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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tin-Types Taken in the Streets of New York, by
Lemuel Ely  Quigg

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Title: Tin-Types Taken in the Streets of New York
       A Series of Stories and Sketches Portraying Many Singular
       Phases of Metropolitan Life

Author: Lemuel Ely  Quigg

Illustrator: Harry  Beard

Release Date: September 23, 2007 [EBook #22731]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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TIN-TYPES

TAKEN IN

THE STREETS OF NEW YORK


_A SERIES OF STORIES AND SKETCHES
PORTRAYING MANY SINGULAR PHASES
OF METROPOLITAN LIFE_


BY

LEMUEL ELY QUIGG


_With Fifty-three Illustrations by Harry Beard_


NEW YORK:
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE


COPYRIGHT,

1890,

By O. M. DUNHAM,

_All rights reserved._


Press W. L. Mershon & Co.,
Rahway, N. J.




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE

   I.  MR. RICKETTY,                                                   1

  II.  MR. JAYRES,                                                    20

 III.  BLUDOFFSKI,                                                    43

  IV.  MAGGIE,                                                        65

   V.  THE HON. DOYLE O'MEAGHER,                                      87

  VI. THE SAME (_concluded_),                                        107

 VII. MR. GALLIVANT,                                                 126

VIII. TULITZ,                                                        148

  IX. MR. MCCAFFERTY,                                                170

   X. MR. MADDLEDOCK,                                                189

  XI. MR. WRANGLER,                                                  211

 XII. MR. CINCH,                                                     242

XIII. GRANDMOTHER CRUNCHER,                                          271




TIN-TYPES.




I.

MR. RICKETTY.


Mr. Ricketty is composed of angles. From his high silk hat worn into
dulness, through his black frock coat worn into brightness, along each
leg of his broad-checked trowsers worn into rustiness, down into his
flat, multi-patched boots, he is a long series of unrelieved angles.

Tipped on the back of his head, but well down over it, he wears an
antique high hat, which has assumed that patient, resigned expression
occasionally to be observed in the face of some venerable mule, which,
having long and hopelessly struggled to free herself of a despicable
bondage, at last bows submissively to the inevitable and trudges bravely
on till she dies in her tracks.

Everything about Mr. Ricketty, indeed, appears to have an individual
expression. His heavily lined, indented brow comes out in a sharp angle
over his snappy black eyes, which, sunk far within their sockets, look
just like black beans in an elsewise empty eggshell.

His nose is sharp, thin, pendent, and exceedingly ample in its
proportions, and it comes inquiringly out from his face as if employed
by the rest of his features as a sort of picket sentinel.

It is that uncommonly knowing nose to which the prudent observer of Mr.
Ricketty would give his closest attention. He would look at the acute
interior angle which it formed at the eyes, and think it much too acute
to be pleasant and much too interior to be pretty. He would look at the
obtuse exterior angle which it formed on its bridge, and wonder how any
humane parent could have permitted such a development to grow before his
very eyes when by one quick and dexterous strike with a flat-iron it
might have been remedied. He would look at the angle of incidence made
by the sun's rays on one side of his nose and then at the angle of
reflection on the other, and find himself lost in amazement that
anything so thin could produce so dark a shadow.

[Illustration: MR. RICKETTY.]

It is a most uncomfortable nose. It had a way of hanging protectingly
over his heavy dark-brown mustache, which, in its turn, hangs
protectingly over his thin, wide lips, so as to make it disagreeably
certain that they can open and shut, laugh, snap, and sneer without any
one being the wiser.

Upon lines almost parallel with those of his nose, his sharp chin
extends out and down, fitting by means of another angle upon his long
neck, wherein his Adam's apple, like the corner of a cube, wanders up
and down at random. Under his side-whiskers the outlines of his square
jaws are faintly to be traced, holding in position a pair of hollow
cheeks that end directly under his eyes in a little knob of ruddy flesh.

Mr. Ricketty is walking along the Bowery. His step is light and easy,
and an air pervades him betokening peace and serenity of mind. In one
hand he carries a short rattan stick, which he twirls in his fingers
carelessly. His little black eyes travel further and faster than his
legs, and rove up and down and across the Bowery ceaselessly. He stops
in front of a building devoted, according to the signs spread numerously
about it, to a variety of trade.

The fifth floor is occupied by a photographer, the fourth by a dealer in
picture frames, the third and the second are let out for offices. Over
the first hangs the gilded symbol of the three balls and the further
information, lettered on a signboard, "Isaac Buxbaum, Money to Loan."
The basement is given over to a restaurant-keeper whose identity is
fixed by the testimony of another signboard, bearing the two words,
"Butter-cake Bob's." Mr. Ricketty's little black eyes wander for an
instant up and down the front of the building, and then he trips lightly
down the basement steps into the restaurant.

A score or more of small tables fastened securely to the floor--for
many, as Bob often said, "comes here deep in liquor an' can't tell a
white-pine table from a black felt hat"--were disposed about the room at
measured distances from each other, equipped with four short-legged
stools, a set of casters, and a jar of sugar, all so firmly fixed as to
baffle both cupidity and nervousness. On walls, posts, and pillars were
hung a number of allusions to the variety and excellence of Bob's
larder.

It was represented that coffee and cakes could be obtained for the
trifling sum of ten cents, that corned-beef hash was a specialty, and
that as for Bob's chicken soup it was the best in the Bowery. Apparently
attracted by this statement, Mr. Ricketty sat down, and intimated to a
large young man who presented himself that he was willing to try the
chicken soup together with a cup of coffee.

The young man lifted his head and shouted vociferously toward the
ceiling, "Chicken in de bowl, draw one!"

"My friend," said Mr. Ricketty, "what a noble pair of lungs you've got
and what a fine quality of voice."

The young man grinned cheerfully.

"I am tempted to lavish a cigar on you," continued Mr. Ricketty, "in
token of my regard for those lungs. A cigar represents to me a large
amount of capital, but it shall all be yours if you'll just step
upstairs and see if my old friend, Ike Buxbaum, is in."

"He aint in," said the waiter.

"How do you know?"

"I jist seen him goin' down de street."

"Who runs his business when he adjourns to the street."

"Dunno. Guess it's his wife."

"Aha! the beauteous Becky?"

"I dunno; I've seen a woman in dere."

"You're sure Ike has gone off, are you?"

"Didn't I say I seen him?"

"True. I am answered. My friend, there's the cigar. There, too, are the
fifteen cents wherewith to pay for my frugal luncheon. Look upon the
luncheon when it comes as yours. I bethink me of an immediate
engagement," and rising abruptly Mr. Ricketty hastened out of the
restaurant into the street.

[Illustration: "CHICKEN IN DE BOWL, DRAW ONE!"]

He glanced quickly through the pawnshop window and made out the figure
of a woman standing within among the shadows. He adjusted his hat to his
head and a winsome smile to his countenance, and entered.

"Good-morning!" he said, breezily, to the young woman who came forward,
"where's Ike?"

"Gone out," she answered, looking him over carefully.

"Tut, tut, tut," said Mr. Ricketty, as if utterly annoyed and
disappointed. "That's too bad. Will he be gone long?"

"All the morning."

"Will he now? Well, I'll call again," and Mr. Ricketty started for the
door. He stopped when he had gone a step or two, however, and, wheeling
about, looked earnestly at Becky.

"Let me see," he said, "you must be Ike's wife. You must be the fair and
radiant Becky. There's no doubt of it, not the least, now, is there?"

"Well, what if there aint?" said Becky, coolly.

"Why if there aint you ought to know me. You ought to have heard Ike
speaking of his friend Ricketty. You ought to have heard him telling of
what a good-for-nothing old fool I am. If you are Becky, then you and I
are old friends."

"S'posin' we be," said Becky, "what then?"

"To be sure," Mr. Ricketty replied, "what then? Then, Becky, fair
daughter of Israel, I've a treasure for you. I always lay my treasure at
the feet of my friends. This may not be wise; it may not be the way to
grow rich; but it is Steve Ricketty's way, and he can't help it. I have
a treasure here now for you. It has taken months of suffering and sorrow
to induce me to part with it. Around it cluster memories of other and
brighter days. Look!"

Mr. Ricketty produced a string of large and beautiful pearls. They were
evidently of the very finest quality, and Becky's black eyes sparkled as
she caught their radiance.

"See," said Mr. Ricketty, "see the bedazzling heirloom. Full oft, sweet
Jewess, have I held it to my bosom, have I bedewed it with my tears--"

"Oh, yes," interrupted Becky, with a satirical smile, "that's what's
made the colors so fine, I suppose."

"Becky, do not taunt me," Mr. Ricketty answered, reproachfully. "This is
a sad hour to me. What'll you give for it?"

"Where did it come from?" asked Becky, shrewdly. "We like to know what
we're doing when we buy pearl necklaces at retail."

"It was my mother's," replied Mr. Ricketty, touching his handkerchief to
his eyes. "When she breathed her last she placed these pearls about my
neck. 'Stephen,' she said, 'keep them for my sake.'"

Becky hesitated. Not that she was at all impressed with this story of
how the necklace came into Mr. Ricketty's possession. She was fully
alive to the risk she ran in entering into any bargain with gentlemen of
Mr. Ricketty's appearance, but the luster of the pearls burned in
Becky's eyes.

"Well," she said, with a vast assumption of indifference, "I'll give you
fifty dollars for them."

Mr. Ricketty cast forth at her one long, scornful look and then started
to go out.

"Oh, well," she called after him, "I'll be liberal. I'll make it a
hundred."

"No, Becky, you wont. You'll not get that glorious relic for the price
of a champagne supper. I will die. I will take my pearls and go and jump
off the bridge, and together we'll float with the turning tide out into
the blue sea. Adieu, Rebecca, so beautiful and yet so cold, adieu! How
could Heaven have made thy face so fair, thine eyes so full of light,
thy ruddy lips so merry, but thy heart so hard! I press thy hand for
the last time, fair Rebecca--"

"Well, I like that," cried Becky; "seeing that it's the first. You're
very gay for a man of your years, and you'd best keep your fine words
for them that wants 'em,--_I_ don't"; and Becky withdrew her hand,
detaining, however, the pearls within it.

Becky was not ill-favored. Her black, silky hair, as fine as a Skye
terrier's, curled around a comely head. Her complexion was soft and
dark, and her figure light and easy in its movement. These
peculiarities, together with her way of fondling the pearls, did not
escape Mr. Ricketty's calculating observation.

"Becky," he began blandly.

"Who told you to call me 'Becky'?" she angrily demanded.

"Daughter of Canaan, lend me thine ear, itself as fair as any of these
gems of the Southern Sea."

"Oh, come off!" said Becky.

"It has cost me many pangs to bring these jewels here--"

"And you're going to sell them at so much the pang, I s'pose."

"For hours together have I walked up and down the Bowery, trying to
rouse my feeble courage. But when I would stop under the three golden
balls, I seemed to see a sneer on every passer's lips. They were all
saying, 'There goes Steve Ricketty, about to sell his fond mother's
pearls.' The thought choked me, Becky, it burned my filial heart."

"Don't seem as if it did your cheek no harm," observed Becky dryly.

"But when I saw your face through the window there, so beautiful and
sympathetic, I said to myself, 'There is a true woman. She will feel for
me and my grief.' Suppose we make it two hundred and fifty. Come, Becky,
the pearls are yours for two hundred and fifty."

"I wont."

"Am I deceived? No, no, it can't be true. I will not believe--"

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you two hundred to get rid of
you."

Mr. Ricketty picked up a little hand-glass that lay upon the counter and
placed it before her face.

"Look there," he said, "and tell me what it is that makes Rebecca so
heartless. Not those lustrous eyes, so frank and warm; not that--"

"Oh, now, stop that."

"Not that sensitive, shapely nose--"

"Well, I thank goodness it's got no such bulge on it as yours."

"Not those refined lips, arched like the love-god's bow and many times
as dangerous; not those cheeks--those soft peach-tinted cheeks, telling
in dainty blushes--"

"Oh, six bright stars!"

"Of a soul pure as a sunbeam--"

"Now, I want you to stop and go 'way. I wont take your old pearls at any
price."

"Not that brow--that fair, enameled brow--nor yet that creamy throat.
Think, sweet Becky, just how these pearls would look clasped with their
diamond catch about that creamy throat. I fear to show you lest their
luster pale. But yet, I will! See!" and catching up the jewels he threw
them about her neck and held the glass steadily before her.

Becky looked. It was evidently not a new idea to Becky. She had all
along been considering just the situation Mr. Ricketty proposed, and
when he finally dropped the pearls and struck an attitude of profound
admiration, Becky snatched the prize from her neck, slid it into a
drawer under the counter, and drew a leather purse from the safe behind
her. She had begun to count out the money, when a figure passing the
window caught her eye.

"There!" she said sharply. "You've been bothering me so long that Ike's
come back, and we've got to go through a scene. Two hundred and fifty
dollars! It'll break Ike's heart."

Mr. Ricketty snatched the pocket-book from her hands, coolly extracted
bills to the amount of two hundred and fifty dollars, returned the book,
and whipped out his handkerchief. As the Jew entered he beheld a man
leaning against his counter holding a wad of greenbacks in his hand and
sobbing violently.

Apparently summoning all his resolution, Mr. Ricketty dried his eyes and
fervently grasped the money-lender's hand.

"Ikey, my boy," he said, "I leave my all with you. I go from your door,
Ikey, like one who treads alone some banquet hall deserted. I have sold
you my birthright, dear boy, for a mess of pottage--a mere mess of
pottage--a paltry two hundred and fifty dollars."

Ikey turned pale. "Pecky!" he cried, "who vas der fool mans und vat he
means apoudt der dwo huntered und feefty tollars, hey?"

"Well may you call me a fool, Ikey; I can't deny it. I can't even lift
my voice in protest. No man in his sober senses would have sold that
necklace of glorious gems for such a miserable pittance. Here, Ikey,
take back your money and give me my pearls."

[Illustration: BECKY.]

He held out the greenbacks with one hand, while with the other he placed
his handkerchief to his eyes, of which with great dexterity he reserved
a considerable corner for the purposes of observation. At the same
time, Becky, well knowing that she had bought the pearls for a sum
which, though probably more than her husband would have consented to
give, was still far less than their value, handed him the necklace.

The pawnbroker looked from money to jewels and from jewels to money with
an expression of curiously mingled grief and greed. Finally, taking
Ricketty by the coat-tails, he dragged him towards the door, saying, "I
nefer go pack by anydings vat mine vife does, meester, but ven you haf
shewels some more, yust coom along ven I vas der shtore py mineselluf,
hey?"

Mr. Ricketty shook his hand effusively. "I will, Ikey, I will. These
women are very unsatisfactory to deal with. Au revoir, Ikey! Au revoir,
madam!" and bowing with the utmost urbanity to the genial Becky, he
strode into the street.

It was easy to see, as Mr. Ricketty wandered aimlessly down the Bowery,
that his humor was entirely amiable. The knobs of ruddy flesh under his
twinkling black eyes were encircled by a set of merry wrinkles, and his
mustache had expanded far across his face.

[Illustration: THE PAWNBROKER.]

He had gone as far as Canal Street, and was just about to turn the
corner, when he heard a low, chirping sort of whistle. All in a second
his face changed its expression. The merry wrinkles melted and his
mustache drew itself compactly together. But he did not turn his head or
alter his gait. He walked on for several steps until he heard the
whistle again, and this time its tone was sharp. He stopped, wheeled
around, and encountered two men.

One of these was a darkly tinted, strongly built man, with big brown
eyes, tremendous arms, and an oppressive manner. To him Mr. Ricketty at
once addressed himself.

"Ah, my dear Inspector!" he cried gayly. "I'm amazingly happy to see
you. You're looking so well and hearty."

"Yes, Steve," replied the darkly tinted man, "I'm feeling fairly well,
Steve, and how is it with you?"

"So, so."

"I haven't happened to meet you recently, Steve."

"Well, no, Inspector. I've been West, but my brother's death--"

"I never knew you had a brother, Steve?"

"Oh, yes, Inspector; and a charming fellow he was. He died last week
and--"

"Was he honest, Steve?"

"As honest as a quart measure."

"And did he tell the truth?"

"Like a sun-dial."

"Then it's an almighty pity he died, for you need that kind of man in
your family, Steve."

Mr. Ricketty closed one of his little black eyes, and drew down the ends
of his mustache, but beyond this indirect method of communicating his
thoughts he made no reply to this observation.

"I suppose you're not contemplating a very long stay in the city,
Steve?" suggested the Inspector.

"N--n--no," said Mr. Ricketty.

"You seem in doubt?"

"No, I guess I'll return to the West this afternoon."

"Well, on the whole, I shouldn't wonder if that wouldn't be best. Your
brother's estate can be settled up, I fancy, without you?"

"It aint very large."

"Well, then, good-by, Steve, and, mind now, this afternoon."

"All right, Inspector; good-by!"

As Mr. Ricketty disappeared down Canal Street, the inspector of police
turned to his friend and said: "That fellow was a clergyman once, and
they say he used to preach brilliant sermons."




II.

MR. JAYRES.


[Illustration: B]

Bootsey Biggs was a Boy. From the topmost hair of his shocky head to the
nethermost sole of his tough little feet, Bootsey Biggs was a Boy.
Bootsey was on his way to business. He had come to his tenement home in
Cherry Street, just below Franklin Square, to partake of his noonday
meal. He had climbed five flights of tenement-house stairs, equal to
about thirty flights of civilized stairs, and procuring the key of his
mother's room from Mrs. Maguinness, who lived in the third room beyond,
where it was always left when Mrs. Biggs went out to get her papers, he
had entered within the four walls that he called his home.

Spread upon the little pine table that stood in one corner was his
luncheon all ready for him, and after clambering into the big dry-goods
box originally purchased for a coal-bin, but converted under the stress
of a recent emergency into the baby's crib, and after kissing and poking
and mauling and squeezing the poor little baby into a mild convulsion,
Bootsey had gone heartily at work upon his luncheon.

He was now satisfied. His stomach was full of boiled cabbage, and his
soul was full of peace. He clambered back into the dry-goods box and
renewed his guileless operations on the baby. By all odds the baby was
the most astonishing thing that had ever come under Bootsey's
observation, and the only time during which Bootsey was afforded a fair
and uninterrupted opportunity of examining the baby was that period of
the day which Mr. Jayres, Bootsey's employer, was wont to term "the
noonday hour."

Long before Bootsey came home for his luncheon, Mrs. Biggs was off for
her stand in front of "The Sun" building, where she conducted a large
and, let us hope, a lucrative business in the afternoon newspapers, so
that Bootsey and the baby were left to enjoy the fulness of each other's
society alone and undisturbed.

To Bootsey's mind the baby presented a great variety of psychological
and other problems. He wondered what could be the mental operation that
caused it to kink its nose in that amazing manner, why it should
manifest such a persistent desire to swallow its fist, what could be the
particular woe and grievance that suddenly possessed its little soul and
moved it to pucker up its mouth and yell as though it saw nothing but
despair as its earthly portion?

Bootsey had debated these and similar questions until two beats upon the
clock warned him that, even upon the most liberal calculation, the
noonday hour must be looked upon as gone. Then he rolled the baby up in
one corner of the box and started back to the office.

It was Mr. Absalom Jayres's office to which Bootsey's way tended, and a
peculiarity about it that had impressed both Mr. Jayres and Bootsey was
that Bootsey could perform a given distance of which it was the
starting-point in at least one-tenth the time required to perform the
same distance of which it was the destination. This was odd, but true.

After taking leave of the baby and locking it in, all snugly smothered
at the bottom of its dry-goods box, Bootsey delivered the key of the
room to Mrs. Maguinness and descended into the court. Here he found two
other boys involved in a difficulty. Things had gone so far that
Bootsey saw it would be a waste of time to try to ascertain the merits
of the controversy--his only and obvious duty being to hasten the
crisis.

"Hi! Shunks!" he cried, "O'll betcher Jakey kin lick ye!"

The rapidity with which this remark was followed by offensive movements
on Shunks's part proved how admirably it had been judged.

"Kin he!" screamed Shunks. "He's nawfin' but a Sheeny two-fer!"

Jakey needed no further provocation, and with great dexterity he crowded
his fists into Shunks's eyes, deposited his head in Shunks's stomach,
and was making a meritorious effort to climb upon Shunks's shoulders,
when a lordly embodiment of the law's majesty hove gracefully into
sight. Bootsey yelled a shrill warning, and himself set the example of
flight.

While passing under the Brooklyn Bridge Bootsey met a couple of
Chinamen, and moved by a sudden inspiration he grabbed the cue of one of
them, and both he and the Chinaman precipitately sat down. Bootsey
recovered quickly and in a voice quivering with rage he demanded to know
what the Chinaman had done that for. A large crowd immediately assembled
and lent its interest to the solution of this question. It was in vain
that the Chinaman protested innocence of any aggressive act or
thought. The crowd's sympathies were with Bootsey, and when he insisted
that the Mongol had tangled him up in his pig-tail, the aroused populace
with great difficulty restrained its desire to demolish the amazed
heathens. At last, however, they were permitted to go, followed by a
rabble of urchins, and Bootsey proceeded on his way to the office.

[Illustration: HE GRABBED THE CUE OF ONE OF THEM.]

Many other interruptions retarded his progress. He had not gone far
before he was invited into a game of ball, and this, of course, could
not be neglected. The game ending in a general conflict of the players,
caused by Bootsey's falling on top of another boy, whom he utterly
refused to let up unless it should be admitted that the flattened
unfortunate was "out," he issued from the turmoil in time to join in an
attack upon a peanut roaster and to avail himself largely of the spoils.
Enriched with peanuts, he had got as far as the City Hall Park when a
drunken man attracted his attention, and he assisted actively in an
effort to convince the drunken man that the Mayor's office was the ferry
to Weehawken. It was while engaged in giving these disinterested
assurances that he felt himself lifted off his feet by a steady pull at
his ears, and looking up he beheld Mr. Jayres.

"You unmitigated little rascal!" cried Mr. Jayres, "where've you been?"

"Nowhere," said Bootsey, in an injured tone.

"Didn't I tell you to get back promptly?"

"Aint I a-getting' back?"

"Aint you a-get--whew!" roared Mr. Jayres, with the utmost exasperation,
"how I'd like to tan your plaguey little carcass till it was black and
blue! Come on, now," and Mr. Jayres strode angrily ahead.

Bootsey followed. He offered no reply to this savage expression, but
from his safe position in the rear he grinned amiably.

Mr. Jayres was large and dark and dirty. His big fat face, shaped like a
dumpling, wore a hard and ugly expression. Small black eyes sat under
his low, expansive forehead. His cheeks and chin were supposed to be
shaven, and perhaps that experience may occasionally have befallen them.
His costume was antique. Around his thick neck he wore a soiled choker.
His waistcoat was low, and from it protruded the front of a fluted
shirt. A dark-blue swallow-tail coat with big buttons and a high collar
wrapped his huge body, and over his shoulders hung a heavy mass of black
hair, upon which his advanced age had made but a slight impression.

[Illustration: "WE'VE CALLED," SAID THE MAN, SLOWLY.]

His office was upon the top floor of a building in Murray Street. It
was a long, low room. Upon its door was fastened a battered tin sign
showing the words: "Absalom Jayres, Counsellor." The walls and ceiling
were covered with dusty cobwebs. In one end of the room stood an old
wood stove, and near it was a pile of hickory sticks. A set of shelves
occupied a large portion of the wall, bearing many volumes, worn, dusty,
and eaten with age.

Among them were books of the English peerage, records of titled
families, reports of the Court of Chancery in hundreds of testamentary
cases, scrap-books full of newspaper clippings concerning American
claimants to British fortunes, lists of family estates in Great Britain
and Ireland, and many other works bearing upon heraldry, the laws of
inheritance, and similar subjects.

Upon the walls hung charts showing the genealogical trees of illustrious
families, tracing the descent of Washington, of Queen Victoria, and of
other important personages. There was no covering on the floor except
that which had accumulated by reason of the absence of broom and mop. A
couple of tables, a few dilapidated chairs, a pitcher and a basin, were
about all the furniture that the room contained.

