the
+money without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her
+hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered
+Rooney's that night&mdash;she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion
+and sullen wonder.
+
+<p>"I guess I might as well say good-bye here," she said dully. "You won't
+want to see me again, of course. Will you&mdash;shake hands&mdash;Mr. McManus."
+
+<p>"I mightn't have got wise if you hadn't give the snap away," said Cork.
+"Why did you do it?"
+
+<p>"You'd have been pinched if I hadn't. That's why. Ain't that reason
+enough?" Then she began to cry. "Honest, Eddie, I was goin' to be the
+best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was
+ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from
+everybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I'd
+make you believe I was good, and I was goin' to be good. When you asked
+to come to my house and see me, why, I'd have died rather than do
+anything wrong after that. But what's the use of talking about it? I'll
+say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus."
+
+<p>Cork was pulling at his ear. "I knifed Malone," said he. "I was the one
+the cop wanted."
+
+<p>"Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make any
+difference about that."
+
+<p>"That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don't do nothin' but hang out
+with a tough gang on the East Side."
+
+<p>"That was all right, too," repeated the girl. "It didn't make any
+difference."
+
+<p>Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. "I could get a
+job at O'Brien's," he said aloud, but to himself.
+
+<p>"Good-by," said the girl.
+
+<p>"Come on," said Cork, taking her arm. "I know a place."
+
+<p>Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house
+facing a little park.
+
+<p>"What house is this?" she asked, drawing back. "Why are you going in
+there?"
+
+<p>A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at
+one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps.
+"Read that," said he.
+
+<p>She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a
+scream. "No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won't let you do that&mdash;not
+now! Let me go! You shan't do that! You can't&mdash;you mus'n't! Not after
+you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!"
+
+<p>Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork's
+right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
+
+<p>Another cop&mdash;how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the
+wing!&mdash;came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are you
+doing with that girl?" he called gruffly.
+
+<p>"She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork. "It's a straight deal."
+
+<p>"Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with true
+detective cunning.
+
+<p>"Correct," said Cork. "On the dead level, we're goin' to get married."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="21"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XXI<br>
+<br>
+THE VENTURERS</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the <i>Non Sequitur</i>
+Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation
+car "<i>Raison d'&ecirc;tre</i>" for one moment. It is for no longer than to
+consider a brief essay on the subject&mdash;let us call it: "What's Around
+the Corner."
+
+<p><i>Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est</i>&mdash;men who wear rubbers and pay
+poll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more
+continents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and
+the poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be
+paralleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.
+
+<p>Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the
+dictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a
+prize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk
+in the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and
+alluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance is
+the beautiful countenance&mdash;perfect because vague and dream-born&mdash;that we
+see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and
+toast.
+
+<p>The <span class="smallcaps">Venturer</span> is one who keeps his
+eye on the hedgerows and wayside
+groves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the
+difference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit
+was the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it
+happened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is
+disturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and
+city-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children
+and the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the flickering
+gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of two modern
+followers of Chance.
+
+<br><br><br>
+<p>"Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?" asked
+Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate
+the interior of the Powhatan Club.
+
+<p>"Doubtless," said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.
+
+<p>Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long
+before this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the
+air (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted
+and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go
+away from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,
+must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one
+else. (I had written that "somebody"; but an A. D. T. boy who once took
+a telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the
+compound word. This is a vice versa case.)
+
+<p>Forster's favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower of
+Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, tradition
+and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied him
+full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares and
+many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life.
+But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew what was to be found
+at the end of every street. He knew from experience and logic almost
+precisely to what end each digression from routine must lead. He found a
+depressing monotony in all the variations that the music of his sphere
+had grafted upon the tune of life. He had not learned that, although the
+world was made round, the circle has been squared, and that it's true
+interest is to be in "What's Around the Corner."
+
+<p>Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax
+either his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He
+would have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no
+hope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the
+Greater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan
+chair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,
+uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.
+
+<p>At the end of an hour's stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,
+smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old
+hotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that
+he must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of his
+favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the service and
+so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger that must be
+appeased by the "dead perfection" of the place's cuisine. Even the music
+there seemed to be always playing <i>da capo</i>.