Being elderly and huge, it required far more time for Mr. Jayres to make
the ascent to his office than for Bootsey. Having this fact in mind,
Bootsey sat down upon the first step of the first flight, intending to
wait until Mr. Jayres had at least reached the final flight before he
started up at all. He failed to communicate his resolution, however, and
when Mr. Jayres turned about upon the third floor, hearing no footsteps
behind him, he stopped. He frowned. He clinched his fist and swore.

"There'll be murder on me," he said, "I know there will, if that Boy
don't do better! Now, where the pestering dickens can he be?"

Mr. Jayres leaned over the bannister and started to call. "Boo--" he
roared, and then checked himself. "Drat such a name as that," he said.
"Who ever heard of a civilized Boy being called Bootsey? What'll people
think to see a man of my age hanging over a bannister yelling 'Bootsey'!
No, I must go down and hunt him up. I wonder why I keep that Boy? I
wonder why I do it?"

Mr. Jayres turned, and with a heavy sigh he began to descend to the
street. On the second landing he met Bootsey smoking a cigarette and
whistling. Mr. Jayres did not fly into a passion. He did not grow red
and frantic. He just took Bootsey by the hand and led him, step by step,
up the rest of the way to the office. He drew him inside, shut the door,
and led him over to his own table. Then he sat down, still holding
Bootsey's hand, and waited until he had caught his breath.

"Now, then," he said, at last.

"Yez'r," said Bootsey.

"You're a miserable little rogue!" said Mr. Jayres.

Bootsey held his peace.

"I've stood your deviltries till I've got no patience left, and now I'm
going to discharge you!"

"Aw, don't," said Bootsey.

"Yes," said Mr. Jayres, "I will; if I don't, the end of it all will be
murder. Some time or other I'll be seized of a passion, and there's no
telling what'll happen. There's your two dollars to the end of the
week--now, go!"

"Aw, now," said Bootsey, "wot's de use? I aint done nawfin'. 'Fi gets
bounced mom'll drub me awful! You said you wanted me to take a letter up
to Harlem dis afternoon."

"Yes, you scamp! And here's the afternoon half gone."

"O'll have it dere in less 'n no time," pleaded Bootsey.

Mr. Jayres scowled hard at Bootsey and hesitated. But finally he drew
the letter from the drawer of his table and handed it over, saying as he
did so, "If you aint back here by 5 o'clock, I'll break every bone in
your body!"

Bootsey left the office with great precipitation, and as he closed the
door behind him, Mr. Jayres glared morosely at a knot-hole in the floor.
"Funny about that boy!" he said reflectively. "I don't know as I ever
gave in to any living human being before that Boy came along in all my
life."

Mr. Jayres turned to his table and began to write, but was almost
immediately interrupted by a knock upon the door. He called out a
summons to enter, and two people, a man and a woman, came in. The man
was large, stolid, and rather vacant in his expression. The woman was
small and quick and sharp.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Jayres.

The woman poked the man and told him to speak.

"We've called--" said the man slowly.

"About your advertisement in the paper," added the woman quickly.

"Which paper?" asked Mr Jayres.

"Where's the paper?" asked the man, turning to the woman.

"Here," she replied, producing it.

"Oh, yes, I see," said Mr. Jayres, "it's about the Bugwug estate. What
is your name, sir?"

"His name is Tobey, and I'm Mrs. Tobey, and we keeps the Gallinipper
Laundry, sir, which is in Washington Place, being a very respectable
neighborhood, though the prices is low owing to competition of a party
across the street."

"Now, Maggie," said the man, "let me talk."

"Who's hindering you from talking, Tobey? I'm not, and that's certain.
The gentleman wanted to know who we were, and I've told him. He'd been a
week finding out from you."

"Come, come," said Mr. Jayres sharply, "let's get to business."

"That's what I said," replied Mrs. Tobey, "while I was putting on my
things to come down town. 'Tobey,' says I, 'get right to business. Don't
be wasting the gentleman's time,' which he always does, sir, halting and
hesitating and not knowing what to say, nor ever coming to the point.
'It's bad manners,' says I, 'and what's more, these lawyers,' says I,
'which is very sharp folks, wont stand it,' says I. But I don't suppose
I done him much good, for he's always been that way, sir, though I'm
sure I've worked my best to spur him up. But a poor, weak woman can't do
everything, though you'd think he thought so, if--"

"Oh, now stop, stop, stop!" cried Mr. Jayres, "you mustn't run on so.
Your name is Tobey and you have called about the Bugwug property. Well,
now, what of it?"

"I want to know is there any money in it," answered Mr. Tobey.

"Now, if you please, sir, just listen to that," cried Mrs. Tobey
pityingly. "He wants to know is there money in it! Why, of course,
there's money in it, Tobey. You're a dreadful trial to me, Tobey. Didn't
the gentleman's advertisement say there was 500,000 pounds in it? Aint
that enough? Couldn't you and me get along on 500,000 pounds, or even
less, on a pinch?"

"But the question is," said Mr. Jayres, "what claim you have on the
Bugwug property. Are you descended from Timothy Bugwug, and if so, how
directly and in what remove?"

"That's what we wants you to tell us, sir," replied Mr. Tobey.

"Why, we supposed you'd have it all settled," added his wife. "Aint you
a lawyer?"

"Oh, yes, I'm a lawyer," Mr. Jayres suavely replied, "and I can tell you
what your claim is if I know your relationship to Timothy Bugwug. He
died in 1672, leaving four children, Obediah, Martin, Ezekiel, and
Sarah. Obediah died without issue. Martin and Sarah came to America, and
Ezekiel was lost at sea before he had married. Now then, where do you
come in?"

"My mother--" said Mr. Tobey.

"Was a Bugwug," said Mrs. Tobey. "There's no doubt at all but what all
that money belongs to us, and if you've got it you must pay it right
away to us, for plenty of use we have for it with six young children
a-growing up and prospects of another come April, which as regards me is
terrible to think of, though, I suppose, I shouldn't repine, seeing that
it's the Lord's will that woman should suffer, which, I must say, it
seems to me that they have more than their fair share. However, I don't
blame Tobey, for he's a fine man, and a hard-working one, if he hasn't
got the gift of speech and is never able to come to the point, though
that's not for the lack of having it dinged into his ears, for if I says
it once I says it fifty times a day, 'Tobey, will you come to the
point?'"

Mr. Jayres took up his pen. "Well, let's see," he said. "What is your
full name, Mr. Tobey?"

"William Tobey, sir. I am the son of--"

"Jonathan Tobey and Henrietta Bugwug," continued the lady, "it being so
stated in the marriage license which the minister said was for my
protection, and bears the likeness of Tobey on one side and mine on the
other and clasped hands in the center signifying union, and is now in
the left-hand corner of the sixth shelf from the bottom in the china
closet and can be produced at any time if it's needful. I've kept it
very careful."

"Whose daughter was Henrietta Bugwug?" asked Mr. Jayres.

"Tobey's grandfather's, sir, a very odd old gentleman, though blind,
which he got from setting off fireworks on a Fourth of July, and nearly
burned the foot off the blue twin, called blue from the color of his
eyes, the other being dark-blue, which is the only way we have of
telling 'em apart, except that one likes cod liver oil and the other
don't, and several times when the blue twin's been sick the dark-blue
twin has got all the medicine by squinting up his eyes so as I couldn't
make him out and pretending it was him that had the colic, and Mr.
Bugwug, that's Tobey's grandfather, lives in Harlem all by himself,
because he says there's too much noise and talking in our flat, and I
dare say there is, though I don't notice it."

"In Harlem, eh? When did you first hear that you had an interest in the
Bugwug estates?"

"Oh, ever so long, and we'd have had the money long ago if it hadn't
been that a church burned down a long time ago somewhere in Virginia
where one of the Bugwugs married somebody and all the records were lost,
though I don't see what that had to do with it, because Tobey's here all
ready to take the property, and it stands to reason that he wouldn't
have been here unless that wedding had 'a' happened without they mean to
insult us, which they'd better not, and wont, if they know when they are
well off," and at the very thought of such a thing Mrs. Tobey tossed her
head angrily.

"I see," said Mr. Jayres, "I see. And you want me to take the matter in
hand, I suppose, and see if I can recover the money, eh?"

"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Tobey, in a disappointed tone, "I thought from the
piece in the paper that the money was all ready for us."

"You mustn't be so impatient," soothingly responded Mr. Jayres, laying
his fat finger on his fat cheek and smiling softly. "All in good time.
All in good time. The money's where it's safe. You only need to
establish your right to it. We must fetch a suit in the Court of
Chancery, and that I'll do at once upon looking up the facts. Of
course--er--there'll be a little fee."

"A little what?" said Mr. Tobey.

"A little which?" said Mrs. Tobey.

[Illustration: "A LITTLE FEE," SAID MR. JAYRES, SMILING SWEETLY.]

"A little fee," said Mr. Jayres, smiling sweetly. "A mere trifle, I
assure you; just enough to defray expenses--say--er--a hundred dollars."

"Oh, dear me!" cried Mrs. Tobey. "This is vexing. To think of coming
down town, Tobey, dear, with the expectations of going back rich, and
then going back a hundred dollars poorer than we were. I really don't
think we'd better do it, Tobey?"

"Ah," said Mr. Jayres, "but think also of the fortune. Two millions and
a half! Isn't that worth spending a few hundred dollars for? Just put
your mind on it, ma'am."

"I've had my mind on it ever since I seen your piece in the paper,"
replied Mrs. Tobey, "and a hundred dollars does seem, as you say, little
enough to pay for two millions and a half, which would be all I'd ask or
wish for, and would put us where we belong, Tobey, which is not in the
laundry line competing with an unscrupulous party across the street,
though I don't mention names, which perhaps I ought, for the public
ought to be warned. It's a party that hasn't any honor at all--"

"I'm sure not," said Mr. Jayres sympathetically. "He is, without doubt,
a dirty dog."

"Oh, it isn't a he," Mrs. Tobey replied, "the party is a her."

[Illustration: "THE PARTY IS A HER," SAID MRS. TOBEY.]

"Of course, of course," said Mr. Jayres. "And to think that you have to
put up with the tricks of a female party directly across the street.
Why, it's shameful, ma'am! But if you had that two millions, as you just
observed, all that would be over."

"Two million and a half I thought you said it was," said Mrs. Tobey
rather sharply.

"Oh, yes, and a half--and a half," the lawyer admitted in a tone of
indifference, as much as to say that there should be no haggling about
the odd $500,000. "What a pretty pile it is, Mrs. Tobey?"

"I don't know, Tobey, but what we'd better do it," Mrs. Tobey said after
a pause. "It aint so very much when you think of what we're to get for
it."

"That's the right way to look at it, ma'am. I'll just draw up the
receipt, and to-morrow I'll call at the Gallinipper Laundry to get some
further particulars necessary to help me make out the papers."

Mr. Tobey seemed to be somewhat at a loss to know precisely what was the
net result of the proceedings in which he had thus far taken so small a
part, but upon being directed by Mrs. Tobey to produce the hundred
dollars, he ventured a feeble remonstrance. This was immediately checked
by Mrs. Tobey, who assured him that he knew nothing whatever about such
matters and never could come to the point, which he ought to be able to
do by this time, for nobody could say but that she had done her part. At
last two fifty-dollar bills were deposited in Mr. Jayres's soft palm and
a bit of writing was handed over to Mrs. Tobey in exchange for them; and
followed by Mr. Jayres's warm insistence that they had never done a
better thing in their lives, the Tobeys withdrew.

It was nearly six o'clock when the door of Mr. Jayres's office opened
again and the shocky head of Bootsey appeared. Mr. Jayres was waiting
for him.

"Here you are at last, you wretched little scamp!" he cried. "Didn't I
tell you I'd whale you if you weren't back by five o'clock?"

"I come jest as soon 's I could," said Bootsey. "He was a werry fly ole
gen'l'man."

"What did he say?"

"He said he didn't hev no doubts but wot you was a reg'lar villyum an'
swin'ler, an' cheat an' blackmailer, an' ef he had de user his eyes an'
legs he'd come down yere an' han' you over ter de coppers; dat you aint
smart enuff ter get no money outer him, fer he's bin bled by sich coveys
like you all he's a-going ter bleed, an' dat he don't b'lieve dere is
any sech ting as de Bugwug estate nohow, an' ef yer wants ter keep
outen jail yer'd better let him an' his folks alone."

Mr. Jayres scowled until it seemed as if his black eyebrows would meet
his bristly upper lip, and then he said: "Bootsey, before you come to
the office to-morrow morning you'd better go to the Gallinipper Laundry
in Washington Place, and tell a man named Tobey who keeps it,
that--er--that I've gone out of town for a few days, Bootsey, on a
pressing matter of business."




III.

BLUDOFFSKI.


The friends of Mr. Richard O'Royster always maintained that he was the
best of good fellows. Many, indeed, went so far as to say he had no
faults whatever; and while such an encomium seems, on the face of it, to
be extravagant, its probability is much strengthened by the fact that
whatever he had they always came into the possession of sooner or later.
If he had any faults, therefore, they must have known it. They would
never have allowed anything so valuable as a fault to escape them.

Mr. O'Royster was sitting, one afternoon, in the private office of his
bankers, Coldpin & Breaker. Mr. Coldpin sat with him, discussing the
advisability of his investing $250,000 in the bonds of the East and West
Telegraph Company. It was a safe investment, in Mr. Coldpin's judgment,
and Mr. O'Royster was about to order the transaction carried out, when
the office door was thrust open and a long, black-bearded, wiry-haired,
savage-looking man walked in.

[Illustration: BLUDOFFSKI.]

His head was an irregular hump set fixedly on his shoulders so that
one almost expected to hear it creak when he moved it. His eyes were
little, and curiously stuck on either side of his thick, stumpy nose, as
if it were only by the merest accident that they hadn't taken a position
back of his ears or up in his forehead or down in his hollow cheeks. His
entrance put a sudden and disagreeable stop to the conversation. Mr.
O'Royster adjusted his eyeglass and looked with a sort of serene
curiosity at the man. Mr. Coldpin moved nervously in his chair.

"Vell," the fellow said, after a pause, "I haf come to sbeak mit you."

"You come very often," replied Mr. Coldpin in a mildly remonstrative
tone.

No answer was returned to this suggestion. The intruder simply settled
himself on his feet in an obstinate sort of way.

Mr. Coldpin produced a dollar-bill and handed it over, remarking
testily, "There, now, I'm very busy!"

"Nein, nein!" said the man. "It vas not enough!"

"Not enough?"

"I vants dwenty tollar."

"Oh, come now; this wont do at all. You mustn't bother me so. I can't
be--"

The man did something with his mouth. Possibly he smiled. Possibly he
was malevolently disposed. At all events, whatever his motive or his
humor, he did something with his mouth, and straightway his two rows of
teeth gleamed forth, his eyes changed their position and also their hue,
and the hollows in his cheeks became caverns.

"Great Caesar!" cried Mr. O'Royster. "Look here, my good fellow, now
don't! If you must have the money, we'll try to raise it. Don't do that.
Take in your teeth, my man, take 'em in right away, and we'll see what
we can do about the twenty."

He composed his mouth, reducing it to its normal dimensions and
arranging it in its normal shape, whereupon Mr. O'Royster, drawing a
roll of bills from his pocket, counted out twenty dollars.

Mr. Coldpin interposed. "You may naturally think, O'Royster," he
observed quietly, "that this man has some hold upon me by which he is in
a position to extort money. There is no such phase to this remarkable
case. I owe him nothing. He is simply in the habit of coming here and
demanding money, which I have let him have from time to time in small
sums to--well, get rid of him. I think, though, that it's time to stop.
You must not give him that $20. I won't permit it. Put it back in--"

[Illustration: "IT WOULDN'T HURT HIM TO SHOOT HIM."]

The man did something else in a facial way just as defiant of analysis
as his previous contortion and equally effective on Mr. O'Royster's
nerves. He moved toward Mr. O'Royster and held up his hand for the
money. It was slowly yielded up, and without so much as an
acknowledgment, the man thrust it into his pocket and stalked out.

Mr. O'Royster watched his misshapen body as it disappeared through the
entry. Then he gazed at the banker and finally remarked: "Can't say that
your friend pleases me, Coldpin."

"To tell the truth, O'Royster, I live in mortal terror of that creature.
He followed me into this room from the street one day and demanded,
rather than begged, some money. I scarcely noticed him, telling him I
had nothing, when he did something that attracted my attention, and the
next minute my flesh began to creep, my backbone began to shake, and I
thought I should have spasms. I gave him a handful of change and off he
went. Since then, as I told you, he has been coming here every month or
so. I'm going to move next May into a building where I can have a more
guarded office."

"Odd tale!" said Mr. O'Royster, "deuced odd. Why don't you get a
pistol?"

"Well, I have a sort of feeling that it wouldn't hurt him to shoot him.
Of course it would, you know, but still--"

"Yes, I know what you mean. He certainly does look as if a pistol would
be no adequate defense against him. What you want is a nice,
self-cocking, automatic thunderbolt."

They changed the subject, returning to their interrupted business, and
having concluded that they talked on until it had grown quite late.

"By Jove!" cried Mr. O'Royster, glancing at his watch, "it's half-past
six, and I've a dinner engagement at the club at seven. I must be off.
Ring for a cab, wont you?"

The cab arrived in a few moments and Mr. O'Royster hurried out. "Drive
me to the Union Club," he said, "and whip up lively."

He sprang in, the cab started off with a whirl, and he turned in his
seat to let down the window. A startled look came into his face.

"It's too dark to see well," he said to himself, "and this thing bounces
like a tugboat in a gale, but if that ourang-outang wasn't standing
under that gaslight yonder, I'll be hanged!"

Mr. O'Royster's was the sort of mind that dwelt lightly and briefly on
subjects affecting it disagreeably, and long before he reached the club
it had left the ourang-outang far in the distance. In the presence of a
jolly company, red-headed duck, burgundy and champagne, it had room for
nothing but wit and frolic, to which its inclinations always strongly
tended.

The night had far advanced when Mr. O'Royster left the club. He turned
into Fifth Avenue, journeying toward Twenty-third Street, and had walked
about half the distance when he felt a touch upon his arm. Mr. O'Royster
was in that condition when his mental senses acted more quickly than his
physical senses. Bringing his eyes to bear upon the spot where he felt
the touch, he made out the shape of a big, dirty hand, and following it
and the arm above it, he presently ascertained that a man was close at
his elbow. He spent several minutes scrutinizing the man's face, and
finally he said:

"Ah, I shee. Beg pawdon, dear boy, f'not 'bsherving you b'fore. Mos'
happy to renew zhe 'quaintance so auspishously begun 'saffer-noon.
H--hic!--'ope you're feeling well. By zhe way, ol' f'llaw, wha' zhure
name?"

"Bludoffski."

"Razzer hard name t' pronounce, but easy one t' 'member. Glad 'tain't
Dobbins. 'F zenny sing I hate, 's name like Dobb'ns, 'r Wobb'ns, 'r
Wigg'ns. Some-pin highly unconventional in name of Bludoffski. Mr.
Bludoffski, kindly 'cept 'shurances of my--rhic!--gard!"

Mr. Bludoffski executed a facial maneuver intended possibly for a smile.
It excited Mr. O'Royster's attention directly.

"Doffski!" he said, stopping shortly and balancing himself on his legs,
"are you sure you're feelin' quite well?"

"Yah, puty vell."

"Zere's no great sorrer gnawin' chure vitals, is zere, Moffski?"

"I vas all ride."

"Not sufferin' f'om any mad r'gret, 'r misplaced love, 'rensing zat
kind, eh, Woffski?"

"No."

"Feeling jush sames' ushyal?"

"Yah."

"Zen 'sall right. Don't 'pol'gize, 's all right. Zere was somepin' 'n
you're looksh made me shink p'raps yu's feeling trifle in'sposed. I am,
an' didn't know but what you might be same way. You may've noticed 't
I'm jush trifle--er, well, some people ud shay zhrunk, Toffski--rude 'n'
dish'gree'ble people dshay zhrunk. P'raps zere 'bout half right,
Woffski, but it's zhrude way of putting it. Now, zhen, I want t'ask you
queshun. I ask ash frien'. Look 't me carefully and shay, on y'r honor,
Loffski, where d'you shin' I'm mos' largely 'tossicated?"

"In der legs," replied Mr. Bludoffski, promptly.

"Shank you. 'S very kind. 'T may not be alt'gesser dignified to be
'tossicated in zhe legs, but 's far besser'n if 'twas in zhe eyes.
'Spise a man 'at looks drunk in's eyes. Pos'ively 'sgusting!"

They had now reached Twenty-third Street, and following his companion's
lead, O'Royster crossed unsteadily into Madison Square and through one
of the park walks. Presently he halted.

"By zhe way, Woffski," he said, "do you know where we're goin'?"

"Yah."

"Well, zat's what I call lucky. I'm free t' confesh I haven't gotter
shingle idea. But 'f you know, 's all right. W'en a man feels himself
slightly 'tossicated, 's nozzin' like bein' in comp'ny of f'law 'at
knows where 's goin'. 'Parts a highly 'gree'ble feelin' 'f conf'dence.
Don't wanter 'splay any 'pert'nent cur'osity, Boffski, but p'raps 's no
harm in askin' where 'tis 'at you know you're goin'?"

"Home."

An expression of disgust crossed Mr. O'Royster's face. "Home?" he
inquired. "D' you shay 'home,' Toffski? Haven't you got any uzzer place
t' go? Wen a man'sh r'duced t' th' 'str--hic--remity 'f goin' home,
must be in dev'lish hard luck."

"Der vhy 've go home," said Bludoffski, "is dot I somedings haf I show
you."

"Ah. I shee. Za's diff'rent zing. You're goin' t'show me some-'zin',
eh?"

"Yah."

"Picshur? Hope 'taint pichshur, Koffski. I'm ord'narily very fon' of
art, but f'law needs good legs t' 'zamine picshur, an' I'm boun'ter
confesh my legsh not just 'dapted t'--"

"Nein."

"Eh?"

"It vasn't noddings like dot."

"'Taint china, is 't, Boffski? 'Taint Willow Pattern er Crown Derby er
zat sorter zing? T' tell truth, Boffski, I aint mush on china. Some
people go crashy at er shight er piece nicked china. My wife tol' me
zuzzer day she saw piece Crown Derby 'n' fainted dead way, 'n' r'fused
t' come to f'r half 'n hour. I said I'd give ton er Crown Derby for
bashket champagne 'n' she didn't speak to me rester 'zhe week. Jush
shows how shum people--"

"Nein!"

"Eh?"

"It vasn't shina."

"By zhove, you 'rouse my cur'os'ty, Woffski. If 'tain't picshur er
piece pottery, wha' deuce is't?"

"You shall see."

"Myst'ry! Well, I'm great boy f'r myst'ries. Hullo! Zis, zh' place?"

They had walked through Twenty-ninth Street, into Second Avenue, and had
reached the center of a gloomy and dismal block. Directly in front of
the gloomiest and most dismal house of all Bludoffski had suddenly
stopped, and in answer to Mr. O'Royster's exclamation, he drew from his
pocket a latch-key and opened the side door.

The entry was dark, but the glimmer of a light was visible at the end of
the hall. He did not speak, but motioned with his hand an invitation for
Mr. O'Royster to go in. It was accepted, not, however, without a slight
manifestation of reluctance. Mr. O'Royster's senses were somewhat
clouded, but the shadows of the entry were dark enough to impress even
him with a vague feeling of dread.

Bludoffski shut the door behind them carefully and drew a bolt or two.
Then he led the way down the hall toward the light. As they advanced
voices were heard, one louder than the rest, which broke out in rude
interruption, dying down into a sort of murmuring accompaniment.

When they reached the end of the hall Bludoffski opened another door and
they entered a large beer saloon. At a score of tables men were sitting,
many apparently of German birth. They were smoking pipes, drinking beer,
and listening to the hoarse voice of an orator standing in the furthest
corner of the room.

He was a little round man with little round eyes, a little round nose, a
little round stomach, and little round legs. Though very small in
person, his voice was formidable enough, and he appeared to be
astonishingly in earnest.

Bludoffski's entrance created a considerable stir. Several persons began
to applaud, and some said, "Bravo! bravo!" One sharp-visaged and angular
man with black finger-nails, spectacles, and a high tenor voice, cried
out with a burst of enthusiasm, "Hail! Dear apostle uf luf!" a sentiment
that brought out a general and spontaneous cheer. Mr. O'Royster,
apparently under the impression that he was the object of these
flattering attentions, bowed and smiled with the greatest cheerfulness
and murmured something about this being the proudest moment of his life.
He was on the point of addressing some remarks to the bartender, when
the little round orator cut in with an energy quite amazing.

[Illustration: "VE VILL SHTRIKE, MEIN PRUDERS!"]

"Der zoshul refolushun haf gome, my prudders!" he said. "Der bowder
vas all retty der match to be struck mit. Ve neet noddings but ter
stretch out mit der hant und der victory dake. Der gabitalist fool
himselluf. He say mit himselluf 'I haf der golt und der bower, hey?' He
von pig fool. He dinks you der fool vas, und der eye uf him he vinks
like der glown py der circus. But yust vait. Vait till der honest sons
uf doil rise by deir might oop und smite der blow vich gif liperty to
der millions!"

At this there was a wild outburst of applause and a chorus of hoarse
shouts: "Up mit der red flag!" "Strike now!" "Anarchy foreffer!"

"Ve vill shtrike, mine prudders," continued the little round orator,
growing very ardent and red in the face. "Ve vill no vait long. Ve vill
kill! Ve vill burn! Ve vill der togs uf var loose und ride to driumph in
der shariot uf fire. Ve vill deir housen pull down deir hets upoud, und
der street will run mit der foul plood uf der gabitalist!"

A mighty uproar arose at these gory suggestions, and would not be
subdued until all the glasses had been refilled and the enthusiasm that
had been aroused was quenched in beer.

Mr. O'Royster had listened to these proceedings with some misgivings. He
turned to his companion, who stood solemn and silent by his side, and
observed:

"D' I unnerstan' you t' say, Woffski, 't you 's goin' home?"

"Yah."

"Doncher zhink 's mos' time t' go?"

"Ve vas dere now."

"Home?"

"Yah."

"Can't say I'm pleased with your d'mestic surroundings, Boffski. Razzer
too mush noise f' man of my temp'ment. Guesh I'll haffer bid you
g'night, Boffski."

"Nein."

"Yesh, Boffski, mush go. Gotter 'gagement."

"Vait. I haf not show you yet--"

"T' tell truf, Moffski, I've seen 'nuff. 'F I wasser shee more, might
not sleep well. Might have nightmare. Don't shink 's good f' me t' shee
too much, ol' f'law."

"Listen."

The little round orator, refreshed and reinvigorated, began again.

"You must arm yoursellef, my prudders. You must haf guns und powder und
ball und--"

"Dynamite!" yelled several.

"Yah. Dot vas der drue veapon uf der zoshul refolushun. Dynamite! You
must plenty haf. Ve must avenge der murder uf our brudders in Shegaco.
Deir innocent plood gries ter heffen for revensh. A t'ousan' lifes vill
not der benalty bay. Der goundry must pe drench mit plood. Den vill
Anarchy reign subreme ofer de gabitalist vampire! Are you retty?"

The whole crowd rose in a body, banged their glasses viciously on the
tables in front of them and shouted: "Ve vas!"

"Den lose no time to rouse your frients. Vake up der laporing mans all
eferywhere. Gif dem blenty pomb und der sicnal vatch for, und ven it vas
gif shoot und kill und spare nopoddy! Der time for vorts vas gone. Now
der time vas for teets!"

"Loffski," whispered Mr. O'Royster, "really must 'scuse me, Loffski, but
's time er go. I have sorter feelin' 's if I's gettin' 'tossercated in
zhe eyes. Always know 's time er go when I have zat feelin'. F' I'd know
chure home 's in place like zis I'd asked you t' go t' mine where zere's
more r--hic--pose."

There was a door behind them near the bar, and Bludoffski, opening it,
motioned Mr. O'Royster to go in ahead. He obeyed, not without
reluctance, and the Anarchist followed. Two tables covered with papers,
a bed and several chairs were in the room, together with many little
jars, bits of gaspipe, lumps of sulphur, phosphorus and lead.

"Sit down," said Bludoffski.

Mr. O'Royster sat.

"I am an Anarchist," Bludoffski began.

"'S very nice," Mr. O'Royster replied. "I 's zhinkin' uzzer day 'bout
bein' Anarchis' m'self, but Mrs. O'Royster said she's 'fraid m' health
washn't good 'nuff f' such--hic--heavy work."

"You hear der vorts uf dot shbeaker und you see der faces uf der men.
Vat you t'ink it mean? Hey? It mean var upon der reech. It mean Nye
Yorick in ashes--"

"Wha's use? Don't seem t' me s' t' would pay. Of course, ol' f'law,
whatever you says, goes. But 't seems t' me--"

"You can safe all dot var. You can der means be uf pringing aboud der
reign uf anarchy mitout der shtrike uf von blow. Eferypody vill lif und
pe habby."

"Boffski," said Mr. O'Royster, after a pause, during which he seemed to
be making a violent effort to gather his intellectual forces. "Zere's no
doubt I'm 'tossercated in zhe eyes. W'en a man's eyes 'fected by
champagne, he's liter'ly no good. Talk to me 'bout zis t'mor', Woffski.
Subjec's too 'mportant to be d'scussed unner present conditions."

"Nein! nein! You can safe der vorlt uf you vill. Von vort from you vill
mean peace. Midoutdt dot vort oceans of plood vill be spill."

"Woffski, you ev'dently zhink I zhrunker'n I am. I'm some zhrunk,
Woffski, I know, _some_ zhrunk, but 'taint 's bad's you zhink."

"I vill sbeak more blain."

"Do, ol' f'law, 'f you please."

"It vas selfishness vot der vorld make pad. It was being ignorant und
selfish vot crime und bofferty pring to der many und vealth und ease to
der few. Der beoples tondt see dot. Tey tondt know vot Anarchy mean. It
vas all rest, all peace, nopoddy pad, no var, no bestilence. Dot is
Anarchy, hey?

"I haf my life gif to der cause uf Anarchy. I haf dravel der vorlt over
shbeaking, wriding, delling der beoples to make vay for der zoshul
refolushun. Uf dey vill not, ve must der reech kill. We must remofe dem
vich stand py der roat und stay der march of civilization. Some say
'Make haste! kill! kill!' I say, 'Nein, vait, gif der wretched beoples
some chance to be safe. Tell dem vot is Anarchy. Etjucade dem.'

"Vell, den, dey listen to me. Dey say, 'Ve bow der vill before uf Herr
Bludoffski, whose vordt vas goot. Ve vait. But how long? Ah, dat I can
not tell. But I have decide I make von appeal. I gif der vorlt von
chance to come ofer to Anarchy and be save. Ha! Se! I haf write a pook!
I haf say der pook inside all apout Anarchy. I haf tell der peauties of
der commune, vere no selfishness vas, no law, but efery man equal und
none petter as some udder. I haf describe it all. Nopody can dot pook
reat mitout he say ven he lay him down, 'I vil be an Anarchist.'"

Mr. Bludoffski had become intensely interested in his own remarks. He
picked his manuscripts from the table and caressed them lovingly.

"See," he said, "dere vas der pook vich make mankind brudders. I tell
you how you help. I vas poor. I haf no money. I lif on noddings, und dem
noddings I peg. Ven I see you und you dot money gif me, I say 'Dis man
he haf soul! He shall be save.' Den I say more as dot. I say he shall
join his hand mit me. He shall print him, den million copies, send him
de vorlt ofer, in all der lankviches, to all der peoples. Dink uf dot!
You shall be great Anarchist as I. Ve go down mit fame togedder!"

[Illustration: "HE HAF NO SOUL, NO HEART, NO MIND, NO NODDINGS."]

He paused for Mr. O'Royster's reply, trembling with fanatical
excitement. The reply was somewhat slow in coming. Mr. O'Royster, when
his companion began to talk, had leaned his head on his arm and closed
his eyes. He had preserved this attitude throughout the address and was
now breathing hard.

"Vell!" said Bludoffski, impatiently.

Mr. O'Royster drew a more resonant breath, long, deep and mellow.

"He sleep!" cried Bludoffski, in scornful fury. "Der tog! He sleep ven I
tell him--"

He sprang up, ran across the room and returned with a huge
carving-knife. "I vill kill him!" he cried, and, indeed, made start to
do it. But as suddenly he checked himself, tossed the knife on the
floor, muttering, "Bah, he not fit to kill," and opened the door into
the saloon. The Anarchist meeting had ended, but several persons were
still sitting around the tables, drinking beer. He called to two of
these, and said, in a tone of almost pitiful despair:

"Take dot man home. I not know who he vas. I not know vere he lif.
Somebotty fin' oud. Look his pockets insite. Ask der boleecemans. Do any
dings, but take him avay. He haf no soul, no mind, no heart, no
noddings!"




IV.

MAGGIE.


Wrapped in contemplation and but little else, probably because his stock
of contemplation largely exceeded his stock of else, Mr. Dootleby
wandered down the Bowery. Midnight sounded out from the spire in St.
Mark's Church just as Mr. Dootleby, having come from Broadway through
Astor Place, turned about at the Cooper Union.

There was a touch of melancholy in Mr. Dootleby's expression as he
looked down the big, brilliant Bowery, glowing with the light of a
hundred electric burners and myriads of gas-jets, and seething with
unnatural activity. He stopped a moment in the shadow thrown by the
booth of a coffee and cake vender, and looked attentively into the faces
of the throngs that passed him. He seemed to be thinking hard.

[Illustration: MR. DOOTLEBY.]

In truth, it is a suggestive place, is the Bowery. Day and night are all
the same to it. It never gets up and it never goes to bed. It never
takes a holiday. It never keeps Lent. It indulges in no sentiments. It
acknowl-edges no authority that bids it remember the Sabbath Day to
keep it holy. But from year's end to year's end it bubbles, and boils,
and seethes, and frets while the daylight lasts, and in the glare of its
brighter night it plunges headlong into carousal!

Mr. Dootleby had a great habit of walking at night, though he seldom
came down town so far as this. His apartments were in Harlem, and
usually, after he had taken his dinner and played a rubber of whist, he
found himself sufficiently exercised by a stroll as far as Forty-second
Street. But to-night he felt a trifle restless, and journeyed on.

Though his hair was nearly white and his face somewhat deeply furrowed,
Mr. Dootleby's tall heavy figure stood straight toward the zenith, and
moved with an ease and celerity that many a younger man had envied. With
his antecedents I am not entirely familiar, but they say he was always
eccentric. I, for my part, shall like him none the less for this. They
say he was rich once, but that he never knew how to take care of his
money, and what part of it he did not give away slipped off of its own
accord.

They say he was past fifty when he married, and his bride was a young
woman, and when they went off together he was as frisky as a young
fellow of twenty-three. Then, they say, she died, and after that he took
but little interest in things, spending his time chiefly in such amiable
pursuits as the entertainment of the children playing in Central Park,
and the writing of an occasional article for the scientific papers, on
"The Peculiar Behavior of Alloys."

Despite the dinginess of his costume, Mr. Dootleby was a handsome old
man, and he looked very out of place on the Bowery. Not that good looks
are wanting in the Bowery, for many a crownless Cleopatra mingles with
its crowds. But Mr. Dootleby, as he stood in the shadow of the
coffee-vender's booth, seemed to be the one kind of being necessarily
incongruous with the midnight Bowery spectacle.

Mr. Dootleby stood and looked for full twenty minutes. In some of the
faces that passed him he saw only a careless sensuality brightened by
the flush of excitement. Others, somewhat older, were full of brazen
coarseness, and others, older still, bore that pitiful look of hopeless
regret, quickly changing to one that says as plainly as can be that the
time for thinking and caring has gone. Upon many was stamped the brand
of inborn infamy, their only inheritance.

[Illustration: THE BOWERY NIGHT-SCENE.]

Some hunted souls went by, their manner jaded and hapless, their steps
nervous and irresolute, and their eyes sweeping the streets before them,
never resting, never closed. A few as they passed scowled at him--even
at him, as if there were not one in all this world upon whom they had
not declared war. Want had marked most of them with unmistakable lines,
and crossing these were often others telling that they knew no better
than they did.

Mr. Dootleby watched awhile and then went on, pausing occasionally at
the corners to peer through the dark side streets, up at the big
tenement-houses--those ugly nurseries of vice--from whose black shadows
came many of these that had been christened into crime. But in the
Bowery itself there was no gloomy spot. Light streamed from every
window, and flooded the pavements. The street-cars whirled along. Even
the bony creatures that drew them caught the spirit of this feverish
thoroughfare. From every other doorway, shielded by cloth or wicker
screens, came the sounds of twanging harps and scraping fiddles, the
click of glasses and the shrill chatter and laughter of discordant
voices.

Here and there, in front of a bewildering canvas, upon which, in the
gayest of gay colors, mountainous fat women, prodigious giants, scaly
mermaids, wild men from Zululand, living skeletons, and three-headed
girls were painted, stood clamorous gentlemen in tights, urgently
importuning passers-by to enter the establishments they represented,
whereof the glories and mysteries could be but too feebly told in words.
And upon the sidewalks all about him, swarms of itinerant musicians,
instantaneous photographers, dealers in bric-a-brac, toilet articles,
precious stones, soda water, and other needful and nutritious wares,
urged themselves upon Mr. Dootleby's attention.

He walked leisurely on, moralizing as he went, until he had passed
Chatham Square, and had got into the somberer district below. He turned
a corner somewhere, thinking to walk around the block and find his way
back into the Bowery. But the more corners he rounded the more he found
ever at his elbow, and the conviction began to make its way into his
mind that he had lost his bearings.

The block in which he was now wandering was quite dark and dismal, save
for a single gas-jet hanging almost hidden within a dirty globe, over
some steep steps that led into a cellar. Mr. Dootleby concluded to stop
there and ask his way. As he approached the cellar, he heard what seemed
to be cries of distress. They grew more distinct, and accompanying them
were the dull sounds of blows and the harsh accents of a man's voice,
evidently permeated with rage.

Mr. Dootleby ran down the steps and flung the door open, presenting his
eyes with a spectacle that made his blood run cold. The room was long
and narrow. At one end and near the door was a bar fitted up with a few
black bottles and broken tumblers, a keg or two of beer, and some boxes
of cigars. Along the walls stood a couple of benches, and further on
were half a dozen little rooms, partitioned from each other, all opening
into the bar-room. On the benches six girls were lolling about, dressed
in gaudy tights, and with them were three or four men. The room was hot
to suffocation, and the smell from the dim and dirty lamps that stood on
each end of the bar, together with the foul tobacco-smoke with which the
atmosphere was saturated, combined to make the place disgusting and
poisonous.

All these conditions Mr. Dootleby took in at his first glance, and his
second fell upon two figures in the center of the room, from whom had
proceded the noises he had heard. One was that of a girl cowering on her
knees and moaning in a voice from which reason had clearly departed. A
big, unconscionably brutal-looking man stood over her, holding her down
by her hair, which, braided in a single plait, was wound about his hand.
He had just thrown the stick upon the floor with which he had been
beating her, and was drawing from the stove a red-hot poker.

[Illustration: THE FELLOW WHEELED QUICKLY AROUND.]

Mr. Dootleby was not of an excitable temperament ordinarily, but his
senses were so affected by the horrors he saw and the pestilential air
he breathed that his head began to swim, and only by an especial draft
upon his resolution was he able to command himself. There was a pause
consequent upon his entrance, and his quick eyes made good use of it.

He saw that the girl had already been half murdered, and that her
assailant was a short, thick-set old man, with the eyes of a snake and
the neck of a bull. He saw that the men on the bench, all beastly
specimens, were contemplating her torture with an indifference that
would have shamed the grossest savage. Several of the women, too--the
older ones--were looking on with scarcely the sign of a protest in their
faces, and only one, a mere child, seemed to feel a genuine sense of
terror and sympathy.

Mr. Dootleby threw open his coat, tightened his grasp on his
walking-stick, and said, very quietly: "What are you doing?"

The fellow wheeled quickly around. He looked with intense malice at Mr.
Dootleby, and then shouted at one of the women, "Why didencher lock de
door like I toljer, you fool?"

Mr. Dootleby did not wait for either of these questions to be answered.
He sprang into action with all the agility and ferocity of a young
panther. The handle of his cane was a huge knob of carved ivory. He
brought it directly on the head of the ruffian in a blow of tremendous
force, and as the fellow staggered, Mr. Dootleby grasped the poker,
turning it so that its heated end touched his antagonist's arm. Of
course, the man loosened his hold, and in an instant more dropped upon
the floor. Then Mr. Dootleby, keenly alive to the necessity of improving
every second, caught the prostrate girl by the arm and threw her behind
him toward the open door. "Run for your life!" he said.

But she didn't run. She couldn't run, and while she was struggling to
get upon her feet, the fellow recovered himself and emitted a roar that
acted on her terrified soul as if it had been a blow. She fell
incontinently upon her back in a dead swoon.

Mr. Dootleby's situation was perilous. He had hoped by a sudden and
overwhelming attack to stun the man and get the girl out into the
street. But the man's quick recovery and the girl's exhaustion left him
in almost as bad a situation as ever, and he glanced apprehensively at
the party upon the benches.

They had scarcely stirred! One of the men, indeed, had risen, and was
standing with his hands in his pockets and something in the nature of an
amused smile upon his face. The others had so far shifted their
positions as to be the better able to see whatever went on, and only one
of them manifested the slightest desire to take a hand in the
proceedings. This was the little girl of twelve or fourteen. She was
intensely excited, and in the moment's pause that succeeded Mr.
Dootleby's onslaught she dashed across the room, and lifting the head of
the unconscious girl, rested it on her knee, and stroked it soothingly.

"Good for you, my child!" said Mr. Dootleby. "Try to bring her to."

The hideous old scoundrel, as he now turned again to confront Mr.
Dootleby, was more hideous than ever. Blood from the wound in his head
was trickling over his face, into which the fury of a legion of devils
was concentrated. "Sissy!" he bellowed, "go back to yer bench!"

"Don't do it, my child," said Mr. Dootleby. "You're all right. Run
outside if it gets too dangerous for you in here."

The fellow gathered himself together, evidently intending to dash past
Mr. Dootleby toward the bar beyond. But Mr. Dootleby lifted the poker
ominously. "Stand back!" he cried.

A slight chuckle came from the man who had risen from the bench. "Dey
don't seem ter be no flies on dis party, Pete!" he said, with a broad
grin.

Pete's answer was a scowl and an oath.

"W'y doncher come on, an' help me do him up?" he snorted.

"Wot ud be de use? I t'ink he kin get away wid you, Pete, an' I wanter
see de fun. He's chain lightnin', ole man, an' you better be sure of yer
holt."

"I'll give all dere is on him if you'll help, Dick!" said Pete.

Mr. Dootleby took his watch, his gold pencil, and a dollar or so in
change from his pockets, and tossed them toward Dick.

"That's all I've got," he said. "Now, let us alone."

Dick slid the coins in his pocket and carefully examined the gold watch.
"Dere's a good 'eal er sportin' blood in de old gen'l'man, Pete; a good
'eal er sportin' blood," he remarked, with the utmost cheerfulness.
"Bein' a sportin' man myself I ainter goin' back on a frien'."

"You're goin' back on your word fast enough!" said Pete bitterly.

"No, I aint. I toljer I wouldn't bodder you. I didn't guarantee nobody
else. You sed she was yourn, and you was goin' to make her promise to
quit young Swiggsy. I offered to match you five dollars agin de gurl,
an' I said if you was to win I wouldn't trouble you. You said if I
winned I could have her. All right. I lost, an' I give up my good money.
Den you went ter work wallopin' de gurl. You'd er kilt her if dis covey
hadn't er lit in. All right, dat wasn't no fault er mine. An' fur all
me, he kin stick dat blazin' iron clear down yer t'roat, an' I'll set
yere an' take it in widout winkin'."

Mr. Dootleby listened intently to this speech. It afforded him an
inkling of the situation.

"Is this girl your daughter?" he said.

Pete was in no humor to parley. He could only growl and swear. When he
had relieved himself without, enlightening Mr. Dootleby, Dick spoke
again.

"She ain't nobody's darter, ole gent, but he sez she's his gurl. She
been keepin' comp'ny wid young Swiggsy, an' she wont promise not ter.
Dat's de whole biznuss. De harder he walloped, de more she wouldn't
promise."

Mr. Dootleby felt in his arms the strength of a whole army corps. "Look
here," he said to Dick, "will you promise me fair play?"

"Dey wont nobody interfere widjer," Dick replied. "I'll be de empire,
an' I t'ink I kin referee a mill 'long er de bes'. Sail right in, ole
gent. The gurl stan's fer de di'mun' belt. If you knocks out yer man,
she's yourn. If he licks you, an' has any strength left, he kin go on
wid his wallopin'."

"Sissy's" soothing hand and the fresh air coming through the door had
brought back life into the girl's limp body. She was still weak and
prostrate, lying at full length on the floor, with her head supported
upon Sissy's shoulder.

She was a brilliant type of the ignorant and vicious population which
overflows the tenements in certain downtown districts and furnishes the
largest element in the city's criminal society. Her eyes were large, and
must have been, under better conditions, full of light and expression.

Even now, when great lumps, dark and burning with inflammation, stood
out upon her forehead, and heavy sashes of black circled her eyes, while
all the rest of her face was white and bloodless and cruelly distorted
with pain--even now there was a kind of beauty about her that gave her
rank above the class to which conditions, more forceful than laws,
condemned her.

Condemned? Yes, condemned; why not? What did she know of the science of
morals, of souls, or revelations, or higher laws? Who had ever mentioned
these things to her. What had she to do with questions of right and
wrong? What was right to her but gratification, or wrong but want? What
was passion but nature pent up, or crime but congested nature suddenly
set free?

She spoke a Christian tongue. She wore a Christian dress. Her heart
answered to the same emotions that quicken or deaden the beat of other
breasts. She had tears to shed, hopes to excite, passions to burn,
desires to gratify. Nature had denied her none of the faculties that
give beauty, and grace and dignity and sweetness to another. Even as she
lay stretched on the floor of a dive in the heart of a Christian city,
but remoter from influences that encourage the good and repress the bad
in her nature than if she were standing in the darkest jungle of
Africa--even there, degraded, ignorant, and infinitely wretched, she was
a martyr to the very virtues, truth and constancy, of which she knew the
least!

Some such reflections as these were flitting through Mr. Dootleby's mind
as he glanced down upon her, and then turned to his enraged antagonist,
who was standing ever alert for a chance to recover his victim.

"Look here," said Mr. Dootleby. "Let's come to terms about this affair.
You can see for yourself that the girl is half dead. You don't want to
kill her outright, I'm sure."

"'Tain't no biznuss of yourn if I do," the old man savagely replied.

"Maybe not. But cool off, now, and be reasonable. You'll be sorry enough
for what you've done already, and if you were to do more you'd have to
stand your trial for murder."

"'Twont be for murderin' her w'en I gits in de jug. But I'll murder you
if yer don't leave dis place right off."

"I'm not going to leave till I take her with me."

"Den you wont never leave alive."

Pete whipped a knife from his pocket and rushed at Mr. Dootleby,
intending to overwhelm him by a sudden and furious attack. The ivory
cane again came into action. It struck the muscular part of Pete's arm
just below the shoulder. The knife did not reach its destination, but it
inflicted an ugly wound in Mr. Dootleby's hand. Without noticing this,
he closed in on his foe, pouring all the resources of his powerful frame
into a dozen fierce and well-directed blows. The spectators upon the
benches, however indifferent while the brute had been maltreating a
defenseless girl, were now seized with a panic. Two of the men slunk out
into the street. The girls rushed to their rooms, threw on their coats
and street dresses, and escaped also. The battle continued for several
minutes, each man fighting, as he knew, for his life.

Pete was a great human beast. He was far stronger than Mr. Dootleby, but
not nearly so quick and dexterous. The blow on his right arm placed him
at a great disadvantage. Mr. Dootleby knew he could not fight long.
Every second drew heavily upon his vitality. But he made no useless
expenditure of his strength. His blows were intelligently directed
toward the accomplishment of a specific object in the disabling of his
enemy, and each of them did its appointed work. At last exposing himself
by a sudden lunge, Pete was thrown, and he did not rise. He was
unconscious.