+
+<p>Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,
+restaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all
+countries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorous
+American. Something might happen there out of the routine&mdash;he might come
+upon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a question
+without an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life's
+salt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business suit
+that would not be questioned even where the waiters served the spaghetti
+in their shirt sleeves.
+
+<p>So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because
+the more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the
+thirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored
+carefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five
+figures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but&mdash;
+
+<p>Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really
+regarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of
+thirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one waiting
+for a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So his
+proximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of the
+nature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker after
+"What's Around the Corner," instead of manifesting resentment he only
+turned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other's grin of amusement.
+
+<p>"All in?" asked the intruder, drawing nearer.
+
+<p>"Seems so," said Forster. "Now, I thought there was a dollar in&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Oh, I know," said the other man, with a laugh. "But there wasn't. I've
+just been through the same process myself, as I was coming around the
+corner. I found in an upper vest pocket&mdash;I don't know how they got
+there&mdash;exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly two
+pennies will buy!"
+
+<p>"You haven't dined, then?" asked Forster.
+
+<p>"I have not. But I would like to. Now, I'll make you a proposition.
+You look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and
+respectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny
+of a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine
+together. We will choose from the menu like millionaires&mdash;or, if you
+prefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly
+for once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to
+see which of us will stand the brunt of the house's displeasure and
+vengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same station
+of life&mdash;before our money took wings."
+
+<p>"You're on," said Forster, joyfully.
+
+<p>Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious country
+of Chance&mdash;anyhow, it promised something better than the stale
+infestivity of a table d'h&ocirc;te.
+
+<p>The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.
+Ives chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster.
+
+<p>"Match for which of us gives the order," he said.
+
+<p>Forster lost.
+
+<p>Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with the
+absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born. Forster,
+listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.
+
+<p>"I am a man," said Ives, during the oysters, "Who has made a lifetime
+search after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the ordinary
+adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like a gambler
+who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake. What I want
+is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion.
+It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its blindest
+manifestations. The world has come to run so much by rote and
+gravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance in
+which you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expect
+at its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who always
+complained bitterly when any one came in to ask information. 'He wanted
+to <i>know</i>, you know!' was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks. Well,
+I don't want to know, I don't want to reason, I don't want to guess&mdash;I
+want to bet my hand without seeing it."
+
+<p>"I understand," said Forster delightedly. "I've often wanted the way I
+feel put into words. You've done it. I want to take chances on what's
+coming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course."
+
+<p>"Agreed," said Ives. "I'm glad you catch my idea. It will increase the
+animosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, we
+will pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true venturer&mdash;one
+who does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.
+But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficult
+it is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee. In
+the Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from
+doors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle of
+a wall and 'get away with it.' Nowadays, if you speak disrespectfully to
+a policeman, all that is left to the most romantic fancy is to
+conjecture in what particular police station he will land you."
+
+<p>"I know&mdash;I know," said Forster, nodding approval.
+
+<p>"I returned to New York to-day," continued Ives, "from a three years'
+ramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad than they are
+at home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The only
+thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I've tried shooting big
+game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many yards;
+and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I enjoy it
+about as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a sum in
+long division on the blackboard."
+
+<p>"I know&mdash;I know," said Forster.
+
+<p>"There might be something in aeroplanes," went on Ives, reflectively.
+"I've tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried affair
+of wind and ballast."
+
+<p>"Women," suggested Forster, with a smile.
+
+<p>"Three months ago," said Ives. "I was pottering around in one of the
+bazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but with
+a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some amber and
+pearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an attendant&mdash;a big
+Nubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant drew nearer to me
+by degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand. I looked at it
+when I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in pencil: 'The arched
+gate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.' Does that appear to
+you to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?"
+
+<p>"I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the
+property of an old Turk&mdash;a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Of
+course I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The same
+Nubian attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside and
+sat on a bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had quite
+an extended chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who was
+writing up the Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said she
+noticed the New York cut of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered if
+I couldn't work something into the metropolitan papers about it."
+
+<p>"I see," said Forster. "I see."
+
+<p>"I've canoed through Canada," said Ives, "down many rapids and over many
+falls. But I didn't seem to get what I wanted out of it because I knew
+there were only two possible outcomes&mdash;I would either go to the bottom
+or arrive at the sea level. I've played all games at cards; but the
+mathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the percentages.
+I've made acquaintances on trains, I've answered advertisements, I've
+rung strange door-bells, I've taken every chance that presented itself;
+but there has always been the conventional ending&mdash;the logical
+conclusion to the premise."
+
+<p>"I know," repeated Forster. "I've felt it all. But I've had few
+chances to take my chance at chances. Is there any life so devoid of
+impossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad of
+opportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousand
+fails to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways and
+street cars disappointed one as seldom."
+
+<p>"The sun has risen," said Ives, "on the Arabian nights. There are
+no more caliphs. The fisherman's vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,
+warranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours.
+Life moves by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no more
+opportunities such as Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster had.
+The only certain thing is that there is nothing uncertain."
+
+<p>"Well," said Forster, "my experience has been the limited one of a city
+man. I haven't seen the world as you have; but it seems that we view
+it with the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even this
+little venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There may
+be at least one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner is
+presented. Perhaps, after all, the pilgrims who traveled without scrip
+or purse found a keener taste to life than did the knights of the Round
+Table who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur's certified checks
+in the lining of their helmets. And now, if you've finished your coffee,
+suppose we match one of your insufficient coins for the impending blow
+of Fate. What have I up?"
+
+<p>"Heads," called Ives.
+
+<p>"Heads it is," said Forster, lifting his hand. "I lose. We forgot to
+agree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when the
+waiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I will
+hold the fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hat
+and be off. I thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives,
+and wish we might have others."
+
+<p>"If my memory is not at fault," said Ives, laughing, "the nearest police
+station is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too, let me
+assure you."
+
+<p>Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotive
+effort that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism,
+glided to the table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser's
+cup. Forster took it up and added the figures with deliberate care. Ives
+leaned back comfortably in his chair.
+
+<p>"Excuse me," said Forster; "but I thought you were going to ring Grimes
+about that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten about
+it?"
+
+<p>"Oh," said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, "I can do that later
+on. Get me a glass of water, waiter."
+
+<p>"Want to be in at the death, do you?" asked Forster.
+
+<p>"I hope you don't object," said Ives, pleadingly. "Never in my life have
+I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling it out
+of a dinner."
+
+<p>"All right," said Forster, calmly. "You are entitled to see a Christian
+die in the arena as your <i>pousse-caf&eacute;</i>."
+
+<p>Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged
+air of an inexorable collector.
+
+<p>Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his
+pocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and
+took it away.
+
+<p>"The fact is," said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, "I doubt
+whether I'm what they call a 'game sport,' which means the same as a
+'soldier of Fortune.' I'll have to make a confession. I've been dining
+at this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I always
+sign my checks." And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice: "It
+was first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you knew I
+had no money, and that you might be scooped in, too."
+
+<p>"I guess I'll confess, too," said Ives, with a grin. "I own the hotel.
+I don't run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor
+for my use when I happen to stray into town."
+
+<p>He called a waiter and said: "Is Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? All
+right. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms made
+ready and aired."
+
+<p>"Another venture cut short by the inevitable," said Forster. "Is there
+a conundrum without an answer in the next number? But let's hold to our
+subject just for a minute or two, if you will. It isn't often that I
+meet a man who understands the flaws I pick in existence. I am engaged
+to be married a month from to-day."
+
+<p>"I reserve comment," said Ives.
+
+<p>"Right; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond of
+the lady; but I can't decide whether to show up at the church or
+make a sneak for Alaska. It's the same idea, you know, that we were
+discussing&mdash;it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.
+Everybody knows the routine&mdash;you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea
+after breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress for
+dinner&mdash;theatre twice a week&mdash;bills&mdash;moping around most evenings trying
+to make conversation&mdash;a little quarrel occasionally&mdash;maybe sometimes a
+big one, and a separation&mdash;or else a settling down into a middle-aged
+contentment, which is worst of all."
+
+<p>"I know," said Ives, nodding wisely.