So was Mr. Dootleby--almost. His head swam and he leaned heavily against
the wall for support. The blood was dripping from several ugly wounds,
but he revived as he heard Dick remark: "Dat was a beauterful mill. All
right. Bein' a sportin' man myself, I t'ink I knows a good mill w'en I
sees one. De di'mun' belt, ole man, is yourn. All right. Hello! W'y,
where's de trophy gone?"

Mr. Dootleby opened his one available eye, and saw that the only persons
in the room were himself, his beaten enemy, and Dick.

"What's this mean?" he cried. "You pledged your word on fair dealings."

Dick called on all the saints to witness that he did not know where the
girl had gone. "De whole crowd cleared out," he said, "w'en de hustlin'
begun. But she can'ter gone fur. I reckon if you go out in de street
you'll fin' her and de kid wot's helpin' her around somewheres. I'll
sponge off Pete, an' try ter patch up wot's lef' of him. All right."

Mr. Dootleby was not slow to act upon this suggestion. He bent over the
still prostrate Pete and tried to ascertain if his pulse was beating. It
not being immediately apparent whether it was or not, and Mr. Dootleby
not caring about it a great deal anyhow, he caught up his hat and coat
and hurried away.

Sissy was watching for him from behind a tree across the street, and she
came toward him running.

"Maggie's in de alley, sir, yonder by de lamp, layin' dere an' moanin',
an' I t'ink dey's sumpin' wrong wid her," said Sissy.

She led him to the spot beyond which they had not been able to escape,
where Maggie was lying with the light from the street lamp shining full
in her face. Her dress was torn at the neck, for she had not been
costumed as the others were, and the cold, wintry night-air was blowing
on her bare throat and breast. Her big eyes had lost their dimness, and
were blazing with a fire kindled by a wild imagination. Mr. Dootleby
took off his hat and knelt upon the alley stones, and threw his arms
around her shoulders, supporting her. She looked through him at some one
not present but beyond.

"I didn't do it, Swiggsy, an' he couldn't 'a' made me if he'd burned my
eyes out like he said he was goin' to!" she whispered faintly. "But he
used me rough, Swiggsy, an' I'm--just--a little--bit--tired."

"Good God in Heaven!" murmured Mr. Dootleby, "look upon this wavering
soul in Thy full compassion. She is tired, so very, very tired."

"And, Swiggsy, let's go somewheres where he can't fin' me, cause I'm
fearful of him. An' you'll get steady work, Swiggsy, tendin' bar, an'
then--"

She closed her eyes, and for several moments lay silent and still.

"Swiggsy--"

The sound was faint now, and Mr. Dootleby bent low to catch it.

"I suspicion something ails me in my side, an' I'm falling, falling,
falling---- Ketch me, Swiggsy, hold me--I'm honest wid you, don't you
know it. Tell me so, and say it loud, so's I can hear. I'll be good to
you when I get--rested."

[Illustration: STARS OF THE NIGHT, ARE YOU WATCHING HERE?]

The street is empty. Not a sound is heard. Not a footfall. Not a voice.
The world is sleeping, dreaming of its own ambitions. Stars of the
night, are you watching here?

"You said you t'ought I was pretty, Swiggsy, an' it made me so glad an'
happy, 'cause I wants you to think I'm pretty--ah! where are you going!
Come back! come back! come back! Don't leave me all alone, please,
please don't, for I'm falling again, fast, faster all the time, an' I'll
soon fall--"

She opened her eyes wide--wider than ever. She looked into Mr.
Dootleby's face and smiled. She lifted her hand and dropped it heavily
into his. Her head dropped on his shoulder. She had fallen--out of human
sight!




V.

THE HON. DOYLE O'MEAGHER.


At this particular moment the Hon. Doyle O'Meagher is a busy man.
Tammany Hall's nominating convention is shortly to be held, and Mr.
O'Meagher is putting the finishing touches upon the ticket which he has
decided that the convention shall adopt. The ticket, written down upon a
sheet of paper, is before him, together with a bottle of whisky and a
case of cigars, and the finishing touches consist of little pencil-marks
placed opposite the candidates' names, indicating that they have visited
Mr. O'Meagher and have duly paid over their several campaign
assessments--a preliminary formality which Mr. O'Meagher enforces with
strict impartiality. The amount of each assessment depends entirely upon
Mr. O'Meagher's sense of the fitness of things. To dispute Mr.
O'Meagher's sense in this particular is looked upon as treason and
rebellion. In the case of the Hon. Thraxton Wimples, the intended
candidate for the Supreme Court, the assessment is $20,000.

Mr. Wimples is a little man of profound learning and ancient lineage.
Mr. O'Meagher is a man of indifferent learning and no lineage to speak
of. Mr. Wimples's grandfather had signed the Declaration of
Independence, and had moved on three separate occasions that the
Continental Congress do now adjourn, while no reason whatever existed,
other than the one most obvious but least apt to occur to any one, for
supposing that Mr. O'Meagher had ever had a grandfather at all. And yet,
as Mr. Wimples, though on the threshold of great dignity and power,
walks into Mr. O'Meagher's presence, he find himself all of a tremble,
and glows and chills chase each other up and down his spinal column.

"Ah, Mr. O'Meagher," he says, "good-morning! Good-morning! Happy to see
you so--er--well. Charming day, so warm for the--er--season."

"Yes," says Mr. O'Meagher, "so it be."

"I received your notification of the high--er--honor, you propose to
confer on me."

"Yes," says Mr. O'Meagher, "you're the man for the place."

"So kind of you to--er--say so. You mentioned that the--er--assessment
was--"

"Twenty thousand dollars," says Mr. O'Meagher, with great promptness.

[Illustration: "JUST SO," SAYS MR. WIMPLES, "JUST SO."]

"Just so," says Mr. Wimples, "just so."

"And you've called to pay it," says Mr. O'Meagher, taking up his list
and his pencil. "I've been expecting you."

"Ah, yes, to be sure, of course. I was going to propose
a--er--settlement."

"A what?" says Mr. O'Meagher sharply.

Mr. Wimples mops his brow. "The fact is," he says, "I don't happen to
have so considerable a sum as $20,000 at the--er--moment, and I was
thinking of suggesting that I just pay you, say, $10,000 down, and give
you two--er--notes."

"'Twont do," says Mr. O'Meagher, shaking his head and fetching his
pencil down upon the table with a smart tap, "'twont do at all."

"Eh? Indorsed, you know, by--"

"Mr. Wimples, that $20,000 in hard cash must be in my hands by six
o'clock to-night, or your name goes off the ticket."

"O--er--Lud!" says Mr. Wimples, sadly.

"By six P. M."

"But, my dear Mr. O'Meagher--"

"Or your name goes off the ticket."

Mr. Wimples groaned, grasped the whisky bottle, poured out a copious
draught, tossed it down his throat, bowed meekly, and withdrew. In the
vestibule he met the Hon. Perfidius Ruse, the Mayor of the city, whose
term of office was about to expire, and as to whose renomination there
was going on a heated controversy. Mr. Ruse was a reformer. It was as a
reformer that he had been elected two years before. At that time Mr.
O'Meagher found himself menaced by a strange peril. It had been alleged
by jealous enemies that he was corrupt, and they called loudly for
reform. At first, Mr. O'Meagher experienced some difficulty in
understanding what was meant by corrupt and what by reform. His mission
in life, as he understood it, was to name the individuals who should
hold the city's offices and to control their official acts in the
interest of Tammany Hall, and he had great difficulty in comprehending
how it could be anybody's business that he had grown rich performing his
mission. But perceiving that a large and dangerous class of voters was
clamoring for a reformer, he concluded to humor it if he could find a
good safe reformer on whom he could rely. In this emergency he had
produced the Hon. Perfidius Ruse.

It cannot be said that Mr. O'Meagher regarded the Ruse experiment as
entirely satisfactory. Mr. Ruse had certainly reformed several things,
and with considerable adroitness and skill, but there were many who said
that his reforms had all been made with an eye single to the glory of
the Hon. Perfidius Ruse, and with a view to the establishment of a
personal influence hostile to the man who made him. The time had now
come for the test of strength. Concerning his ultimate intentions, the
Hon. Doyle O'Meagher was cold, silent, and reserved.

"How are you, Mr. Mayor?" said the crestfallen Mr. Wimples, as he came
upon the reformer in the vestibule. "Going up to see the--er--Boss?"

"I was thinking of it, yes. How's he feeling?"

"Ugly. He's in a dev'lish uncompromising--er--humor. If you were going
to ask anything of him I advise you to--er, not."

"Thank you. I only intend to suggest some matters in the interest of
reform."

"I wish you well. But--er--go slow."

Mr. O'Meagher did not rise to greet his distinguished visitor. He simply
drew a chair close to his own, poured out a glass of whisky, and said,
"Hello!"

"I thought I'd just drop in, Mr. O'Meagher," said the Mayor, "to say a
word or two about the situation. What are the probabilities?"

"As regards which?"

"H'm, well, the nominations?"

[Illustration: "WHO CAN TELL?" EJACULATED MR. O'MEAGHER.]

"Who can tell," ejaculated Mr. O'Meagher. "Who can tell? What is more
uncertain, Mr. Ruse, than the action of a nominating convention?"

"To be sure," responded Mr. Ruse. "What, indeed?" Whereupon each
statesman looked at the other out of the corners of his eyes.

"There's only one thing I care about," continued Mr. Ruse, "and that is
reform. If my successor is a reformer, I shall be satisfied."

"Make yourself easy," replied Mr. O'Meagher. "He'll be a reformer. I've
been paying some attention during the last two years to the education of
our people in the matter of reform. My success has been flattering. I
think I can truthfully say now that Tammany Hall has a reformer ready
for every salary paid by the city, and that there's no danger of our
stock of reformers giving out as long as the salaries last."

Mr. Ruse hesitated a moment, as if reflecting how he should take these
observations. Finally he laughed in a feeble way and said, "Good, yes,
very." Then he added, "But, speaking seriously, I do feel that my duty
to the public requires me to exert all the influence I have for the
protection of reform."

"I feel the same way," said Mr. O'Meagher, "exactly the same way. I'm
just boiling over with enthusiasm for reform."

"Then our sympathies and desires are common. Now, if I could feel sure
that I ought to run again in the interest of reform--"

"You've done so much already," Mr. O'Meagher hastily put in, "you've
sacrificed so heavily that I don't think it would be fair to ask it of
you."

"N-no," said the Mayor, dubiously, "I suppose it wouldn't, now, would
it?"

"Of course not."

"And yet I don't like to run away from the call, so to speak, of duty."

"Don't be worried about that."

"But I am worried, O'Meagher. I can't help it. By every mail I am
receiving hundreds of letters from the best citizens of New-York, urging
me to let my name be used. Deputations wait on me constantly with the
same request, and, as you know, they are going to hold a mass-meeting
to-morrow night, and they threaten to nominate me, whether or no. What
can I do? I tell them I don't want to run, that my private business has
already suffered by neglect, but they answer imploring me not to desert
the cause of reform just when it needs me most. It is very
embarrassing."

"Very," said Mr. O'Meagher. "It's astonishing how thoughtless people
are. But they wouldn't be so hard on you if they knew how you were
fixed."

"That's just it. They don't know, and I don't want to appear selfish."

Mr. O'Meagher coughed, not because he needed to cough, but for want of
something better to do.

"The Tammany ticket," Mr. Ruse continued, "will be hotly opposed this
year, and I'm bound to say that I don't think it is sufficiently
identified with reform. They tell me you are going to nominate Wimples
for the Supreme Court. Wimples is a good lawyer, but he has no reform
record. Neither has Colonel Bellows, whom you talk of for
District-Attorney. McBoodle for Sheriff does not appeal to reformers.
Bierbocker for Register might get the German vote, but how could
reformers support a common butcher? I don't know whom you think of for
my place, but it seems to me that there's only one way to save your
ticket from defeat and that is to indorse the candidate for Mayor
presented by the citizens' mass-meeting to-morrow night. That would make
success certain. The public would praise your noble fidelity to reform,
and you'd sweep the city! Think of it, Mr. O'Meagher! What a glorious,
what a golden opportunity!"

"My eyes are as wide open as the next man's for golden opportunities,
Mr. Ruse," replied Mr. O'Meagher. "But the question is, who will be
nominated."

"Well, 'hem! of course I can't definitely say. I'm trying to get them to
take some new man. But if they should insist on nominating me, I'm
afraid I'd have to--h'm, what--what do you think I'd have to do?"

"Well, being a pious man and a reformer, I should think you'd at least
have to pray over it."

The Hon. Perfidius Ruse gave a keen, quick glance at the Hon. Doyle
O'Meagher, and slightly frowned.

"I should certainly consider it with care," he said stiffly.

"So should I."

"Is that all you will say?"

"No, I'll say more," and he picked up the sheet of paper on which he had
written the names of the Tammany candidates. "Look here," he continued.
"This is my list of nominees. The space for the head of the ticket is
still blank. I have not told any one whom I mean to present for the
Mayoralty, but I will promise you now to insert there the name of the
man nominated by your Citizens' meeting to-morrow night."

"Whoever he may be?"

"Whoever he may be."

"And I may rely on that?"

[Illustration: "I SHOULD CERTAINLY CONSIDER IT WITH CARE," HE SAID
STIFFLY.]

"Did I ever tell you anything you couldn't rely on?"

"No."

"All right. Good-by."

They shook hands, and Mr. Ruse departed wearing an expansive smile. As
he left the room, Mr. O'Meagher smiled also and picked up his pen. "I
may as well fill in the name now," he said softly, "and save time," and
with great precision he proceeded to write: "For Mayor, the Hon. Doyle
O'Meagher. Assessed in the sum of--" but there he stopped. "We'll
consider that later," he said.

The personal history of the Hon. Doyle O'Meagher strikingly proves how
slight an influence is exerted in this young republic by social prestige
and vulgar wealth, and how inevitably certain are the rewards of virtue,
industry, and ability. I am credibly told that Mr. O'Meagher first
opened his eyes in a little ten by twelve earth cabin in the County
Kerry, Ireland, though I can not profess to have seen the cabin. Being
from his earliest youth of a reflective disposition, he became
impressed, when but a small lad, with the conviction that thirteen
people, three pigs, seven chickens, and five ducks formed too numerous a
population for a cabin of those dimensions. In the silent watches of the
night, with his head on a duck and a pig on his stomach, he had
frequently revolved this idea in his young but apt mind, and at last,
though not in any spirit of petulance, he formed the resolution which
gave shape and purpose to his later career.

He had communicated to his father his peculiar views about the crowded
condition of the cabin.

"Begob, Doyley, me bye," the old man had replied, "Oi've bin thinkin' o'
that. Whin the ould sow litters, Doyley, it's sore perplexhed we'll be
fer shlapin' room. Divil a wan o' me knows how fer to sarcumvint the
throuble widout we takes you, Doyley, an' the young pigs, an' shtrings
ye all up o' nights ferninst the wall."

Doyle waited developments with a heavy heart, and when they came and he
found that it required all the fingers on both his hands wherewith to
calculate their number, he took down his hat, dashed the unbidden tear
from his eyes, and made the best of his way to Queenstown.

The opportunity is not here afforded for an extended review of the
stages of progress by which Mr. O'Meagher, having landed in New York,
finally secured almost a sovereign influence in its municipal affairs,
and yet they are too interesting to justify their entire omission. He
first won a place in the hearts of the American people by discovering
to them his wonderful fistic attainments. From small and unnoted rings,
he steadily and grandly rose until the newspapers overflowed with the
details of his battles with the eminent Mr. Muldoon, with Four-Fingered
Jake, with the Canarsie Bantam, with Billy the Beat, and with other
equally distinguished gentlemen of equally portentous titles, and at
last none was to be found capable of withstanding the onslaught of the
aroused Mr. O'Meagher. When he went forth in dress-array, belts and
buckles and chains and plates of gold armored him from head to heel, and
diamonds as large as pigeons' eggs blazed resplendently from every
available nook and corner all over his muscular expanse.

Mr. O'Meagher's retirement from the ring was rendered inevitable by the
fact that no one would enter it with him, and he found himself compelled
to employ his talents in other fields of labor. Reduced to this
extremity, he resolved to go into politics, and as an earnest of this
intention he fitted up a new and gorgeous saloon. It was a novelty in
its way, with its tiled floors, its decorated walls, its costly and
beautiful paintings, its rare tapestries, its statues in bronze and
marble, its heavy, oaken bar, and its pyramid of the finest cut
glass--and when he threw it open to the public he celebrated the
occasion by formally accepting a Tammany nomination for Congress.

In the halls of the National Legislature, Mr. O'Meagher soon let it be
known that he cared not who made the country's laws, so long as a fair
proportion of his constituents were supplied with places and pensions,
and his aggressive and successful championship of this principle soon
won for him a proud position in the councils of his party. He was a
friend of the common people, and the commoner the people the friendlier
he was, until, having clearly established his claims to leadership, in
obedience to the summons of his organization, he gave himself up to the
management of its destinies.

It was as the Boss of Tammany Hall that Mr. Doyle O'Meagher's genius
attained its largest and highest development. Notwithstanding the
opposition of rival factions engaged in bitter competition with Tammany,
Mr. O'Meagher contrived to let out the offices at larger commission
rates than Tammany had ever received before. Under no previous Boss had
Tammany's heelers enjoyed such vast opportunities for "business." It was
all in vain that envious and less-gifted bosses sought to undermine and
depose him. Steadily and courageously he pursued his policy of reducing
the labor of self-government to individual citizens until he had placed
their taxes at a maximum and their trouble at a minimum. They had but to
pay, Mr. O'Meagher did all the piping and all the dancing too.

He was in capital humor now as he dropped the pen with which he had
written his own name as that of the Mayoralty candidate for whom he had
finally decided to throw his important influence, and when a boy entered
with the information that Major Tuff was below, the Hon. Doyle O'Meagher
was actually whistling.

"Tuff," he said. "Good, I'm wanting Tuff. Send Tuff up."

Tuff entered. Tuff's hat was new and high and shiny. Tuff's hair was all
aglow with bear's grease. Tuff's eyes were small and snappy. Tuff's nose
was flat and wide and snubby. Tuff's cheeks were big and bony. Tuff's
cigar was long and black. Tuff's lips were thick and extensive. Tuff's
neck was huge and short. Tuff's coat was a heavy blue one that did for
an overcoat, too. Tuff wore diamonds as big as his knuckles. Tuff's
scarf was red. Tuff's waistcoat was yellow, and every color known to the
spectroscope was employed to make up Tuff's copious trousers.

"Well," said Tuff, "I'm on deck."

"Thank you, Major. How are things looking?"

"Dey couldn't be better. I got t'irty-six tenement houses wid at leas'
two hundered woters to de house. Dey's two t'ousan' Eyetalians, five
hunered niggers, more'n a t'ousan' Poles, and de res' is all kinds. An'
every dern one of em's eddicated!"

"Educated! Really, you don't mean it?"

[Illustration: "WELL," SAID TUFF, "I'M ON DECK."]

"Eddicated! You kin betcher boots. De performin' dogs in the circus aint
a patch to dem free and intelligent Amerikin citerzens. I got 'em
trained so dat at de menshun of de word 'reform' dey all busts out in
one gran' roar er ent'oosiasm. I had eight hunered of 'em a-practisin'
in de assembly rooms over Paddy Coogan's saloon las' night. I tole 'em
de louder dey yelled when I said de word 'reform' de more beer dey'd get
w'en de lectur was done. Some of 'em was disposed ter stick out for de
beer fust, an' said dey could do deir bes' shoutin' w'en dey was loaded.
But my princerple is work fust, den go ter de cashier. So I made 'em a
speech.

"I sez: 'Feller-citerzens: Dis is de lan' er de free an' de home er de
brav,' an' den I give a motion wot means 'stamp de feet.' Dey all
stamped like dey was clog-dancers. Den I cleared me t'roat an'
perceeded: 'Dis is de haven of de oppressed, de pore an' de unforchernit
from all shores.' I give de signal wot means cheers, an' dey yelled for
two minits. 'Dis is our berloved Ameriky!' sez I, 'where no tyrant's
heel is ever knowed,' sez I, 'where all men is ekal,' sez I, 'an' where
we, feller-citerzens, un'er de gallorious banner of REFORM--' an' at dat
word, dey all jes' got up on deir feet an' stamped, an' yelled, an'
waved deir hats an' coats till you'd er t'ought dey was a Legislatur' of
lunatics. Oh, I got 'em in good shape--doncher bodder about me."

"Ahem," said Mr. O'Meagher thoughtfully, as he cracked his finger-joints
and puffed on his cigar. "You've done well, Tuff, excellent. Ah, Tuff,
there's going to be a meeting in the Cooper Union to-morrow night. The
people that are getting it up--er, well, I'm afraid they're not very
friendly to me, Tuff. The doors open at seven. Now, do you think the
proceedings would be interesting enough to your friends for them to
attend in such numbers as will fill the hall, Tuff?"

"Say no more, Mr. O'Meagher, dey'll be dere."

"In large numbers, Tuff?"

"Dey'll jam de hall."

"Early, Tuff?"

"By half-past six."

"Good. I think you'll find the policemen on duty there very good
fellows. You might see me to-morrow morning, Tuff, and I'll have
something for you."




VI.

THE HON. DOYLE O'MEAGHER.

(CONCLUDED.)


All bedecked with light and all ablaze with color, the Cooper Union was
fast filling up with the friends of Reform. So enormous had the crowds
in Astor Place become that, although the hour was early, Colonel
Sneekins had wisely concluded to wait no longer, but at once to let them
in. They poured through the wide doorways in abundant streams, while
Colonel Sneekins led the superb brass band of the 7th Regiment, done up
in startling uniforms and carrying along with it a tremendous battery of
horns and drums, to its place in the gallery.

Colonel Machiavelli Sneekins sustained an important relation to the
Reform movement, and at this Grand Rally of Non-Partisan Citizens in the
Interest of Reform, he had, with great propriety, selected himself to be
Master of Ceremonies. Colonel Sneekins was a non-partisan citizen. He
looked upon partisanship as the curse of the Republic, and in his more
enthusiastic moments had declared that if he could have his way about
it, any man so hopelessly dead to the nobler impulses of the human heart
as to confess himself a partisan should be declared guilty of a felony
and confined for a proper period of years at hard labor. What the
country called for, according to Colonel Sneekins, was Reform. The first
step in bringing about the triumph of Reform was to put all the offices
in the hands of Reformers. If the public wished to intoxicate its eyes
with the spectacle of the kind of men who would then administer the
Government, it had but to look upon him. He was a Reformer. As a
Reformer he was in possession of a lucrative municipal office, wherein
he was mightily prospering, and which for the honor and glory of Reform
he was willing to retain.

Colonel Sneekins was the leading spirit of this citizens' movement. He
had prepared the call of the meeting. He had obtained the 1500
signatures now appended to it, representing estimable business men who,
in observing that useful maxim of trade, "We strive to please," esteemed
it one of their functions to sign all the petitions that came along.
Colonel Sneekins had hired the hall and the band; had made up from the
City Directory a formidable list of Vice-Presidents and Secretaries; had
secured the orators, and finally had arranged for the attendance of a
sufficient audience. In perfecting these details he had had the valuable
assistance of other distinguished Reformers and non-partisan citizens.
Editor Hacker, of _The New York Daily Sting_, had boomed the movement
with great zeal and effectiveness. General Divvy, the ex-Governor of
South Carolina, who had grown wealthy reforming that State and had
thereafter naturally come to be regarded as an authority on all matters
connected with reform, had written an earnest letter commending the
rally as one of the most important steps that had ever been taken in the
direction of pure and frugal government. The Rev. Dr. Lillipad Froth,
from his pulpit in the Memorial Church of the Sacred Vanities, had taken
occasion to say that great results to the community might be expected
from the success of this patriotic enterprise, and ex-Congressman Van
Shyster, being interviewed by a reporter of _The Sting_, after
expressing his unqualified opinion that all political parties were
utterly corrupt and abandoned, whereof his opportunity of judging had
certainly been excellent, since he had suffered numerous defeats as the
candidate of each of them successively, emphatically declared that he
saw no hope for the city except in the cause this meeting was called to
foster.

No definite purpose had been expressed in the published call as to what
should be done at the Rally, but Colonel Sneekins's plans were fully
matured. The Hon. Doyle O'Meagher, the Boss of Tammany Hall, had
promised that his organization should indorse for the office of Mayor
the nominee presented by the Reformers. As to the identity of their
candidate there was but one mind among the Reformers. Who should he be
but that champion of Reform, the Hon. Perfidius Ruse? Mr. Ruse was not
an experiment. He had already served as the City's Chief Magistrate, and
had filled many remunerative offices with Reformers. Being of a modest
and retiring disposition, he was now holding aloof from the honors
sought to be thrust upon him. He had begged his friends to take some new
candidate, he had pleaded his well-known dislike of office and the
pressing demands of his private affairs. But, nevertheless, zealous as
he was in the Reform cause, he had consented to furnish a delegation of
500 citizens from his morocco factories in Hoboken to swell the Grand
Rally in the Cooper Union, and had given his friend, Colonel Sneekins,
an ample check wherewith to procure portraits and pamphlets presenting
to the public the features and the services of the Hon. Perfidius Ruse.
It was Colonel Sneekins's intention totally to disregard Mr. Ruse's
plea for rest from official cares, and as he now from behind the wings
contemplated the great crowd that was surging into the Cooper Union, he
rubbed his hands and gleamed his teeth with such intensity of emotion
that the Rev. Dr. Lillipad Froth, who was standing near by, felt his
flesh a-creeping.

It was certainly an extraordinary crowd. It had assembled almost in an
instant. Scarcely had the policemen taken their places at the doors of
the Cooper Union when a bulky, variegated young man stepped up to one of
them.

"Hello!" he said.

"Hello, Meejor," responded the officer.

"When'll yer open de door?"

"Air ye wantin' t' git in, Meejor?"

"Doncher know I got a gang to-night?"

"So ye have, Meejor, so ye have. Oi was hearin' about it, av coorse.
It's the Tim Tuff Assowseashun, aint it?"

"Now, looker yere!" said Tuff sharply, "Aincher got no orders 'bout dis
meetin'?"

"Oi have that, Meejor. Oi was towld that you an' some friends av yourn
moight be a-wantin' seats, an' Oi was ter see that ye got 'em."

[Illustration: HE RUBBED HIS HANDS AND GLEAMED HIS TEETH.]

"Dat's all right, den. Me an' my frien's 'll be along in about ten
minutes, an' dey'll be enough of us ter fill de hall, an' dere's one
t'ing yer wants ter keep in yer head, and dat's dis--ef me an' my
frien's don't get a chance ter jam dis house before anybody else is
'lowed inside de door, de Hon'able Doyle O'Meagher 'll be wantin' ter
know de reason why!"

Having thus delivered himself Tuff sauntered down the Bowery, and
presently from all points of the compass a tremendous rabble began to
pour into Astor Place and to mass itself in front of the Cooper Union.
Tuff himself reappeared in a few moments, and when Colonel Sneekins gave
the signal for the doors to be opened Tuff and his friends took easy and
complete possession of the house.

Meanwhile the Hon. Perfidius Ruse stood in a little room at the rear of
the stage receiving the invited guests of the occasion. Mr. Pickles, the
well-known Broome Street grocer, assumed a look of intense morality and
importance, as the Mayor asked him how he did and expressed his
gratification at seeing the honored name of Pickles--a power in the
commercial world--enrolled among the friends of reform. The appearance
of General Divvy put the Mayor in quite a flutter, and when the General
told him that he positively must consent to run again, and that he was
the only hope of the Reformers, the Mayor was much affected.

"I fear I am," he replied, with a mournful shake of the head, as much as
to say what a commentary that was on the absence of virtue in public
life.

Editor Hacker was equally earnest in his appeals. He said the Mayor must
come right out, and referred to a conversation he had had with the
President only last week, in which the President had confidentially said
he was as much in favor of Reform as ever. Dr. Punk, who stands at the
very head of the medical profession, informed the Rev. Lillipad Froth
that it was his deliberate opinion, should Mr. Ruse desert them in this
crisis, all would be over. Something like dismay was created by the
ominous remark of ex-Congressman Van Shyster that others might do as
they pleased, but as for him, his mind was made up. At this critical
juncture the Hon. Erastus Spiggott, the orator of the evening,
opportunely arrived, and upon being told that Mr. Ruse was still
hesitating, he boldly declared that the only thing to do was to take the
bull by the horns. Fired by the cheers elicited by this observation, he
proceeded to say that the occasion which had brought together the large
and representative body of citizens assembled in the hall beyond, and
waiting only for the opportunity to indorse the wise and safe and
honorable administration of Mayor Ruse (loud cheers) and to place him
again in nomination, would live in history. (Cries of "good! good!")
That vast and intelligent audience was not there to record the edict of
corrupt and selfish bosses, but as thoughtful, independent, and
patriotic citizens, free from the shackles of partisanship (loud
applause), they had come together to promote the honor and the
prosperity of this imperial metropolis.

Mr. Spiggott was entirely satisfied that among them there was no
division of sentiment as to the course that should be pursued to secure
this noble end. They knew as well as he, as well as any of the gentlemen
about him now, that the Reform cause stood in peril of but one
misfortune--the retirement of the great, unselfish, popular, and devoted
man who had already led the Reformers to victory. (Rapturous applause.)
He did not fail to appreciate the modesty that led Mr. Ruse to
undervalue his magnificent services to the city. He could well
understand his (Mr. Ruse's) desire to return to his counting-room and
his fireside free of the burdens and anxieties incident to a great
trust. But--and here Mr. Spiggott's bosom swelled and his eyes flashed
with a noble fire--he was not here to-night to consider Mr. Ruse's
feelings and wishes; he was here, as they all were, in the discharge of
a public duty. (Cheers.) That duty required of Mr. Ruse an act of
self-sacrifice. He must accept the nomination. He could not, he would
not dare desert the Banner of Reform. (Cheers.)

Mr. Spiggott paused, wiped his brow and his eyeglasses, and continued.
He might say in this small and select company of Reformers what it might
be imprudent to assert later in the evening, when he came to address the
great assembly in the outer hall, that the outcome of this meeting was
being keenly watched by the spoilsmen. They were a cunning and sagacious
lot. The one thing they most dreaded was the very thing this meeting was
going to do. He had the best reasons for knowing that Boss O'Meagher
mightily desired to nominate a candidate of his own at the Tammany Hall
convention. Who had been selected by this unprincipled partisan, this
arrogant and odious dictator (loud and long applause), he did not know.
But he was certain to be a partisan, a spoilsman, a tool of Tammany Hall
and its corrupt boss. Mr. Ruse's nomination to-night would deal a deadly
blow to that plot. Tammany Hall would not dare risk the defeat of its
entire ticket by nominating a candidate against the Hon. Perfidius Ruse.
(Immense enthusiasm.) Indeed, Mr. Spiggott had reason to believe that
Boss O'Meagher, cunning trickster that he was, would seek to avail
himself of Mr Ruse's popularity and would indorse the nominee of this
meeting. Under these circumstances it was folly to think of permitting
Mr. Ruse to retire. (Cheers.) It could not be done.

[Illustration: "OF THIS IMPERIAL METROPOLIS."]

Mr. Ruse was deeply affected by these remarks, and at their conclusion
he touched his handkerchief to his eyes and said he did not think it
would be right for him to resist any longer. Thereupon Colonel Sneekins,
in a tone of voice that highly distressed the nerves of the Rev.
Lillipad Froth, cried out "Hurrah!" and forthwith led the way from the
little dressing-room in which they were assembled out upon the stage.

The Reformers had been so busy bolstering up the shrinking nature of Mr.
Ruse that they had given small heed to the enormous concourse of
citizens in the hall. Indeed, Colonel Sneekins, having ascertained that
it would be sufficient in point of numbers for the purposes of a "grand
rally," had not bestowed a further thought upon it, so that when he and
his vice-presidents and his distinguished guests finally got upon the
stage and began to look about them, the spectacle that met their eyes
was as unexpected as it was bewildering. From the reporters' tables to
the remotest recesses of the gallery the hall was packed tight with a
motley mob, in which the element of born cut-throats largely
predominated. It was the kind of crowd that could only have been
gathered from the three-cent lodging-houses in Chatham Street. A dense
volume of tobacco smoke, produced from pipes and demoralized
cigar-stumps, choked the room. The evening being rather warm, all
surplus clothing had been disposed of, and so far as could be observed
through the hazy atmosphere, the audience was attired only in shirts. In
one sense it was a highly representative audience. It represented every
nation and every clime on the face of the earth. Had it been selected
for the purpose of showing the cosmopolitan character of the population
in the tenement-house district surrounding Chatham Square, it could not
have been more picturesque. Bristle-bearded Russians and Poles,
heavy-bearded Italians, dark-visaged Hungarians, and every other manner
of unwashed man had been drawn into this Grand Rally of Non-Partisan
Citizens in the Interest of Reform.

Colonel Sneekins looked aghast at General Divvy, and whispered hoarsely,
"There's been a mistake!" Drawing Mr. Spiggott, Editor Hacker, and
ex-Congressman Van Shyster about them, a hurried consultation took
place. It was quickly decided that retreat was now impossible and that
the meeting must go on. They were assisted in coming to this conclusion
by the chorus of lively and altogether friendly apostrophes that came
from the audience in cries of "Wot's de matter wid Reform? Oh, _it's_
all right!"

"Let's go right ahead," said Editor Hacker. "This is a democracy, and it
is not for us to assume that even the humblest citizen lacks lofty
aspirations."

Colonel Sneekins thereupon advanced to the footlights, and was greatly
reassured by the hearty applause which his appearance evoked.

"Gentlemen!" he said, and immediately a storm of cheers arose, delaying
for several minutes his further utterance. "It affords me pleasure to
propose as your chairman to-night the Hon. Cockles V. Divvy."

[Illustration: THE HON. COCKLES V. DIVVY.]

General Divvy came forward, and as he bowed and smiled in answer to the
wild welcome he received, the band played a few bars from "Captain
Jinks." When quiet had been restored, the General said that this was the
proudest moment of his life. He should not venture, however, to make a
speech. The occasion was one that called for a power of eloquence he
could never hope to attain. (Cheers.) He would, however, advert for one
brief moment (more cheers) to the significance of this great assembly.
He was rejoiced to see so representative a gathering of intelligent
citizens, drawn from every walk of life, brought here to consider how
best to fix and establish upon the government of the city the great
principle of Reform!

The roar of applause that greeted this declaration was simply deafening.
For full five minutes the audience cheered and shouted, while Sneekins
opened his lips and gleamed his teeth with such vigor as to compel the
Rev. Dr. Lillipad Froth to take a more distant chair.

General Divvy called upon Editor Hacker to read the resolutions, which
Mr. Hacker, having procured them from Mr. Ruse a moment before, at once
proceeded to do. The first resolution, being a declaration in favor of
Reform, was instantly carried. The second, which indorsed Major Ruse's
administration, was likewise put through with entire unanimity. The
third declared that this meeting of non-partisan citizens, anxious to
continue to the city the unexampled prosperity it had enjoyed for the
past two years, hereby placed in nomination for a second term the Hon.
Perfidius Ruse; whereupon, to the horror and dismay of the Reformers,
from all parts of the hall came a deafening roar of protesting "noes!"

[Illustration: EDITOR HACKER READS THE RESOLUTIONS.]

In an instant confusion and uproar possessed the house. General Divvy
pounded the desk before him frantically and screamed for order until he
was black in the face. Above all the din arose the shrill shout of
Colonel Sneekins, as he called upon the police to clear the room. In the
body of the house men were shaking their fists and waving their hats and
coats, and calling, "O'Meagher! O'Meagher! 'Rah fer O'Meagher!" So
unbounded was their enthusiasm for O'Meagher, so unanimous and
determined were they to listen to nothing but O'Meagher, and so fierce
and bloodthirsty did their devotion to O'Meagher appear to make them,
that General Divvy, warned by the sudden contact of a projected cabbage
with his mallet, ceased at once to hammer and picked up his hat and
coat. The Reformers about him accepted this as the signal of retreat,
and they fled precipitately through the door at the rear of the stage.
Of them all only four tarried in the wings, Ruse, Sneekins, Divvy, and
Hacker; and as they grasped each other's hands in sorrow and sympathy,
they saw the stalwart figure of Major Tuff mount the stage. Immediately
the hall was quiet.

"Gents!" said Tuff. "Fer reasons dat I don't see an' derefore can't
explain, our leaders 'pear ter hev deserted us and ter hev left dis
gran' rally of non-partisan citizens in de int'rust of Reform (cheers)
in de lurch. Dis is werry unforchernit, but we, as Reformers, must hump
ourselves ter meet de crisis. I nomernate fer Mayor of New York de Hon.
Doyle O'Meagher! Long may he wave!"

A cyclone of cheers swept the hall, and as it echoed and re-echoed
around them, the four stranded Reformers betook themselves away.
"O'Meagher said he would accept the nominee of this meeting as the
candidate of Tammany Hall," said Mr. Ruse sadly, "and I guess he'll keep
his word."




VII.

MR. GALLIVANT.


Bright and gay was the smile of Mr. Juniper Gallivant. Merry and artless
was the flash of his bright blue eyes. Brisk and chipper was the step at
which his dainty feet bore him along Broadway. Warm and impulsive was
the grasp of his hand.

Mr. Gallivant was a young man, surely not over forty. He was a little
fellow with just the slightest perceptible tendency toward stoutness. He
could say more words in a minute than any other man in New York, and he,
at least, always believed what he said.

Most men, I suppose, believe in themselves, and largely for the reason
that most men are but superficially acquainted with themselves. But Mr.
Gallivant had been on terms of long and ardent intimacy with himself,
and the implicit trust he placed in his own words was therefore as
surprising as it was beautiful.

Mr. Gallivant was born a gentleman and educated a lawyer. He had an
office in the Equitable Building, and, during his periods of ill-luck,
a large and paying clientage. For it was only when luck was against him
that he consented to practice at his profession. When it was known that
he was in distressed circumstances, clients flocked to him in large
numbers. Other less eloquent attorneys retained him to try their cases
for them. He had business in plenty.

But when fortune favored him, Mr. Gallivant didn't bother with musty old
law books. Not much. He spent all his time spending his money. He had
the most novel and ingenious ideas on the subject of loafing. He loafed
scientifically, and with great enthusiasm. He put his soul into it, and
when Mr. Gallivant's soul got into anything it straightway began to hum.
Mr. Gallivant's soul was in many respects similar to a Corliss engine.

Just now, Mr. Gallivant was in very poor circumstances--a condition of
things all the more hardly felt because it succeeded, and succeeded
suddenly, upon a period of bewildering prosperity. Early in the year
1888 it was observed that Mr. Gallivant's dark red mustaches were
curling away at the ends with a lightness and vivacity that they only
displayed when things were going well. The quality of the curl in the
ends of his mustaches invariably indicated to his friends the state of
the market. They could tell exactly whether stocks were up or down and
how much so. The sensitive rhododendron is not more surely responsive to
the temperature of its environment than was the curl in Mr. Gallivant's
mustaches to the tale of the ticker.

In no other way, mark you, did he reveal his interest in the Street and
its doings. By not a single quaver was the cheeriness of his snatchy,
racy, merry voice affected. By not the fraction of an inch nor a second
was his gay little trot altered. But when the ends of his mustache stood
out straight, his friends, no matter how slight was their acquaintance
with financial matters, knew they were safe in concluding that the
country was going to the dogs, while, on the other hand, when those same
mustaches finished off in a sprightly little twist, the fact that we
were living under a wise and beneficent dispensation was too clear for
argument.

Early in 1888, as I said before, Mr. Gallivant's mustaches began to
curl. They became elastic. They twisted themselves this way and that in
graceful good-humor. They twined themselves lovingly about his nose and
danced in constant ecstasy. Mr. Gallivant's office in the Equitable
Building saw less and less of him. He left his lodgings in Harlem and
took a suite of large and beautiful apartments in a fashionable hotel.
Every afternoon he drove a pair of superb black horses over the
Boulevard and through the Park. All his friends were happy. They asked
and it was given them. He lavished diamond buttons and scarf-pins among
them as if he were a prince and they were pugilists. He got up a party
and made a palace-car excursion to the Yellowstone Park. He purchased a
stock-farm in California. He hired a steam yacht and cruised in the
Baltic. From the middle of March until the end of September he used the
world as if it were his.

But then, a change came o'er the spirit of his red mustaches. They
ceased to sport about his nose. They were distinctly less playful than
they had been, and by degrees they became positively stiff. In the mean
time, Mr. Gallivant had returned to his law office. He had also gone
back to live in Harlem, and one night last December he shut himself in
his room--a hall bed-chamber on the third floor, rear--sat himself upon
the only chair at hand, stretched his legs in front of him, thrust his
hands in his pockets, and murmured:

"I feel curiously like writing an essay on the 'Vanity of Human Wishes'!

"Let me see, let me see," he continued in a ruminating tone, "what's to
be done?"

[Illustration: "LET ME SEE--WHAT'S TO BE DONE?"]

He ran his hands through his pockets and produced a handful of change.
Inspired by this success he rose and went to the closet and continued
his search through a choice collection of coats, waistcoats, and
trowsers that hung upon its hooks. "Nine dollars and seventy-six cents!"
he said, when he had counted the proceeds of his investigation. "Well,
I've had a great variety of ups and downs in my short but checkered
career, but I never thought the sum total of my cash assets would be
expressed in nine dollars and seventy-six cents! After all, life is but
an insubstantial pageant, so I think I'll take a pony of brandy and go
to bed."

The next day Mr. Gallivant was at his office bright and early. His face
shone with its perennial radiance, but his mustache told a cheerless
tale. Mr. Gallivant had a number of principles. That which led all the
rest was his steadfast refusal to borrow money. He sat down to the
contemplation of ways and means, therefore, without the usual recourse
taken by impecunious gentlemen with a large circle of wealthy
acquaintances to relieve temporary embarrassments. He drew his
check-book from his desk and made a careful calculation. "There's the
judgment and costs in the Gauber case," he said, "the interest of
Robbins's mortgage, the $3000 paid to settle Riker _vs._ Buckmaster,
and the money Hunt paid my client Frabsley. Deduct these from my balance
in bank, and I have left of my own money the munificent sum of $2.17.
There's no way out of it--I must draw on Thwicket!"

It must be owned that in the privacy of his office this conclusion
brought something very like a frown upon Mr. Gallivant's brow. "It'll
ruin me!" he said. "It'll show Thwicket that I'm as dry as Mother
Hubbard's pantry, and when a man loses credit with his broker he might
as well shut up shop. But, gad! there's no other way. I must have that
balance, positively must, can't wait an hour longer. I've got $380 with
Thwicket--$380, all that remains of--well never mind, there's no use
grumbling over what's gone. I had a royal good time while it lasted, so
I'll just think of the good time and not of what it took to get it. But
that $380! H'm, I'll step down and see Thwicket!"

Mr. Gallivant slid into his overcoat, prinked up his scarlet tie, and
walked breezily into Wall Street. He chanced to meet Thwicket on the
street, and they greeted each other effusively.

"Where under the sun have you been for the last month or so?" exclaimed
the broker. "I haven't seen a thing of you."

"Oh, I've been around," answered Mr. Gallivant, with a general wave of
the hand.

Mr. Thwicket's face assumed a reproachful look.

"Oh, no," said Gallivant, responsively, "I haven't been doing business
with anybody else. Fact is, old fellow, I think I've got a bit
flustered. I don't seem able to get the hang of the market. Gad, I've
lost a whole fortune since September--must have lost every dollar of a
hundred thousand. Now I can't go on like that forever, you know. I give
you my word of honor I couldn't stand another such loss. It would put me
in a hole."

"Nonsense!" said Thwicket; "come, walk down to the office and we'll talk
it over. By the way, where are you living now? I dropped in at your
hotel and they said you'd given up your rooms and gone into the country.
Queer time o' year to go to the country?"

"Um--well, dunno 'bout that. Found my rooms stuffy. Like country,
sleighing, skating, ice yachting, don't you know. Fine air, healthy.
Think I'll buy a place up the Hudson. Fact is, negotiating now."

"Really? How's your stock farm?"

"Oh, sold it long 'go. Got tired of it. Can't play with one toy forever,
you know. How's the market?"

"It looks to me a little queer to-day," replied the broker.

"That's it! That's what I say. That's the reason I haven't been in
lately. Found I was getting rattled. More I figured, further away I got
from real conditions."

"It's time to try again."

"H'm; not so sure."

"Luck must change."

"Think so?"

"Oh, I'm certain."

"How's Hollyoke Central selling?"

"It closed yesterday at 86-3/4."

"Good time to buy."

"I doubt that, Mr. Gallivant. It seems to be slowly going the wrong way
for buying. But you might sell to advantage."

"There, now, that shows you. I tell you I'm rattled. You see, the very
first thing I suggest you discourage. Think I'd better hold off."

They had now reached the broker's office, in which Mr. Gallivant was
presently ensconced at ease.

"You are right," said Thwicket, handing out a case of cigars, "in saying
that the market is queer. Something very curious has got hold of it. As
you know, I avoid giving advice to my customers, and I'm not going to
advise you; but if you will notice the state of affairs with regard to
Snapshot Consolidated, you will see something that ought to make you
open your eyes."

"What is it?"

"Didn't you read the market reports in this morning's papers?"

"Haven't looked at a market report for three weeks."

"I guess that explains why you don't understand the situation, then.
Well, Snapshot Consolidated opened at 42. At about noon it began to
mount, and it rose peg by peg till it closed at 57-1/2. Now, what do you
think of that?"

"I think it's a warning for discreet men like me to keep away from
Snapshot. I have no overweening desire to monkey with Mr. Gould,
Thwicket." Mr. Gallivant jingled the remnant of six or seven dollars in
his pocket and softly added, "He has more money than I."

"You're your own best judge, of course. But if that stock opens this
morning above the point at which it closed last night, there's going to
be more fun to-day in Wall Street than we've had for many a year. It
looks to me like a rock-ribbed corner."

Mr. Juniper Gallivant bowed his head as if in deep reflection. As a
matter of fact, he was fermenting with excitement. He looked at his
watch. It was within fifteen minutes of the time for the Exchange to
open. "A corner!" he softly exclaimed to himself. "A corner, ye gods!
and my balance in the Chemical Bank is $2.17. A corner, and I not in
it!"

Mr. Gallivant's fingers began to itch viciously, and the perspiration
broke out copiously under his thick red hair. By a great struggle he
managed to suppress all outward signs of his emotion, while he continued
to commune with his own mind. "It's no use," he thought. "I must give up
all idea of laying in with a corner when I haven't got money enough to
set up a decent champagne supper. No, I must draw that $380, and the
question is, how to do it and keep my credit good. Ha! an idea strikes
me!" He turned quietly to the broker and said aloud: "Give me a pen,
Thwicket!"

He took a blank check from his pocket-book--a check on the Chemical
Bank, wherein $2.17 reposed peacefully to his credit.

"I don't think you have very much money of mine here, Thwicket?" he
continued, as he slowly wrote the date-line in the check.

"Don't think we have. Robert, what is Mr. Gallivant's balance?"

The clerk turned over his ledger and presently replied: "Mr. Gallivant
has a credit of $382.22."

[Illustration: "ROBERT, WHAT IS MR. GALLIVANT'S BALANCE?"]

"I don't think we'll bother with Snapshot Consolidated, Thwicket.
Truth is, I'm afraid of it. My wits haven't been working right here
lately. But I'll just give you a check for $20,000, and you can buy me a
nice little block of Michigan Border--say a hundred shares, just to see
how the cat jumps, you know."

Thwicket took the check, but with a troubled air. "My dear Gallivant,"
he said, "why do a thing like that? I'm very glad to have another order
from you, but I don't want to see a valuable customer like you lose any
more money. Michigan Border was doing very well a month ago, but it is
declining now, and for good reasons. Let's take a flyer in Snapshot!"