+
+<p>"It's the dead certainty of the thing," went on Forster, "that keeps me
+in doubt. There'll nevermore be anything around the corner."
+
+<p>"Nothing after the 'Little Church,'" said Ives. "I know."
+
+<p>"Understand," said Forster, "that I am in no doubt as to my feelings
+toward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there
+is something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out
+against any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I
+know that I want it. I'm talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I'm sure
+of what I mean."
+
+<p>"I understand you," said Ives, with a slow smile. "Well, I think I will
+be going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one evening
+soon, Mr. Forster, I'd be glad."
+
+<p>"Thursday?" suggested Forster.
+
+<p>"At seven, if it's convenient," answered Ives.
+
+<p>"Seven goes," assented Forster.
+
+<p>At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in one
+of the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the reception
+room of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of Fortune, Chance
+and Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistler
+etchings, the steel engravings by Oh-what's-his-name?, the still-life
+paintings of the grapes and garden truck with the watermelon seeds
+spilled on the table as natural as life, and the Greuze head. It was
+a household. There was even brass andirons. On a table was an album,
+half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on the corners of the
+lids. A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, with a warning click at five
+minutes to nine. Ives looked at it curiously, remembering a time-piece
+in his grandmother's home that gave such a warning.
+
+<p>And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was
+twenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this
+much&mdash;youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet
+eyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with
+the sweet cordiality of an old friendship.
+
+<p>"You can't think what a pleasure it is," she said, "to have you drop in
+once every three years or so."
+
+<p>For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the
+conversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library. When
+that part of it was over, Mary said:
+
+<p>"And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?"
+
+<p>"What I wanted?" said Ives.
+
+<p>"Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn't play
+marbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water
+where you didn't know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. And
+when you grew up you were just the same. We've often talked about your
+peculiar ways."
+
+<p>"I suppose I am an incorrigible," said Ives. "I am opposed to the
+doctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation, taxation,
+and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me something like
+a serial story would be if they printed above each instalment a synopsis
+of <i>succeeding</i> chapters."
+
+<p>Mary laughed merrily.
+
+<p>"Bob Ames told us once," she said, "of a funny thing you did. It was
+when you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a town
+where you hadn't intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up a
+sign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it."
+
+<p>"I remember," said Ives. "That 'next station' has been the thing I've
+always tried to get away from."
+
+<p>"I know it," said Mary. "And you've been very foolish. I hope you didn't
+find what you wanted not to find, or get off at the station where there
+wasn't any, or whatever it was you expected wouldn't happen to you
+during the three years you've been away."
+
+<p>"There was something I wanted before I went away," said Ives.
+
+<p>Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweet
+smile.
+
+<p>"There was," she said. "You wanted me. And you could have had me, as you
+very well know."
+
+<p>Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There
+had been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years
+before. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind then.
+The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the everlasting
+hills. No change would ever come there except the inevitable ones
+wrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album would occupy that
+corner of that table, those pictures would hang on the walls, those
+chairs be found in their same places every morn and noon and night while
+the household hung together. The brass andirons were monuments to order
+and stability. Here and there were relics of a hundred years ago which
+were still living mementos and would be for many years to come. One
+going from and coming back to that house would never need to forecast or
+doubt. He would find what he left, and leave what he found. The veiled
+lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outer
+door.
+
+<p>And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet
+and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass
+his life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he
+would never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her,
+and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the
+house itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was the
+knowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thus
+his thoughts ran.
+
+<p>"I am going to be married soon," said Mary.
+
+<p>On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive's hotel.
+
+<p>"Old man," said he, "we'll have to put that dinner off for a year or so;
+I'm going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk we
+had the other night, and it decided me. I'm going to knock around the
+world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both you and
+me&mdash;the terrible dread of knowing what's going to happen. I've done one
+thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it's best for both
+of us. I've written to the lady to whom I was engaged and explained
+everything&mdash;told her plainly why I was leaving&mdash;that the monotony of
+matrimony would never do for me. Don't you think I was right?"
+
+<p>"It is not for me to say," answered Ives. "Go ahead and shoot elephants
+if you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We've
+got to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,
+Forster, I've found the way. I've found out the biggest hazard in the
+world&mdash;a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end
+in the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge
+until the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know&mdash;not
+until his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage without
+a rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch,
+every day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found
+the <span class="smallcaps">Venture</span>. Don't bother yourself about
+leaving Mary Marsden, Forster. I married her yesterday at noon."
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="22"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XXII<br>
+<br>
+THE DUEL</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>The gods, lying beside their nectar on 'Lympus and peeping over the edge
+of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would seem
+that to their vision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills
+without special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits
+of ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when
+coupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only
+solace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of
+villages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to
+many mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among
+the cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story
+addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet
+on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment
+while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I
+love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.
+
+<p>New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus
+beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine's. They
+came here in various ways and for many reasons&mdash;Hendrik Hudson, the art
+schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers' convention, the
+Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates,
+brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight
+trains&mdash;all these have had a hand in making up the population.
+
+<p>But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan
+has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his
+adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no
+rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.
+
+<p>Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the
+ferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has
+conquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket
+or only the price of a week's lodging.
+
+<p>The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn
+the rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You
+cannot remain neutral. You must be for or against&mdash;lover or enemy&mdash;bosom
+friend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only
+by blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the
+subtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse,
+Beethoven, chloral and John L. in his best days.
+
+<p>In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long
+as you please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and
+be a citizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and
+without rebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but
+Knickerbocker's, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings,
+comparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair's residence in
+Jackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in
+New York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern Troy,
+concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism. And this
+dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant figures of
+William and Jack.
+
+<p>They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They
+came to dig their fortunes out of the big city.
+
+<p>Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander on
+the nose and the other an upper-cut with his left, just to let them know
+that the fight was on.
+
+<p>William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and
+ambitious; so they countered and clinched. I think they were from
+Nebraska or possibly Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for
+success and scraps and scads, and they tackled the city like two
+Lochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at the City Hall.
+
+<p>Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man
+blew in like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped into
+the chair that was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and had
+ordered as far as cheese before the artist had time to do more than nod.
+After the nod a humorous smile came into his eyes.
+
+<p>"Billy," he said, "you're done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has
+taken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand. You
+are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen to-day that you couldn't
+be picked out from them if it weren't for your laundry marks."
+
+<p>"Camembert," finished William. "What's that? Oh, you've still
+got your hammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old
+Noisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It's giving me mine.
+And, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world&mdash;only
+slightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell
+myself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon,
+and say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from
+the East. But I'd never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the
+rathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard this
+fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife made me
+go. Give me May Irwin or E. S. Willard any time."
+
+<p>"Poor Billy," said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. "You
+remember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this
+great, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it
+get the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had
+always been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man. You
+have changed from a maverick into a butterick."
+
+<p>"Don't see exactly what you are driving at," said William. "I don't wear
+an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress
+occasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a
+pattern&mdash;well, ain't the pattern all right? When you're in Rome you've
+got to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged
+metropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad
+schedule I've got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are
+asterisk stops&mdash;which means you wave a red flag and get on every other
+Tuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There's
+something or somebody doing all the time. I'm clearing $8,000 a year
+selling automatic pumps, and I'm living like kings-up. Why, yesterday, I
+was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine agent's
+sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May
+play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke
+everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a board
+sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack? There's
+only one thing in it that I don't care for, and that's a ferryboat."
+
+<p>The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. "This
+town," said he, "is a leech. It drains the blood of the country. Whoever
+comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the figure of the
+leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence,
+the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute. Hand to hand
+every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You've lost, Billy. It
+shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or&mdash;the
+color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very vastness and
+power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the
+lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw. It
+has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its chariot wheels.
+It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars. Give me the
+domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or one ruled by
+an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest ingredients.
+Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its pre-eminence,
+it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is the
+narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country.
+I would go back there to-morrow if I could."
+
+<p>"Don't you like this <i>filet mignon</i>?" said William. "Shucks, now, what's
+the use to knock the town! It's the greatest ever. I couldn't sell
+one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O'Keefe's saloon, in
+Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara Bernhardt
+in 'Andrew Mack' yet?"
+
+<p>"The town's got you, Billy," said Jack.