"Hand me that check!" said Mr. Gallivant in a most decisive tone and
with a profoundly irritated air. "Hand it back, Thwicket! Hand it right
over, and draw me a check for my balance of $382.22. I'm going to cut
the d--d Gordian knot and get out of this! No use talking, my head's all
bemuddled. 'F I was to go into the Street to-day I'd lose my whole
fortune. Now, don't argue with me, old man, I'm out of sorts, and the
best thing for me to do is to stop right short till I get clear-headed
again. Draw me that check. Let me have every penny I've got on your
books. I'm going up to my place in the country and spend a month
reading Greek plays. If anything 'll calm me, that will."

The broker looked vastly disappointed, but smiled consentingly. He
returned the $20,000 check, which Mr. Gallivant tore to pieces with a
great show of nervousness and irritation, and in another moment,
possessed of his precious $382.22, he departed gloomily.

But a long and cheery smile, that reached nearly to the tips of his
mustache and almost sufficed to give them a faint curl, spread itself
over his face as he turned from Wall Street into Broadway. He caressed
the check with his fingers and softly observed, "H'm, I flatter myself
that was well done. I have the money, and Thwicket has an abiding
confidence in my wealth,--but oh, ye gods! what would I give to be able
to put my fine Italian hand into that Snapshot corner!"

Mr. Gallivant returned to his office and endeavored to fasten his
attention upon the records of a title search prepared by his clerk, but
he found himself ever going over the figures, 57-1/2, 57-1/2, 57-1/2.

"Heavens!" he said presently, "I can't stand this any longer. I must see
the ticker. I must find out how it opened to-day. Gad, I'll go crazy if
I sit here all day mumbling '57-1/2!'"

He started up and had half put on his coat, when the office door was
flung open and Thwicket rushed in breathless.

"Seventy-two," he shouted wildly. "Opened at sixty-five! Leaped right up
to 68, then to 70, then to 72. Now's your chance, old man. Say the word
and say it quick. Never mind about the $20,000. We'll settle up when the
day is over, and every second you lose now will cost you hundreds of
dollars. It's sure to go to 160. Don't keep me waiting--say the word?"

Mr. Gallivant jammed his hands deep into his pockets to prevent their
betraying his excitement, and hemmed and hawed.

"Do you really think it's worth while, Thwicket!"

"Great guns, man! You make me--"

"Now, don't be nervous, Thwicket. When I trust a man to spend my money
for me I want him cool and calm."

"But you're losing valuable time! It's jumping up every minute. The
Exchange has gone wild! Everybody's in a furor. You can make a mint if
you go right in."

"All right, drive ahead. But use judgment, Thwicket. Remember I don't
want to invest more than $20,000, and you should preserve your
equanim--"

[Illustration: "SEVENTY-TWO," HE SHOUTED WILDLY.]

But Thwicket was gone, and when the door closed behind him Mr.
Gallivant gave a leap from the floor where he stood to the sofa eight
feet away! Then he leaped back. Then he picked up a pair of dumb-bells
and swung them fiercely at the imminent risk of his head and the
furniture of the room. Then finally he drew from his desk a bottle of
brandy and took a long, strong pull.

"Ah," he said, smacking his lips, "now I'll get ready and go to the
street and watch the tumult."

Disposing, as soon as he could, of the correspondence on his desk, he
presently made his way to Thwicket's office. The broker was still at the
Stock Exchange. He grabbed at the tapes and looked for Snapshot. There
was nothing on them but Snapshot. "Snap. Col. 93," "Snap. Col. 96-3/8,"
"Snap. Col."--even as he stood by the ticker and watched the machine
roll out its stream of white paper--"Snap. Col. 108!"

Mr. Gallivant's eyes blurred. He felt queer in his knees. The
perspiration broke out fiercely all over his plump little body. "Why the
mischief doesn't Thwicket come in?" he murmured. "Why don't he sell and
get out of this? Ten, twenty, thirty--great guns! I've made $50,000
already! It can't go on like this much longer. It'll break in half an
hour, 'gad, I know it will--I feel it in my bones! If Thwicket doesn't
sell inside of thirty minutes I'm a goner, and what's worse, he'll be a
goner with me! What's this! 117! By the great horn spoon, I must get
hold of Thwicket! Thwicket! Thwicket! My kingdom for Thwicket!"

Mr. Gallivant dropped the tapes and rushed frantically into the street
and across to the entrance of the Exchange. He dispatched a messenger
across the floor to find his broker, but who could find which in that
tumultuous mob? The Exchange floor was crowded with a crazy body of
yelling men, their faces boiled into crimson, their eyes glowing with a
fierce fire, their hats banged out of shape, their coats in many cases
torn into shreds, jostling, tumbling, jumping, stretching all over each
other in riotous confusion. Fat men were being squeezed into pancakes,
little men were being covered out of sight, tall men were being
clambered upon as if their manifest destiny were to serve as poles, and
every man of them, big, short, thin, fat, lank, and heavy, was
flourishing his arms in the air and howling at the top of his voice!

Mr. Gallivant's messenger returned in a few moments with the report that
Mr. Thwicket could not be found. Quivering with excitement, Mr.
Gallivant started forth in further search. At the door of the Exchange
he met his office-boy, who told him the broker was searching for him
high and low--had been at the office and was now in the Savarin cafe.
Thither Mr. Gallivant rushed as fast as his legs could carry him, only
to learn that Thwicket had just gone out asking every man he met if he
had seen Gallivant. The lawyer was in despair. He glanced at the
ticker--"Snap. Col. 134-1/2!"

"Heavens!" he shrieked, "will nobody seize that crazy Thwicket and hold
him till I come!"

He ran at full speed to the broker's office. Thwicket had left two
minutes before, having learned that Gallivant was at the Savarin. He
turned around again and started once more to dash forth, when he saw the
broker coming along in reckless haste.

In an instant Mr. Gallivant was all repose--all serenity and ease. He
dropped quietly into a chair and picked up the morning paper. In rushed
Thwicket, disheveled, frantic, breathless.

"At last!" he cried. "It's 136. It'll break in another ten minutes!
Hadn't I better get from under?"

"Still excited, Thwicket?" answered Mr. Gallivant reproachfully. "My
dear boy, I'm afraid you've not got a proper hold upon yourself. Yes,
probably you'd better unload. Perhaps now's as good a moment as any. But
be--"

[Illustration: "YOU'VE DONE VERY WELL, THWICKET."]

Thwicket did not wait for the rest. He fled. When he returned half an
hour later his face was radiant, but his collar wilted. "Sold!" he
cried, "at 148, and busted at 152!"

By a quick, spontaneous motion, Mr. Gallivant's mustaches drew
themselves in a loving curl around his nose, but for the rest he was
merely cheery--gently cheery--as he always was.

"You've done very well, Thwicket," he said commendingly. "You've quite
justified my confidence. You're a knowing fellow, and I'll--er--what's
the proceeds?"

"A hundred and thirteen thousand--rather a fair day's work."

"That it is. Send around your check for the hundred, and let the
thirteen stay on account. By-by, I'll see you again in a day or two."

Mr. Gallivant walked out into the street upon his usual ramble. "Strikes
me," he said musingly, "that I ought to do something handsome for
Thwicket now--I really ought. My profit is $113,000. I doubt if his will
reach even $500. That doesn't look quite fair, seeing that he did the
business all on his own money. The deuce of it is, though, that it's
demoralizing to make presents to your brokers. After all, business is
business!"




VIII.

TULITZ.


With the circumstances that brought Tulitz into trouble we have nothing
to do. Indeed, whatever I may have known about them once I have long ago
forgotten. I seem to remember, but very vaguely, that he stabbed
somebody, though, at the same time, I find in my memory an impression
that he forged somebody's name. This I distinctly recall, that the
amount of bail in which he was held was $5000--a circumstance strongly
confirmatory of the notion that his assault was upon life and not upon
property. In this excellent country, where property rights are guarded
with great zeal and care, and the surplus population is large, we charge
more for the liberty of forgers than of murderers. Had Tulitz committed
forgery, his bail bond would scarcely have been less than $10,000.
Since, beyond all question, it was only $5000, I think I must be right
in the idea that he stabbed a man.

It was in default of that sum, $5000, that Tulitz, commonly called the
Baron Tulitz, alias d'Ercevenne, commonly called the Marquis
d'Ercevenne, was committed to the Tombs Prison to await the action of
the Grand Jury. At this time Tulitz--I call him Tulitz without intending
any partiality for that name over the alias of d'Ercevenne, but merely
because Tulitz is a shorter word to write. I doubt if he had any
preference between them himself, except in the way of business. He was
just as likely, other things being equal, to present his card bearing
the words "M. le Marquis d'Ercevenne," as his other card with the words
upon it "Freiherr von Tulitz." It has been remarked frequently that when
he was the Baron his tone and manner were exceedingly French, while when
he was the Marquis he spoke with a distinct German accent. None of his
acquaintances was able to account for this.

But as I was saying, when Tulitz was sent to the Tombs he was in hard
luck. Formerly he had whipped the social trout-stream with great
success. As the Marquis he had composed some pretty odes, had led the
German at Mrs. de Folly's assembly, had driven to Hempstead with the
Coaching Club, and had been seen in Mrs. Castor's box at the opera. As
the Baron Tulitz, he had attended the races, and had been a frequenter
of all the great gaming resorts. The newspapers called him a "plunger,"
and a story went the rounds, in which he was represented to have wrecked
a pool-seller, who thereupon committed suicide. The Baron always denied
this story, which the Marquis often repeated. Indeed the Marquis was
often quoted to the Baron as an authority for it.

But the tide had turned, and now Tulitz was on his back with never a
friend to help him. "Fi' t'ousan' tollaire!" he exclaimed, as the
Justice fixed his bail, blending both his French and his German accent
with strict impartiality, "V'y you not make him den, dwenty, a huntret
t'ousandt!"

A penniless prisoner in the Tombs is not an object of much
consideration, as Tulitz discovered to his profound disgust. For two
days he paced his cell with the restless, incessant tread of a caged
hyena. He disdainfully rejected the beef soup, the hunk of bread and the
black coffee served to him more or less frequently, and for two days and
nights he neither ate nor spoke. The Tombs cells are built of thick
stone, entered through a heavy iron door, that is provided with a small
grating. Tulitz's cell was on the second tier. Around this tier extends
a narrow gallery, along which the guard walks every now and then, to
see that all is as it should be. The guard annoyed Tulitz. Every time he
passed he would peer in and give a sort of grunt. This became painfully
exasperating to the Baron.

[Illustration: "FI' TOUSANT TOLLAIRE! VY YOU NOT MAKE HIM A HUNTRET
TOUSANT?"]

Late in the afternoon of the second day of his imprisonment, Tulitz,
desperate with hunger, rage, and despair, sat down upon the stool in his
cell and glared viciously at the grating. The guard's face was there.

"Ha!" cried Tulitz, in a shrill voice, "keep avay! You tink I von tam
mouse, and you ze cat, hey? You sit outside ze cage viz your claw out
and your tail stiff, ready to pounce on ze mouse. _Mon Dieu!_ How I
hate!"

The guard unlocked the iron door and stepped inside. "Don't make sech a
racket over nawthin'," he said. "De warden says yer gotter do some
eatin'."

"I kill ze warden if he keep not his _mechant chute_!"

"Wotcher goin' ter do? Starve?"

"If I choose starve, how you prevent him, hey? How make you me eat?
_Voila, bete!_" Tulitz drew himself to his full height, turned up his
shirt-sleeves and bared his great, muscular arm.

"Oh, all right," said the guard. "It's all one to me. Starve if yer
wanter. I'm agreeable."

"I vant notting, _rien, rien_!" said Tulitz. "I vant to be leave alone."

"Dat aint much. Mos' people wat comes here is more graspin'. Mos' people
wants ter git out."

"Ha!" said Tulitz.

"De warden said fer me ter come in here an' tell yer' he'd send fer
anybody yer wanter see."

"Zere is nopotty."

"Aincher got no friends?"

"Ven I haf money, I have friend--_beaucoup_, more friend as I know vat
to do viz. I haf no money now."

"Wot's your bail?"

"Fi' tousant tollaire! Bah! Vat is fi' tousant tollaire? Many time I
spend him viz no more care as I light my cigar. A bagatelle! But," and
he added this with a curiously grim expression, "I haf no bagatelle
to-day."

The guard sidled up to Tulitz and whispered in his ear, "What'll yer
gimme if I gitcher a bondsman?"

"Ha!" said Tulitz, "you haf ze man?"

"I knows a man," replied the guard reflectively, "who might do it on my
recommend. Sometimes, w'en a man aint got no frien's, but kin lay aroun'
'im an' scoop tergedder a couple er hundred dollars, I mention him ter
my frien' wid a recommend, an' dat settles it, out he comes."

"Two hundret tollaire!" cried Tulitz, almost piteously. "Ven I efer
t'ink my liperty cost me two huntret tollaire and I haf not got him. Zis
blow kill all zat is to me of my self-respect! _Je suis hors de
moi-meme!_"

"Why, you orter be able to raise dat much tin," said the guard.

Tulitz jumped from his bed to the floor with a cry such as a wild beast
might have given as it sprang from peril into safety. He demanded pencil
and paper, and with them he scribbled a message. "Send for me zat note!"
he said. "Bring me a _filet de b[oe]uf_, a _pate de fois gras_, and a
bottle of Burgundy, and bring him all quick! Corinne! _La belle_
Corinne! _Cherie amie_, vot I haf svear I lofe and cherish! I haf not
remember you, Corinne!"

A throng of people, big and little, young and old, were waiting in the
corridors of the warden's office the next morning, eager for the bell to
strike the signal that would admit them into the prisons. They were
mostly women. Here and there in the crowd was a little boy carrying a
tin can with something in it good to eat, sent, doubtless, by his old
mother to her scamp of a son. The little beggar has his first
experiences of a prison administering to the comforts of his big,
ruffianly brother, probably a great hero in his eyes.

For the most part, the crowd is made up of young women. There, muffled
closely, is the wife of a defaulter, who was caught in the act. Three
days ago she held her head as high as any. Now it is bent low and hidden
with shame. Yonder, terrified and broken-hearted, is the sister of a man
who shot another. He is no criminal. There was a quarrel about a matter
of money. The lie was given, a blow followed, and then a shot. Her
brother a murderer! Her brother, all kindness, docility, and goodness,
locked up in a place like this with thieves and hardened convicts! It
was a fatal shot--ah, me, so very fatal, so widely fatal!

Many of them, though, are laughing and joking with each other. They have
got acquainted coming here to look after their husbands, lovers,
brothers, fathers, and sons. They bow cheerily as they come in, and say
what a fine day it is, and how they missed you yesterday, and they hope
nothing was the matter at home. Among them are brazen jades who chatter
saucily with the guards, and these are the best treated of all. They are
asked no gruff, surly questions, but with a wink and a jest in they go.

On the outer edge of the crowd, among those who waited till the first
rush was over, stood a dark, wiry little woman with a face remarkable
alike for its resolution and its innocence. She could not have been more
than twenty-five years old. She looked as if she had seen much of the
world, but had illy learned the lessons of her experience. This
combination of strength and simplicity had wrought a curious effect upon
her manner. There was no timidity about her, but much gentleness. She
was modest and clothed with repose, and yet the outlines of her face
plainly informed you that in the presence of a sufficient emergency she
was quite prepared to go anywhere or do anything.

"I want to see Monsieur Tulitz," she said to the entry clerk, when her
opportunity came.

He gave her a ticket without asking any questions, except the formal
ones, and then turned her over to the matron.

The matron of the Tombs has been there many years, and she knows how to
read faces.

"Your ticket says you are Madame Tulitz?" said the matron.

"Yes."

"I must search you."

"Very well."

"It must be thorough."

"Very well."

[Illustration: "I WANT TO SEE MONSIEUR TULITZ," SHE SAID.]

"Please take off your hat and let down your hair."

She did as she was bidden, and a great mass of dark hair tumbled nearly
to her feet. The matron immediately and with practiced dexterity twisted
it up again. Then her shoes, dress, and corsets were removed, until the
matron was enabled to tell that nothing could by any possibility be
concealed about her.

"It's all right," said the matron. "I'm sorry to trouble you so much,
but I have to be very careful."

"You needn't apologize. Now can I go?"

"Yes."

She adjusted her hat and proceeded through the long corridors out into
the prison yard, and thence into the old prison where Tulitz was
confined. The guard who had sent her Tulitz's letter led her to his
cell, and brought a stool for her to sit upon outside his grated iron
door.

"My _ravissante_ Corinne!" cried Tulitz.

She put her fingers through the bars, and he bent to kiss them, coming,
as he did so, in contact with two little files of the hardest steel.

"_Diable!_" he said.

"I had them in my hat. I made them serve as the stems of these lilies."

"Ze woman she make ze wily t'ing. How young and _charmante_ she seem
for one so like ze fox! Ah, Corinne, my sweetest lofe--"

"You don't mean that."

"Not mean him! _Mon Dieu!_ How can you haf ze heart to say ze cruel
word. Corinne, you are ze only frient I haf in ze whole bad worlt."

"Yes, I know that. But not the only wife."

"Why you torture me so, Corinne?"

"I wont. We'll let it go. You need me, I suppose?"

"You use all ze cold word, Corinne. I neet you! _Oui, oui_, I efer neet
you. I neet you ven I stay from you ze longest. I neet you ven ze bad
come into my heart and drive out ze good and tender, and leave only ze
hard, and make me crazy and full of dream of fortune. Zen I am out of
myself and den I neet you ze most, Corinne. Zat I haf been cruel and
vicked, I know, but I am punish now. Now, I neet you in my despair, but
if you come to speak bitter, I am sorry to haf send for you."

"I'll not be bitter, Tulitz. I don't believe you love me, and I never
will believe it again. So don't say tender things. They only make me
sad. Tell me what--"

"You do pelief I lofe you."

"No."

"_Cherie._"

"Don't, Tulitz!"

"You know I haf a so hot blood. It tingle viz lofe for you and I am
sane. Zen I dream. I see some strange sight--power, money, ze people at
my feet--ze people I hate, bah! I see zem all bend. Zen I am insane and
my very lofe make me vorse. Ah, Corinne, if you see my heart, you vould
not speak so cold. If I could preak zis iron door zat bar me from you
and draw you close to me, Corinne, vere you could feel ze quick beat zat
say, 'lofe! lofe! lofe!'--if I could take your hand and kees--"

"Tulitz!"

"My sveetheart!"

"Hush, please, Tulitz. Don't say those things now. I can't stand them. I
shall scream. Tulitz, I love you so!"

"Ah, I know zat. You haf no dream zat rob you of your mind. And I shall
haf no more soon. Ven ze trial come, and ze shury make me guilty, and ze
shudge--"

"No! no! You must escape."

"Ze reech escape, little von. Ze poor nefer. Zat is law. Ha! ha! you
know not law. Law is ze science by vich a man who has money do as he tam
please and snap his finger--so! and shrug his shoulder--so! and say,
'You not like it? Vat I care, Monsieur?' and by vich ze poor man, vedder
he guilty or not, haf no single chance, not von, to escape. I haf not
efen ze two huntret tollaire zat gif me my liberty till ze trial come."

"Neither have I, Tulitz, and the only way I can get it is to part with
something I love better than--never mind, you shall have the two hundred
dollars."

"You mean our ring, Corinne?"

"Yes."

"You shall not sell ze ring. Nefer!"

"But I must. We will get it back."

"No, I forbid! I stay here first." Corinne's face fairly glowed with
tenderness.

"Let me do as I think best, darling," she said. "The first thing is to
get you out of this wretched place. Now tell me all about it."

He told her all, or, at least, all he needed to tell, and she left him
with the understanding that she should meet the guard in the City Hall
Park two hours later and arrange about the bail-bond with a man whom he
should present to her. She hurried up-town and collected in her lodgings
half a dozen valuable pieces of jewelry. These she took to a pawnshop
and upon them she realized something more than the sum necessary to
obtain Tulitz's bondsman. At the appointed hour she was walking
leisurely through the Park, and soon found herself approaching two men.
One she recognized as the guard. The other was an elderly man dressed
in a black suit of broadcloth which, in its time, had been very fine
indeed. But it was made for him when he was younger and less corpulent
than now, and he bulged it out in a way that was trying to the stitches
and the buttons. His silk hat was shiny, but exceedingly worn, and the
boots upon his feet, despite his creditable efforts to make them appear
at all possible advantage, were in a rebellious humor, like a glum
soldier in need of sleep. His hair was bushy and gray, and his mustache
meant to be gray, too, but his habit of chewing the ends of his cigars
had resulted in its taking on a yellow border.

"Dis is the gen'l'man wot'll go on Mr. Tulitz's bond, mum," said the
guard. "His name's Rivers."

"Madam Tulitz, I am your humble and obedient servant. Colonel Rivers,
Colonel Edward Lawrence Rivers, and most happy in this unfortunate
emergency to serve you. I have read in the papers of M. Tulitz's
disagreeable--er--situation. It is a gross outrage. The bail is $5000,
this gentleman tells me. Infamous, perfectly infamous! The idea of
requiring such a bond for so trivial an affair. When I was in Congress I
introduced an Amendment to the Constitution providing that no bail
should be demanded in excess of $500. It didn't get through; the
capitalistic influence was too much for me. However, I'd just as lief,
to tell the truth, go on M. Tulitz's bond for five thousand as for one.
I know he'll be where he's wanted when the time comes, and if he isn't,
the bail-bond will. They'll have that to console themselves with,
anyway."

[Illustration: "MADAME TULITZ, I AM YOUR HUMBLE AND OBEDIENT SERVANT."]

"Where are we to go?" asked Corinne.

"To the police court. I'll show you; but when we get there you mustn't
ask me any questions. Ask anybody else but me. I'm always very ignorant
in the police court--never know anything, except my answers to the
surety examination. Those I always learn by heart. Now--" he turned to
the guard, and said parenthetically, "All right, my boy," whereupon the
guard disappeared. "Now, just take my arm, if you please; you needn't be
afraid, ha! ha! I'm old, and wont hurt you. You see, we must be friends,
old friends. Bless you, my child, I've known you from a baby, knew your
father before you, dear old boy, and promised him on his dying bed I'd
be a father to his--er--by the way, my dear, what's your name?"

"Corinne. Do you want my maiden name?"

"No, never mind that. I always supply a maiden name myself when I deal
with ladies, on the ground, you see, that it's much better to keep real
names out of bail-bonds, even where they don't signify. In fact, the
less real you put in, anyhow, the better. My signature must be on as
many as a thousand bail-bonds first and last, in this city, Boston,
Chicago, San Francisco, and other places, and I've never yet experienced
the slightest trouble. I think my good fortune is almost wholly due to
the circumstance that I never repeat myself. I always tell a new story
every time."

"Do they know you at the place where we're going?"

"I fervently hope they don't, my dear. It wouldn't do M. Tulitz any
good, or me either, if they did. No, no, you must introduce me. I am
your friend, your lifelong friend, Colonel Edward Lawrence Rivers. I am
a retired merchant. Formerly I dealt in hides--perhaps you had better
say in skins, my dear; on second thought, it might be more appropriate
to say in skins, and then again it would be more accurate. I like to
tell the truth when I can conveniently and without prejudice to the
rights of the defendant. If I haven't dealt in skins as much as any
other man on the face of the earth, then I don't know what a skin is.
Ha! ha! my dear, I think that's pretty good for an old man whose wits
are nearly given out with the work that has been imposed upon them. Let
me say right here that the clerk of the court is a knowing fellow, and
you want to mind your p's and q's. You want to be very confiding and
affectionate in your manner toward me, and I'll do all the rest."

"Is there any danger, sir? Will we be found out? Oh dear! I'm dreadfully
nervous."

"Well, now, you needn't be, my child, you needn't be. I've had a great
deal of experience in delicate matters of this kind, and I guess we'll
fetch your husband out all right. As for the danger, it's all mine, and
as for getting found out, that will come in due time, probably; but when
it comes we'll all of us endeavor to view it from a remote standpoint,
where we can do so, I dare say, with comparative equanimity. So keep up
your spirits, my dear, and trust to your old friend, the friend of your
childhood, Colonel the Hon. Edward Lawrence Rivers, formerly a dealer in
skins. Ah, here we are! Just take a look at my necktie, child. Is it
tied all right? And is my diamond pin there? No? Well, where the
mischief can it be? Ah, yes, here it is in my pocket. My jewel cases are
all portable. There! Now, we're ready. Look timid, my child, but
confident in the final triumph of your just and righteous cause. Come
on."