+
+<p>"All right," said William. "I'm going to buy a cottage on Lake
+Ronkonkoma next summer."
+
+<p>At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it. He caught his
+breath at what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times.
+
+<p>Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The
+irregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep
+gulches and winding streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long,
+desert ca&ntilde;ons. Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel,
+enchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city. But into this background
+were cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares
+through which glowed many colored lights. And out of the violet and
+purple depths ascended like the city's soul sounds and odors and
+thrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaiety
+unrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man can know.
+There below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from
+the four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich,
+despoil, elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it came
+up to him and went into his blood.
+
+<p>There was a knock on his door. A telegram had come for him. It came from
+the West, and these were its words:
+
+<br><br><br>
+<blockquote>
+"Come back and the answer will be yes.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+                                   "<span class="smallcaps">Dolly</span>."<br>
+</blockquote>
+
+<br>
+<p>He kept the boy waiting ten minutes, and then wrote the reply:
+"Impossible to leave here at present." Then he sat at the window again
+and let the city put its cup of mandragora to his lips again.
+
+<p>After all it isn't a story; but I wanted to know which one of the heroes
+won the battle against the city. So I went to a very learned friend and
+laid the case before him. What he said was: "Please don't bother me; I
+have Christmas presents to buy."
+
+<p>So there it rests; and you will have to decide for yourself.
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<a name="23"></a>
+<br>
+<br>
+<center>
+<h3>XXIII<br>
+<br>
+"WHAT YOU WANT"</h3>
+</center>
+<br>
+<p>Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as
+Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour
+that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets,
+bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled
+with the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old
+friend, the late Mr. H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred
+years nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but they
+were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you could
+have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor,
+the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and Forty
+Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the
+old Arabian gang easily.
+
+<p>But let us revenue to our lamb chops.
+
+<p>Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks and
+bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph you
+must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.
+Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a
+Turkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and personal
+affairs, the police court'll get you.
+
+<p>Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money
+and everything. That's what makes a caliph&mdash;you must get to despise
+everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want something
+that you can't pay for.
+
+<p>"I'll take a little trot around town all by myself," thought old Tom,
+"and try if I can stir up anything new. Let's see&mdash;it seems I've read
+about a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to go
+about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he hadn't
+been introduced to. That don't listen like a bad idea. I certainly have
+got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I do know. That
+old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran upon 'em and give
+'em gold&mdash;sequins, I think it was&mdash;and make 'em marry or got 'em good
+Government jobs. Now, I'd like something of that sort. My money is as
+good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every month where I got
+it. Yes, I guess I'll do a little Cardiff business to-night, and see how
+it goes."
+
+<p>Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and
+walked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,
+who holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all the
+enchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks away
+looked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.
+
+<p>James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments
+on Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door
+open, and where they clean your hat while you wait&mdash;two days. James
+stood all day at an electric machine that turned hats around faster than
+the best brands of champagne ever could have done. Overlooking your mild
+impertinence in feeling a curiosity about the personal appearance of a
+stranger, I will give you a modified description of him. Weight, 118;
+complexion, hair and brain, light; height, five feet six; age, about
+twenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of greenish-blue serge; pockets
+containing two keys and sixty-three cents in change.
+
+<p>But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a General
+Alarm that James was either lost or a dead one.
+
+<p><i>Allons!</i>
+
+<p>James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremely
+susceptible to impositions being put upon or below them. All day long
+they burned and smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience.
+But he was earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support
+his feet whether his feet would support him or not.
+
+<p>James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as you
+and I have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts and
+motor-cars and to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe at
+evenfall and watch a badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into their
+common prairie home one by one.
+
+<p>James Turner's idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go
+directly to his boarding-house when his day's work was done. After his
+supper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples and
+infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall room.
+Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of his
+burning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark
+Russell's sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied to
+his smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never palled
+upon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his sole
+intellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James Turner
+taking his ease.
+
+<p>When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of
+his way home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the
+sidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume
+of Clark Russell at half price.