They entered the court-room. Seated in an inclosure in the custody of an
officer was the Baron Tulitz. His sharp face lighted when he saw them
approaching, and, as Corinne took her seat by his side, he pressed her
hand. Presently his case was called, and his lawyer arose to offer bail.
He presented Colonel Rivers. The old man was a spectacle of grave
decorum. He answered the questions put to him about his residence, his
family, his place of business and his property, which he conveniently
located in Staten Island, Niagara County, Jersey City, and Morrisania.
He was worth $300,000. He owed nothing. He displayed his deeds. He had
never been a bondsman before. He didn't know Tulitz, but was willing to
risk the bail to restore peace to the troubled mind of this poor little
child, the orphan of his old friend and neighbor. Never was there a
bondsman offered more unfamiliar with the forms and ceremonies necessary
to the record of the recognizance. He had to be told where he should
sign, and even then he started to put his name in the wrong place. But
at last it was done, and Tulitz was free.

Corinne's eyes were full of tears when the old man gently drew her arm
within his and led her from the court-room, with Tulitz and his lawyer
following. He walked with them as far as Broadway, and then he turned
to say good-by. He kissed her hand gallantly, and called Tulitz aside.

"Skip!" he said, "and be quick about it!"




IX.

MR. McCAFFERTY.


An incident of the late municipal election has recently come within my
knowledge, which I hasten to communicate to the public, in the hope that
an investigation will be ordered by the Legislature, and, if the facts
be as they are represented here (this being a faithful record of what I
have been credibly told), in the further hope that the men who have
tampered with the honor of Dennie McCafferty and his friend, The Croak,
will speedily be brought to justice.

Late one night toward the close of September Dennie was walking down
Houston Street toward the Bowery, when he suddenly espied The Croak
walking up Houston Street toward Broadway. As suddenly The Croak espied
him, and both stopped short. They looked at one another long and
intently, and then Dennie wheeled around and without a word led the way
into a saloon near at hand.

"Dice!" said he to the bartender. He rattled the box and threw. "Three
fives!" he cried.

[Illustration: DENNIE M'CAFFERTY.]

The Croak handled the dice-box with great deliberation. Presently he
rolled the ivories out. "Three sixes," he said slowly, "an' I'll take a
pony er brandy."

"That settles it!" cried Dennie joyously. "It's you, Croaker, sure pop.
My eyes did not deceive me. I thought they had, Croaker. I thought I
must be laboring under a mental strain. When I saw you coming up the
street I says to myself, 'That's The Croak.' Then I took another look,
and says, 'No, it can't be. The Croak's in Joliet doing three years for
working the sawdust.' Then I looked again and I says, 'It must be The
Croak. There's his cock-eye looking straight at me through the wooden
Indian in front of the cigar-store across the street.' Then I looked
once more, and says, 'But it can't be. Three years can't have passed
since The Croak and I were dealing faro in old McGlory's.' Once again I
looked, and I says, 'If it's The Croak, he'll chuck a bigger dice than
mine and stick me for drinks, and he'll take a pony of brandy.' There's
the dice, there's the pony, and there's The Croak. Drink hearty!"

They lifted their glasses and poured down the liquor, and Dennie
continued, "How'd you get out, Croaker?"

"Served me term," said The Croak shortly.

[Illustration: TOZIE MONKS, THE CROAK.]

"What! Then is it three years? Well, well, how the snows and the
blossoms come and go. We're growing old, Croaker. We're nearing the time
when the fleeting show will have flet. And hanged if I can see that
we're growing any wiser, or better, or richer--hey? Thirty cents! Ye
gods, Croaker, that man says thirty cents! Thirty cents, and my entire
capital is a lonely ten-cent piece that I kept for luck. Thirty cents,
and my last collateral security hocked and the ticket lost! Croaker, I'm
in despair."

The Croak dived into his trowsers pocket, took out a small roll of
bills, handed one to the bartender and another--a ten-dollar
greenback--to Dennie.

"Dear boy!" said Dennie, expanding into smiles. "What an uncommon
comfort you are, Croaker. Virtues such as yours reconcile me to a
further struggle with this cold and selfish world. It has used me pretty
hard since I saw you last, Croaker. Not long after you left for
the--er--West I met an elderly gentleman from Bumville, whom I thought I
recognized as a Mr. Huckster. I spoke to him, but found myself in error.
He said his name wasn't Huckster, of Bumville, but Bogle, of Bogle's
Cross Roads. I apologized, left him, and at the corner whom should I see
but Tommy, the Tick. Incidentally I mentioned to Tommy the curious
circumstance of my having mistaken Mr. Bogle, of Bogle's Cross Roads,
for Mr. Huckster, of Bumville.

"'Bogle!' said Tommy. 'Bogle! Why, I know Bogle well. He's a great
friend of my uncle's.' Whereupon Tommy hurried off after Bogle. I am not
even yet informed as to what took place between Bogle and Tommy, further
than that they struck up a warm and agreeable acquaintance; that they
stopped in at a dozen places on their way up-town; that poor old Bogle
got drunk and happy; that they went somewhere and took chances in a
raffle, and that they got into a dispute over $2000 which Bogle said
Tommy had helped to cheat him out of. A couple of Byrnes's malignant
minions arrested Tommy, and not satisfied with that act of tyranny and
oppression, they actually came to my lonely lodgings and arrested me.
What for? you ask in blank amazement. Has an honest and industrious
American citizen no rights? Must it ever be that the poor and
downtrodden are sacrificed to glut the maw of that ten-fold tyrant at
Police Headquarters? They charged me with larceny, with working the
confidence game, and despite my protestations and the eloquence of my
learned counsel, who cost me my last nickel, a hard-hearted and idiotic
jury convicted me, and that sandy-haired old flint at the General
Sessions gave me a year and six months in Sing Sing. Now, Croaker, when
you live in a land where such outrages are committed upon a man simply
because he is poor, you wonder what your fathers fought and bled and
died for, don't you, Croaker?"

"I dunno 'bout dat, Dennie, but 'f I cud talk like er you I'd bin an
Eyetalian Prince by dis time, wid a title wot ud reach across dis room
an' jewels ter match," and The Croak looked at his friend in undisguised
admiration.

But Dennie's humor was pensive. "Croaker," said he, drawing the
ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and nodding suggestively to the
bartender, "look out there in the street. See that banner stretched from
house to house. It reads: 'Liberty and Equality! Labor Must Have the
Fruits of Labor!' Now what infernal lies those are! There's no liberty
here; and as for equality, that cop blinking in here through the window
really believes he owns the town. That stuff about labor is all
humbug--molasses for flies. They're going to have an election to choose
a President shortly. What's an election, Croaker? It's political faro,
that's all. The politicians run the bank. Honest fellows, like you and
me, run up against it and get taken in. The crowd that does the most
cheating gets the pot. Ah, Croaker, what are we coming to?" This
thought was too much for Dennie. He threw back his head and solaced
himself with brandy.

"As I remarked a moment ago, Croaker," he said, "I have just returned
from--er--up the river. You have just returned from--er--the West. Our
bosoms are heaving with hopes for the future. We want to earn an honest
living. But when we come to think of what there is left for us to do by
which we can regain the proud position we once had in the community, we
find ourselves enveloped in clouds."

"I was t'inking er sumpin', Dennie," The Croak replied, reflectively,
"jess when I caught sight er you. Your speakin' bout polertics makes me
t'ink of it some more. W'y not get up a 'sociashun?"

"A what?"

"A 'sociashun. Ev'rybody's workin' de perlitical racket now; w'y not
take a hack at it, too?"

"Anything, Croaker, anything to give me an honest penny. But I don't
quite catch on."

"Dey's two coveys runnin' fer Alderman over on de Eas' Side. One of
'em's Boozy--you knows Boozy. He keeps a place in de Bowery. De udder's
a Dutchman, name er Bockerheisen. Boozy's de County Democracy man,
Bockerheisen's de Tammany. Less git up a 'sociashun. You'll be
president an' do de talkin.' I'll be treasurer an' hol' de cash."

"Croaker, you may not be eloquent, but you have a genius all your own. I
begin dimly to perceive what you are driving at. I must think this over.
Meet me here to-morrow at noon."

The district in which the great fight between Boozy and Bockerheisen was
to occur was close and doubtful. Great interests were at stake in the
election. Colonel Boozy and Mr. Bockerheisen were personal enemies.
Their saloons were not far apart as to distance, and each felt that his
business, as well as his political future, depended on his success in
this campaign. A third candidate, a Republican, was in the field, but
small attention was paid to him. A few days after Dennie and The Croak
had their chance meeting in Houston Street, Dennie walked into Colonel
Boozy's saloon. Boozy stood by the bar in gorgeous array.

"How are you, Colonel?" said Dennie.

"It's McCafferty!" cried the Colonel, "an' as hearty as ever. As
smilin', too, an' ready, I'm hopin', ter take a han' in the fight fer
his ould frind."

"I am that, Colonel. How's it going?"

"Shmokin' hot, Dennie, an' divil a wan o' me knows whose end o' the
poker is hottest."

[Illustration: COLONEL BOOZY.]

"It's your end, Colonel, that generates the heat, and Dutchy's end that
does the burning."

"There's poorer wit than yours, Dennie, out of the insane asylums. I'll
shtow that away in me mind an' fire it off in the Boord the nexht time I
make a speech. If I had your brains, lad, I'd a made more out av 'em
than you have."

"You've done well enough with your own," said Dennie. "They tell me it's
been a good year for business in the Board, Colonel."

"Not over-good, Dennie. The office aint what it was once. It useter be
that ye cud make a nate pile in wan terrum, but now wid the assessmints
an' the price of gettin' there, yer lucky if ye come out aven."

"The trouble is that you fool away your money, Colonel. You ought not to
hand over to every bummer that comes along. You should be discreet.
There's a big floating vote in this district, and you can float still
more into it if you go about it the right way."

The Colonel looked curiously into Dennie's ingenuous blue eyes, and said
with an indifferent air, "Ye mought be right, and then agin ye
moughtn't."

"Oh, certainly, we don't know as much before election as we do after."

"Is yer mind workin', Dennie? Air ye figgerin' at somethin'?"

"Oh, no; I happened to meet The Croak this morning--you know The Croak,
he's in the green-goods line?"

"Do I know him? Me name's kep' on his bail-bond as reg'lar as on the
parish book."

"Yes, of course; well, I met him, as I was saying, and, to make a long
story short, I found that Bockerheisen had got hold of him, and they've
packed a lot of tenement-houses with Poles and Italians and organized an
association. There are about 600 of them. Dutchy keeps them in beer, and
that's about all they want, you know."

Colonel Boozy had been about to drink a glass of beer as Dennie began
this communication. He had raised the glass to his lips, but it got no
further. His eyes began to bulge and his nose to widen, his forehead to
contract and his jaws to close, and when Dennie stopped and drained off
his amber glass, the Alderman was standing stiff with stupefied rage. He
recovered speech and motion shortly, however, and both came surging upon
him in a flood. He fetched his heavy beer-glass down upon the bar with a
furious blow, and a volley of oaths such as only a New York Alderman can
utter shot forth like slugs from a Gatling gun. When this cyclone of
rage had passed away he was left pensive.

Dennie, who had remained cool and sympathetic during the exhibition, now
observed: "It is as you say, Colonel, very wicked in Dutchy thus to seek
to win by fraud what he never could get on his merits. It is also most
ungrateful in The Croak. Well, I've told you what the facts are. You'll
know how to manage them. So-long," and Dennie started for the street.

But the Colonel detained him. "Don't be goin' yet, Dennie," he said. "I
want ter talk this bizness over wid ye. Come intil the back room,
Dennie."

They adjourned into a little private room at the rear of the bar, and
the Alderman drew from a closet a bottle of wine, a couple of glasses,
and a box of cigars.

"Dennie," he said nervously, "we must bate 'em. That Dootch pookah aint
the fool he looks. Things is feelin' shaky, an' you mus' undo yer wits
fer me an' set 'em a-warkin'. If the Dootchy kin hev a 'sosheashin, I
kin, too. If he kin run in Poles an' Eyetalyans, I kin run in niggers
an' Jerseymen."

Dennie contemplated a knot-hole in the floor for several minutes. "No,
Colonel," he said, at last, "that wont do. There's a limit to the
number of repeaters that can be brought into the district. If we fetch
too many, there'll be trouble. Dutchy has put up a job with the police,
too, I'm told; they're all training with Tammany now. Besides, if you
get up your gang of six or seven hundred, you don't make anything; you
only offset his gang. You must buy The Croak; that'll be cheaper and
more effective. Then you'll get your association and Dutchy will get
nothing. You will be making him pay for your votes."

Boozy grasped Dennie's hand admiringly. "It's a great head ye have,
Dennie, wid a power o' brains in it an' a talent fer shpakin' 'em out.
I'll l'ave the fixin' av it in your hands. Ye'll see The Croak, Dennie,
an' get his figgers, an' harkee, Dennie, if ye air thrue to me, Dennie,
ye'll be makin' a fri'nd, d'ye moind!"

While Dennie was thus engaged with Boozy, The Croak was occupied in
effecting a similar arrangement with Mr. Bockerheisen. In a few gloomy
but well-chosen words, for The Croak, though a mournful, was yet a
vigorous, talker, he explained to Bockerheisen that a wicked conspiracy
had been entered into by Boozy and McCafferty to bring about his defeat
by fraud, and he urged that Mr. Bockerheisen "get on to 'em" without
delay.

[Illustration: MR. BOCKERHEISEN.]

"Dot I vill!" said the German savagely, "I giv you two huntered tolars
for der names of der men vat dot Poozy mitout der law registers!"

"I aint no copper!" cried The Croak, angrily. "Wot you wants ter do is
ter get elected, doncher?"

"Vell, how vas I get elected mit wotes vat vas for der udder mans cast,
hey?"

"You can't," said The Croak, "dey aint no doubt 'bout dat."

"If dey vas cast for him, dey don't gount for me, hey?"

"No."

"Den I vill yust der bolice got und raise der debbil mit dot Poozy."

"Hol' on!" the Croak replied. "If dey was ter make a mistake about de
ballots, an' s'posen 'stead of deir bein' hisn dey happens to be yourn,
den if dey're cast fer you dey wont count fer him, will dey?"

Mr. Bockerheisen turned his head around and stared at The Croak in an
evidently painful effort to grasp the idea.

"If Boozy t'inks dey're his wotes--"

"Yah," said Bockerheisen reflectively.

"And pays all de heavy 'spences of uniforms an' beer--"

"Yah," said Bockerheisen, with an affable smile.

"But w'en dey comes to wote--"

"Yah," said Bockerheisen, opening his eyes.

"Deir ballots don't hev his tickets in 'em--"

"Yah!" said Bockerheisen quickly.

"But has yourn instead--"

"Yah-ah!" said Bockerheisen, rubbing his hands.

"Den an' in dat case who does dey count fer?"

Mr. Bockerheisen leaned his head upon his hand, which was supported by
the bar against which they were standing, slowly closed one eye, and
murmured, "Yah-ah-ah."

"I t'ought you'd see de p'int w'en I got it out right," said The Croak.

"How you do somedings like dot?"

"Dat aint fer me to say," The Croak diffidently remarked. "But dey do
tell me dat dat McCafferty has a grudge agin Boozy, an if you wants me
ter ask him ter drop in yere an hev a talk wid ye, I'll do it."

Mr. Bockerheisen did not fail to express the satisfaction he would have
in seeing Mr. McCafferty, and Mr. McCafferty did not fail to give him
that happiness. The association sprang quickly into being, and its rolls
soon showed a membership of nearly 700 voters. Two copies of the rolls
were taken, one for submission to Alderman Boozy and one to Mr.
Bockerheisen. This was in the nature of tangible evidence that the
association was in actual existence. In further proof of this important
fact, the association with banners representing it to be the Michael J.
Boozy Campaign Club marched past the saloon of Mr. Bockerheisen every
other night, and the next night, avoiding Mr. Bockerheisen's, it was led
in gorgeous array past the saloon of Colonel Boozy, labeled the Karl
Augustus Bockerheisen Club. As Mr. Bockerheisen looked out and saw
Colonel Boozy's association, and realized that whereas Boozy was
planting and McCafferty was watering, yet he was to gather the increase,
a High German smile would come upon his poetic countenance, and he would
bite his finger-nails rapturously. And, on the other hand, as Colonel
Boozy heard the drums and fifes of the Bockerheisen Club, and saw its
transparency glowing in the street, he would summon all his friends to
the bar to take a drink with him. It is said that even before election
day, however, the relations between Dennie and the Colonel on the one
hand, and between The Croak and Bockerheisen, on the other, became
painfully strained. It is said that Boozy was compelled to mortgage two
of his houses to support Bockerheisen's club, and that Bockerheisen's
wife had to borrow nearly $10,000 from her brother, a rich brewer,
before Bockerheisen's wild anxiety to pay the expenses of Boozy's club
was satisfied. Dennie acknowledged to the Colonel a couple of days
before the election that he had found The Croak a hard man to deal with,
and that it had been vastly more expensive to make the arrangement than
he had supposed it would be. The Croak's manner, as I have said, was
always subdued, if not actually sad, and in the presence of
Bockerheisen, as the election drew near, he seemed to be so utterly
woe-begone and discouraged that the German told his wife he hadn't the
heart to quarrel with him about having let McCafferty cost so much
money. Besides, as the Colonel remarked to Mrs. Boozy on the night
before election, when she told him he had let that bad man, McCafferty,
ruin him entirely, and as Bockerheisen said to Mrs. Bockerheisen when
she warned him that that ugly-looking Croak would be calling for her
watch and weddingring next--as they both remarked, "What is the
difference if I get the votes of the association? Business will be good
in the Board of Aldermen next year, and I can make it up."

Who did get the votes of the association I'm sure I can't say. All I
know is that the Republican candidate was elected, and a Central Office
detective who haunts the Forty-second Street depot reported at
Headquarters on Election Day night that he had seen Dennie McCafferty,
wearing evening dress and a single glass in his left eye, and Tozie
Monks, The Croak, dressed as Dennie's valet, board the six o'clock train
for Chicago and the West.




X.

MR. MADDLEDOCK.


Mr. Maddledock did not like to wait, and, least of all, for dinner.
Wobbles knew that, and when he heard the soft gong of the clock in the
lower hall beat seven times, and reflected that while four guests had
been bidden to dinner only three had yet come, Wobbles was agitated.
Mrs. Throcton, Mr. Maddledock's sister, and Miss Annie Throcton had
arrived and were just coming downstairs from the dressing-room. Mr.
Linden was in the parlor with Miss Maddledock, both looking as if all
they asked was to be let alone. Mr. Maddledock was in the library
walking up and down in a way that Wobbles could but look upon as
ominous. Again, and for the fifth time in two minutes, Wobbles made a
careful calculation upon his fingers, but to save his unhappy soul he
could not bring five persons to tally with six chairs. And in the mean
while, Mr. Maddledock's step in the library grew sharper in its sound
and quicker in its motion.

There was nothing vulgar about Mr. Maddledock. His tall, erect figure,
his gray eyes, his clearly cut, correct features, his low voice, his
utter want of passion, and his quiet, resolute habit of bending
everything and everybody as it suited him to bend them, told upon people
differently. Some said he was handsome and courtly, others insisted that
he was sinister-looking and cruel. Which were right I shall not
undertake to say. Whether it was a lion or a snake in him that
fascinated, it is certainly true that he impressed every one who knew
him. In some respects his influence was very singular. He seemed to
throw out a strange devitalizing force that acted as well upon inanimate
as upon animate things. The new buffet had not been in the dining-room
six months before it looked as ancient as the Louis XIV. pier-glass in
the upper hall. This subtle influence of Mr. Maddledock had wrought a
curious effect upon the whole house. It oxydized the frescoes on the
walls. It subdued the varied shades of color that streamed in from the
stained-glass windows. It gave a deeper richness to the velvet carpets
and mellowed the lace curtains that hung from the parlor casements into
a creamy tint.

[Illustration: "IN THE MORGUE," SAID MR. MADDLEDOCK, "WELL, THAT'S THE
BEST PLACE FOR HIM."]

Mr. Maddledock's figure was faultless. From head to heels he was
adjusted with mathematical nicety. Every organ in his shapely body did
its work silently, easily, accurately. Silver-gray hair covered his
head, falling gracefully away from a parting in the middle of it. It
never seemed to grow long, and yet it never looked as if it had been
cut. Mr. Maddledock's eyes were his most striking feature. Absolutely
unaffected by either glare or shadow, neither dilating nor contracting,
they remained ever clear, large, gray, and cold. No mark or line in his
face indicated care or any of the burdens that usually depress and
trouble men. If such things were felt in his experience their force was
spent long before they had contrived to mar his unruffled countenance.
Though the house had tumbled before his eyes, by not a single vibration
would his complacent voice have been intensified. He never suffered his
feelings to escape his control. Occasionally, to be sure, he might curl
his lip, or lift his eyebrows, or depress the corners of his mouth. When
deeply moved he might go so far as to diffuse a nipping frost around
him, but no angry words ever fell from his lips.

Five, seven, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes had passed since the hall
clock had sounded the hour and Wobbles's temperature had risen to the
degree which borders on apoplexy. What might have happened is dreadful
to conjecture had not Dinks, the housekeeper, come to his relief with
the sagacious counsel that he wait no longer, but boldly inform Miss
Emily that dinner was served. Wobbles was just on the point of acting
upon this advice when the library call rang, and he hurried to respond.

"You said this note was left here by a tall man, didn't you, Wobbles?"
said Mr. Maddledock.

"Yezzur," said Wobbles.

"And he said he would call for an answer?"

"Yezzur, at seven be the clock, zur."

"But it's past seven, Wobbles?"

"Yezzur, most 'arf an howr, most 'arf."

"That will do, Wobbles--and yet, stay. Did you ask his name?"

"Yezzur. Hi did, zur, and 'e says, sezee, 'Chops,' sezee, 'you need more
salt,' sezee, 'go back to the gridiron,' sezee."

"Well, that's curious," said Mr. Maddledock; "was he sober?"

"'E 'med be in cups, zur, but they be quiet uns."

"Yes--well, if he calls during dinner, Wobbles, you may show him into
the office and stay with him, Wobbles, until I come."

[Illustration: "'CHOPS,' SEZEE, 'YOU NEEDS MORE SALT!' SEZEE. 'GO BACK
TO THE GRIDIRON,' SEZEE."]

"Yezzur, hexackly, zur, I see, zur. Dinner is served, zur, but Mr.
Torbert be not come. Shall I tell Miss Emily?"

"Yes, to be sure. How absurd of Torbert! Why, it's quite late. When I go
into the parlor, which will be in another minute, Wobbles you may
announce dinner."

Wobbles bowed himself away and Mr. Maddledock sat himself down. He
picked up the note to which he had just referred, and read it through
carefully. Then he rubbed his eyeglass, stroked his nose reflectively,
crumpled the note in his hand, and tossed it into the grate fire before
him. He rose and stood watching it burn. "Only two things are possible,"
he said, quietly. "I must shoot him or pay him, and I don't feel
entirely certain which I'd better do." Then he walked into the parlor.

"You're almost as bad as Mr. Torbert, father," said Miss Maddledock.
"I've been waiting long enough for you, and now we'll all go to dinner."

"Torbert's late, is he?" said Mr. Maddledock, as if this were the first
he had heard of it, bowing gravely to the others. "How's that, Linden?"

"I'm sure I can't account for it at all, sir," answered the young man.
"We took breakfast together, and at that hour he was in full possession
of his faculties. His watch was doing its accustomed duty, and there was
no sign of any such condition in or about him as would suggest the
possibility of preposterous behavior like this."

"Perhaps his business keeps him," said Miss Maddledock amiably.

"Ho, ho," chuckled Mrs. Throcton, in her jolly way, "if he depended on
that to keep him, he'd be ill kept, indeed."