+
+<p>While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down
+miscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His
+discerning eye, made keen by twenty years' experience in the manufacture
+of laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly the poor
+and discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous mood. He
+descended the two shallow stone steps that led from the sidewalk, and
+addressed without hesitation the object of his designed munificence. His
+first words were no worse than salutatory and tentative.
+
+<p>James Turner looked up coldly, with "Sartor Resartus" in one hand and
+"A Mad Marriage" in the other.
+
+<p>"Beat it," said he. "I don't want to buy any coat hangers or town lots
+in Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with your Teddy bear."
+
+<p>"Young man," said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat cleaner,
+"I observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is one of
+the finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth mentioning,
+but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West, where we imagine
+nothing but facts. Maybe I couldn't understand the poetry and allusions
+in them books you are picking over, but I like to see somebody else seem
+to know what they mean. I'm worth about $40,000,000, and I'm getting
+richer every day. I made the height of it manufacturing Aunt Patty's
+Silver Soap. I invented the art of making it. I experimented for three
+years before I got just the right quantity of chloride of sodium
+solution and caustic potash mixture to curdle properly. And after I had
+taken some $9,000,000 out of the soap business I made the rest in corn
+and wheat futures. Now, you seem to have the literary and scholarly
+turn of character; and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay for your
+education at the finest college in the world. I'll pay the expense of
+your rummaging over Europe and the art galleries, and finally set you up
+in a good business. You needn't make it soap if you have any objections.
+I see by your clothes and frazzled necktie that you are mighty poor; and
+you can't afford to turn down the offer. Well, when do you want to
+begin?"
+
+<p>The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is an
+eye expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment suspended
+as high as Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of challenge,
+curiosity, defiance, cynicism, and, strange as you may think it, of a
+childlike yearning for friendliness and fellowship that must be hidden
+when one walks among the "stranger bands." For in New Bagdad one, in
+order to survive, must suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks, rides,
+walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair, house, booth, seat, path or room.
+
+<p>"Say, Mike," said James Turner, "what's your line, anyway&mdash;shoe laces?
+I'm not buying anything. You better put an egg in your shoe and beat it
+before incidents occur to you. You can't work off any fountain pens,
+gold spectacles you found on the street, or trust company certificate
+house clearings on me. Say, do I look like I'd climbed down one of them
+missing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What's vitiating you, anyhow?"
+
+<p>"Son," said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, "as I said, I'm
+worth $40,000,000. I don't want to have it all put in my coffin when I
+die. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over these
+here volumes of literature, and I thought I'd keep you. I've give the
+missionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing
+but a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of young
+man I'd like to take up and see what money could make of him."
+
+<p>Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old
+Book Shop. And James Turner's smarting and aching feet did not tend to
+improve his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit
+equal to any caliph's.
+
+<p>"Say, you old faker," he said, angrily, "be on your way. I don't know
+what your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill.
+Well, I don't carry that much around with me. But I do carry a pretty
+fair left-handed punch that you'll get if you don't move on."
+
+<p>"You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup," said the caliph.
+
+<p>Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the
+collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two
+bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A copy came up,
+took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house.
+"Fighting and disorderly conduct," said the cop to the sergeant.
+
+<p>"Three hundred dollars bail," said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly
+and inquiringly.
+
+<p>"Sixty-three cents," said James Turner with a harsh laugh.
+
+<p>The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change
+amounting to four dollars.
+
+<p>"I am worth," he said, "forty million dollars, but&mdash;"
+
+<p>"Lock 'em up," ordered the sergeant.
+
+<p>In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. "Maybe
+he's got the money, and maybe he ain't. But if he has or he ain't, what
+does he want to go 'round butting into other folks's business for? When
+a man knows what he wants, and can get it, it's the same as $40,000,000
+to him."
+
+<p>Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.
+
+<p>He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself
+out luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars
+of the cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his
+cot gave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a
+paper-covered volume by Clark Russell called "A Sailor's Sweetheart."
+He gave a great sigh of contentment.
+
+<p>Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:
+
+<p>"Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seems
+to have been the goods after all. He 'phoned to his friends, and he's
+out at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman car
+pillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him."
+
+<p>"Tell him I ain't in," said James Turner.
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<hr noshade>
+<br>
+<br>
+<pre>
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