"Why, mamma," said Miss Throcton, reprovingly, "how can you?"

"And why not, Nancy, my child? Bless me! how perfectly absurd to think
of Torbert, all jewels and bangs, with a business. I'll leave it to Mr.
Linden if he ever earned a penny in his life."

"But that is not the test of having a business, dear Mrs. Throcton,"
Linden replied. "I know some wonderfully busy men, whose earnings
wouldn't keep a pug dog."

"Now more than likely something's the matter with his clothes," remarked
plump Miss Nancy, in tones of deep sympathy. "I've often been late
because I couldn't get into mine."

"While we speculate the dinner cools," said Miss Maddledock
suggestively. "Father, will you give your arm to Mrs. Throcton? Mr.
Linden, there stands Miss Nancy. I will go alone and mourn for Mr.
Torbert."

"Now, this is really too bad," said Linden, when they were seated at the
table. "It is a form of social misconduct which goes right at the bottom
of Torbert's character. When he comes I'll tell him the story of a
friend of mine who never was late for dinner in his life, and who
consequently--"

"Died!" interrupted Mrs. Throcton. "I know he did. Any man who never was
late for dinner in his life must in the nature of things have had a
short time to live."

"Come to think of it," said Linden, "he did die, and I never suspected
why before. He was the last man in the world whom I should have thought
the dread angel would want."

"Oh, you never can tell," Mrs. Throcton cheerily declared. "It's all
luck, pure luck. This man died because it isn't in fate for any man who
is never late to dinner to live long, but still living is all luck. If
the 'dread angel,' as you call him, happens to look your way and fancies
you, why, off you go--plunk! like a frog in the pond."

Mrs. Throcton had scarcely concluded this genial doctrine before the
belated guest, all bows, smiles, and graceful attitudes, was rendering
homage to Miss Maddledock.

"Sir!" she said, "you will kindly observe that my aspect is severe. You
are indicted for--for--what is he indicted for, Mr. Linden?"

Linden was a lawyer, and he answered promptly: "For violating Section
One of the Code of Prandial Procedure, which defines tardiness at dinner
as a felony punishable by banishment from all social festivities at the
house where offense is given, for a period of not less than two nor more
than five years."

"You hear the--the--what are you, Mr. Linden--something horrid, aren't
you?"

"He is, or his looks belie him," interjaculated Torbert.

"The prosecutor, your Honor," replied Linden, "prepared, with regard to
this prisoner, to be as horrid as I look."

"May it please the Court," began Torbert, with mock gravity, "I find
myself the victim of an unfortunate situation, and not a conscious and
willing offender against the Prandial Code. Justice is all I ask. More I
have no need for. Less I am confident your Honor never fails to render."

"Now, Mr. Prosecutor, where's my judicial temperament gone that you
compliment me upon so often?" demanded Miss Maddledock, turning sharply
to the lawyer. "I had it a moment ago, together with a frown; where
have they gone?"

"They will return directly I call your Honor's attention to the flagrant
nature of the prisoner's crime," said Linden--"a crime so utterly
atrocious--"

"True, you do well to remind me. Justice you called for, sir. Very well.
Justice you shall have. Go on!"

"Your Honor is most gracious. That part of the indictment which charges
me with having an engagement to dine with your Honor at seven P. M. is
admitted. I left my house in plenty of time, but--"

Mrs. Throcton (_sotto voce_).--Does the prisoner live in Harlem?

Miss Nancy.--Or in Hoboken?

The Court (with great dignity)--If the prisoner is going to put his
trust in the saving grace of the elevated cars or the tardy ferry, the
Court would prefer not to delay its consomme listening to such trivial
excuses. The Court's soup is growing cold.

A roar of laughter greeted this observation, and Mr. Linden remarked,
"The prosecutor feels it his duty to suggest that the prisoner enter a
plea of guilty, and throw himself at once upon the Court's mercy."

"The distinguished assistants to the prosecutor," said Torbert, turning
with an extravagant bow toward Mrs. Throcton and Miss Nancy, "think to
throw contempt upon the defense by associating it with Harlem and
Hoboken. Let them beware. Let them not tempt me to extremities. There
are insults which even my forbearing spirit will not meekly endure. Had
they said Hackensack--"

The Court--Well, what then?

"Then, your Honor, I should have objected; and had your Honor ruled
against me, I should have been reluctantly compelled to demand an
exception! But let me come at once to my defense. My offense, if offense
it is, was caused by the necessity which was imposed upon me of
unharnessing a man."

"What!"

"Of unharnessing a man, please your Honor! A man coming north and
a horse going east endeavored to cross the street at a given point,
at one and the same moment. It proved an impossibility, and
they--er--intersected."

"Dreadful!" cried Miss Maddledock.

"It so impressed me, else I had not dared to risk your Honor's
displeasure by pausing to unharness the man."

Mrs. Throcton, merry soul that she usually was, had grown quite serious
when Torbert spoke of a collision and an accident. Her voice was
earnest as she said, "Now, Mr. Torbert, stop your jesting right away and
tell us what you mean."

"It was as I have said, and all done in a second," Torbert replied. "You
never can tell just how a thing like that is done, you know. The horse
was a runaway. It must have come some distance, for it had broken away
from the vehicle to which it had been attached, and its torn harness was
held upon it by only one or two feeble straps. The man was a tall,
queer-looking fellow, rather seedily dressed, and possibly not quite
sober. He had been walking just ahead of me for several blocks. I can't
say what it was about him that first attracted my attention. Possibly it
was a peculiarity in his walk."

Mr. Maddledock, who had not spoken a word since they sat down to dinner,
now glanced up, and said, in an inquiring tone, "A peculiarity in his
walk?"

"Yes," answered Torbert, dropping into his seat and picking up his
oyster fork, "and I am somewhat at a loss to describe it. I don't think
he was lame, or wooden-legged, or afflicted with any hip trouble. As I
recall the step now, it seems to me that it was merely a habit. I think
he took a long and then a short step, long and short, long and short."

[Illustration: "HE WAS AN ODD-LOOKING FELLOW," SAID TORBERT, "ODD AND
BAD."]

"Um," said Mr. Maddledock.

"Just as he approached the crossing where the accident occurred he
turned his head, and I don't think I ever saw a more Mephistophelean
countenance. The only thing that broke the dark-angel shape of his face
was his nose, and that, with slight alterations, would have made an
excellent shepherd's crook."

Mr. Maddledock took up his wine-glass and drained it at a single quaff.
"A shepherd's crook," he repeated; "an odd nose, truly."

"He was an odd-looking fellow all over," Torbert continued, "odd and
bad. I never was more disagreeably impressed with a human face in my
life. Well, when we reached the corner we both heard the clatter of the
horse's hoofs on the cobbles and looked up. He was coming on at a
fearful rate, and people were shouting at him in a way that must have
increased his frenzy. Quite a crowd had collected, and this fellow and I
were jostled forward upon the crossing. I shouted to the crowd not to
push us, and pressed back with all my strength. He was just ahead of me.
He had two means of escape--to hold back as I had done, or to dash
forward. He hesitated, and that second's pause was fatal. The horse
plunged forward, struck him squarely, knocked him heavily upon the
stones, and left him there, covered with the remnants of its harness,
which having become caught in his coat, somehow or another, were drawn
off its back."

[Illustration: THE HORSE PLUNGED FORWARD, STRUCK HIM SQUARELY, AND
KNOCKED HIM HEAVILY UPON THE STONES.]

"Terrible!" cried Miss Maddledock, "Was he much hurt?"

Mr. Maddledock leaned forward and bent his ear to catch the answer.

"I don't know how much, but certainly enough to make his recovery a
matter of doubt."

Mr. Maddledock slightly frowned. "A--matter--of--doubt?" he repeated,
pausing with singular emphasis on each word.

"Yes, of grave doubt," answered Torbert, "and dread too, for even if he
gets well again, he must be maimed for life, and he was the sort of
creature that ought not to have a deformity added to his general
ugliness."

Emily Maddledock had been leaning her chin upon her hand with a
thoughtful look in her face for several minutes. As Torbert paused, she
said: "Your description of that man brings a face to my mind that I saw
recently somewhere. I can't seem to remember about it clearly, though
the face is very distinct."

"Indeed?" said Torbert. "Now, that's curious. If you've ever seen the
beggar you ought to remember it. There's one other mark upon him that
may serve to place him still more clearly before you. Directly over his
left cheek-bone there is a long rectangular mole--"

"Yes! yes!" cried Emily. "I remember. Why, father--"

Mr. Maddledock had been sipping his wine. As Emily suddenly looked up
and addressed him, he twirled the glass carelessly between his thumb and
finger, remarking, as if this were the only feature of the story that at
all impressed him, "A mole, did you say? What a monstrosity!"

"Um, well, is it?" Torbert replied. "Can't say I'd thought of that."

"Don't think of it!" sharply remarked Mrs. Throcton, as if annoyed at
the interruption, "but go on."

"Several of us sprang forward from among the crowd and set at work
trying to free him from the confining straps. How in the world they
contrived to get around him and to tie him up as they did is a mystery.
We cut them loose, lifted him up, and found him quite unconscious.
Somebody thoughtfully rang for an ambulance. Before it came we carried
him into a drug store close by and the druggist plied him with
restoratives. I supposed he was dead, but the drug man said he wasn't.
He had shown no sign of life, however, when the ambulance arrived. They
took him off, and I, having made myself somewhat more presentable than I
was, called a carriage and am here."

Then turning to Miss Maddledock he smilingly continued: "I now move,
please your Honor, for the dismissal of the indictment against me on the
ground that the evidence does not show any offense to have been
committed."

"I think you'll have to grant the motion, Emily, my dear," said Mr.
Maddledock, fixing his gray eyes upon his daughter in a way that always
riveted hers upon him and drew her mind after them to the complete
exclusion of everything except what he intended to say. "Mr. Torbert's
defense strikes me as all we could demand. You remarked a moment ago
that his description suggested a face to your mind, but you couldn't
remember where you saw it."

"I know now," she said. "It was this very afternoon--"

"Exactly," said her father, interrupting rather adroitly than quickly.
"It was while we were standing together at the parlor window."

Emily's face flushed, and had any one been looking at her intently he
might have had his doubts whether or not that was the time. She did not
answer, however, and before any one had begun the conversation anew,
Wobbles entered with a card upon his tray which he delivered to Mr.
Maddledock.

"Since your Honor is so indulgent," said Mr. Maddledock, as he glanced
at the scrawl upon the bit of cardboard and bowed to his daughter, "and
with the approval of the prosecutor, I am constrained to ask the Court's
consent to a further violation of the Prandial Code. I don't know
whether the punishment for leaving the table before the dinner is
concluded is greater or less than for a tardy appearance, but I fear I
must risk it."

"I suggest, in view of this prisoner's previous good character," said
Linden, "that your Honor suspend the sentence."

Mr. Maddledock bowed himself out and walked directly to a little room
just off the hall which he used as a private office. A timid young man
was waiting for him.

"Well, sir?" said Mr. Maddledock.

"I am an orderly, sir, if you please, at the Bellevue Hospital. A man
was brought there, this evening, sir, pretty well done up by a runaway.
After he'd been fixed a bit he asked me for his coat, and when I fetched
it he took out this bundle of papers and put them under his pillow. The
doctors didn't bother him much, for they saw he was a goner, and when
he asked if he could live they told him no. He didn't say no more, but
when we was alone he asked me to take out the papers from under his
pillow. I did it, and he asked me if he died to fetch them here and give
them to you in your own hands, and said you'd give me ten dollars for my
trouble. So as soon as I was off duty I fetched 'em, and here they are,
sir."

"Yes," said Mr. Maddledock, adjusting his eyeglasses and examining them
slowly one by one. "Yes. They appear to be all here. Ten dollars, did he
say? Well, here it is. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir."

"And the man? Wait a bit. What became of him?"

"Oh, he's dead, sir. The horse done him up. He's dead and in the Morgue
by this time. Good-night."

The orderly went out, and Mr. Maddledock stood quietly with the bundle
of papers in his hands until he heard the click of the vestibule door.
Then he struck a match and fired them one by one, watching each until it
was entirely consumed.

"In the Morgue," he said, as the last pale flame flickered and died
away. "Well, that's the best place for him. There's no doubt in my
mind, not the least, but that that amiable horse saved me from being the
central figure in a murder trial. What an odd world it is, to be sure!"




XI.

MR. WRANGLER.


On your way to the Cortlandt Street Ferry, which is on everybody's way
to everywhere, and on the left-hand side of the street when you turn out
of Broadway, and not very far from the ferry-house itself, there is a
little old, low brick building which has stood there a good many years
and is going to stand a good many more if Billy Warlock knows himself,
and he thinks he does. You may talk about progress all you please, but
Billy will soon give you to understand that the only kind of progress
which will take that house from him, or him from it, is the progress
toward the stars, and that, while he hopes to take it in the Lord's good
time, he isn't ready for just yet. Billy Warlock owns that house and
lives in it and does business there, and the great big heart that thumps
in Billy's great big body and gives strength to Billy's great big arm,
loves every individual square inch of brick and earth and planking and
plaster in that old house from cellar to scuttle. Part with it!
Speculate on it! Sacrifice it to progress! Well, scarcely. Not if you
were to offer him its weight in solid gold. Not if its neighbor on one
side were a Mills Building and its neighbor on the other an Equitable.
Not if you were to build an elevated railroad around it and run ten
trains per minute, day and night. So long as Billy Warlock can keep
himself above ground, so long will that old house keep him company, and
so long will his forges blow fiery sparks in the cellar, while he
hammers and hums and hums and hammers on the anvil by his side.

It was just twelve years ago on Christmas Eve that Billy Warlock bought
the smithy in the cellar of that little old house. Billy had been
working for the man who owned it, and the man who owned it, being a
little short of wind and a trifle weak in his legs, had decided to sell
and retire. Billy had become the purchaser, and not without many qualms
and doubts as to the wisdom of assuming such heavy responsibilities.
Billy knew he was a good mechanic, and could put a tire on a wheel or a
shoe on a horse as quickly and as well as the next man. But it took a
good big pile of dollars, as Billy counted dollars, to get those forges,
and before he turned them over to his late employer Billy scratched his
head a good many times and did a power of thinking. But at last he let
go the dollars, and laid his big fist on the biggest forge and blew a
blast through the coals that made them glow brighter than ever they
glowed before. For it was the master and not the man who sent the
draught through them.

He bade the men good-night and wished them a Merry Christmas, closed the
doors, locked them tight, and looked his property over. It was worth
being proud of, make no mistake. It was all any man need wish for. It
was well stocked and in prime condition. The house, in the cellar of
which his smithy stood, was mainly let in lodgings. On the first floor,
raised just far enough above the street to give his customers a fair
passage out, there was a saloon and eating-room. Back of these were
Billy's own rooms, two nice big rooms where his mother took care of him
and cooked his meals and washed his clothes and aired his bed as only
good old mothers can. Over this floor were two others, let, as I have
said, in lodgings--to whom, who knows? Who ever knows to whom lodgings
are let in this big, crowded city?

Billy finished his dinner and drew up his chair and one for his mother
by the stove, and filled his huge mug with beer, and his huge pipe with
tobacco, and talked it all over with his mother. She was a fine woman,
was Billy's mother, and she drew a straight, steady rein over her big,
burly, good-natured boy. She was Billy's best friend, and he knew it,
and when she told him she would stand by and help him, and save for him
and look out after him, Billy reached forth his brawny arm, and drew her
over on his knee and danced her up and down, smoothing back her gray
hair and kissing her old cheeks as if she were a baby.

Then, when the clock struck nine, she got up to wash the dishes, and
Billy took his lantern to go down among his forges again. Not that he
had anything particular to do, though there never was a time when Billy
couldn't find something, but the novelty of owning a business was strong
with him, and he wanted to hammer just for the fun of hammering. He
descended into the cellar through a side-door which opened from the back
hall upon a short ladder. The street doors were barred and bolted. He
set his lantern on the ladder steps and lit an oil lamp that hung over
his anvil, picked up his iron and his hammer, thrust the one into the
coals and laid the other on his anvil, and blew away. Oh, what an arm
that was of Billy's! How it made the bellows bulge and the wind roar up
the great chimney! How the black coals reddened and flamed and blazed!
How the iron glowed and whitened with the heat, and when Billy drew
his great hammer down upon it with a hoarse grunt accompanying each blow
as if to give it effectiveness, how the sparks scampered about in a
furious effort to escape!

[Illustration: OH, WHAT AN ARM WAS THAT OF BILLY'S!]

Billy was hammering and grunting at a great rate, and the forge fire was
throwing upon the ceiling fantastic illuminations and causing a thousand
still more fantastic shadows, when, wholly without preliminary warning
or greeting, Billy felt a slight touch on his arm. It was a slight
touch, as I said, but a cold one, a very cold one indeed. Billy turned
swiftly around with his hammer in one hand and his red-hot iron in the
other. Standing almost beside him, with the glare of the fire working a
curiously weird effect upon one-half of him, while the other half was
almost hidden in the dense shadow beyond, was a tall, spare, angular man
with queer little snappy eyes that flashed like diamonds in the light of
the forge. His hand was stretched out in a friendly way, and a bland
smile stretched across his face, following the lines of his wide,
extended lips.

"Aha!" he said cheerily, "how d'ye do? But I forgot! You don't know me
and I don't know you. Awkward, eh? But soon fixed, soon fixed. My name's
Wrangler, and yours is--er--what by the way, is yours?"

"Warlock," said Billy, laying down his iron and his hammer, and gazing
amiably at the stranger--"Billy Warlock."

"Warlock," Mr. Wrangler repeated. "Exactly. Well, then, Warlock,
Wrangler. Wrangler, Warlock. And now the formalities have been observed.
I don't know how it is with you, Warlock, but I'm a great stickler for
the formalities. 'Pon my life, I consider them the web upon which the
social fabric hangs together. They're not to be dispensed with upon any
account whatever. While I was abroad recently, the American Minister and
I were walking along the Mall together. 'Ah,' he suddenly said, 'My dear
Wrangler, here comes the Prince. Of course you know him.' Now, it so
happened that H. R. H. and I had never met. I didn't have time to reply,
for just as I was about to speak the Prince stopped us, and, after
greeting the Minister, utterly regardless of the formalities, he told me
that he hoped he saw me well. I gave him a look, Warlock, my boy, that
he will never forget, and coldly replying, 'Sir, I have not the pleasure
of your acquaintance,' I walked on. That afternoon the Minister sent me
an apology, but for which damme if I'd ever have spoken to him again."

[Illustration: "AHA!" HE SAID CHEERILY, "HOW D'YE DO?"]

During this speech, to which Billy listened with great attention and
some little awe, he examined Mr. Wrangler carefully. Mr. Wrangler's
clothes were harmoniously seedy. In the degree of their wornness his hat
was a match for his coat, and his coat a match for his trowsers, and his
trowsers a match for his boots. Although the weather was desperately
cold, and a heavy Christmas snow had fallen, he had on neither overcoat
nor overshoes. He did not appear to notice Billy's inspecting glances,
but having caught his breath, he went cheerily on.

"I am glad and proud to know you, Warlock, old fellow, and I want you to
be glad and proud to know me. And you shall be; you shall be; 'gad you
sha'n't be able to help it. And you'll find as you know me better that
while you won't know any great good of me, you won't know any great
harm."

Billy contemplated Mr. Wrangler for a few moments more, and then amiably
replied: "Well, that's all right. What more could a man ask?"

"Precisely so," answered Mr. Wrangler, dusting off the anvil and sitting
down upon it. "That, I take it, is quite enough. I have not broken in
upon your privacy, Warlock, old fellow, without serious occasion. In
fact, I'm troubled--sorely troubled."

"I'm sorry for that," said Billy.

"Of course you are, dear boy, and well you may be. The trouble I'm in is
a sad one--sad and novel. Not that trouble in itself is a strange
experience to me, for I've had my ups and downs. My life hasn't been one
of unmixed gayety, I assure you, not by a long shot. But, you see, I
have a habit of bowing to the inscrutable will of Providence. Some
people experience a great deal of difficulty finding out what the
inscrutable will of Providence is. That doesn't bother me in the least.
Having ascertained what my own will is, I know the chances are ten to
one that the Providential will is exactly the reverse. That is simple
and direct enough, isn't it?"

Billy was very much interested in this glib but melancholy stranger, and
he resolved, if it came in his way, that he would do the man a favor. So
he turned his hammer with the handle to the ground, sat himself upon the
head of it, and remarked: "It's right enough, Mr. Wrangler, to make the
Lord's will yours. I try to do my best in that line too. But still,
there is a point, you know, where it comes hard."

"True, dear boy, very true; and how much harder it is to find yourself
in a situation which you did nothing to bring about, for which you are
in no sense responsible, which is wholly in conflict with your own
will, and to the best of your belief with the will of Providence also!
This is my unparalleled situation at this particular moment, and it all
comes of being the uncle of a little girl baby."

"No?" said Billy inquiringly, "you don't mean it?"

"I knew you'd be surprised," said Mr. Wrangler, edging up to the forge,
which Billy had kept going at a gentle heat to warm their hands now and
then. "It ought to be an occasion of unalloyed happiness to be the uncle
of a little girl baby. But I was not intended for such a position. It
was clearly a mistake to thrust me into it."

"I don't scarcely see how you could help it," said Billy.

"No, I couldn't, could I? It came upon me suddenly and without my
knowing it. I had no time for preparation. My brother, who was one of
the evils to which, under the will of Providence, I have bowed, called
me to him recently, and without so much as a drop of brandy to break the
force of the blow, he said: 'Cephas,' said he, 'you are the uncle of a
little girl baby!'

"Pale and for a moment speechless, I leaned against the wall and shook
with emotion. 'Courage, old man!' said he, 'bear up! bear up!' At first
I refused to believe him. 'It is false, Orlando,' I said, 'it can't be
so.' But he shook his head sadly. 'It is true, Cephas,' he replied, 'and
I guess I ought to know.' That argument was of course conclusive. It
admitted of no reply. I only asked him how could he so have wronged me.
He said nothing in defense of himself. He could say nothing. He simply
bent his head and cried for pardon."

"Well, well," said Billy, "this is queer. It seems to me like a big
to-do over a very little matter."

Mr. Wrangler looked up with an expression of dismay. "Little!" he cried.
"Little! May I ask, Mr. Warlock, if you have ever been the uncle of a
little girl baby?"

"No," said Billy, "I never was."

"Ah, well, that explains it. Then you can't know the bitterness of that
hour. You can't put yourself in my place. I forgave him. I told him with
a sob that it was all right. Then, in the name of our mother, he
implored me to do him a favor. The infant was in California. He had left
it there to--er--learn the language, I reckon. He bade me go and fetch
it. At first I hesitated--all but refused. But who can withstand an
appeal made in the name of his mother? I pressed his hand in silent
acquiescence and took the next train West. I found the child and folded
it to my heart. I bought it a milk bottle with a fancy nozzle, a bull's
eye, and a rattle. It wept, and I dried its tears. Then I brought it
back with me. Fancy my feelings, Warlock; picture to yourself my
lacerated, bleeding heart, when upon reaching town this afternoon I
learned that my brother was dead! Yes, Warlock, old man, dead and buried
and cold in his grave, and another party living in his flat. It was all
in vain that the tears streamed from my eyes--all in vain that I begged
him at least to take the child. I called him brother, kinsman, royal
Wrangler, and bade him remember that this was a matter of honor between
him and me. I begged him to think of the situation he had placed me in,
for I feared the laugh of callous cynics as much as the cry of the
innocent child, but the ungrateful dead answered not."

Mr. Wrangler paused and touched his handkerchief to his eyes, while
Billy gazed at him in amazement, uncertain to what category of disease
his case should be assigned. "I don't know as I ever heard a queerer
tale than this," he said at length. "What did you do about it?"

"I'm doing now," answered Mr. Wrangler. "It is on a special mission that
I'm seeking you. Warlock, dear boy, you don't happen to have a bottle
of paregoric with you, do you, now?"

"Paregoric!" exclaimed Billy. "Why, is the child sick?"

"Hanged if I know!" Mr. Wrangler replied, with evident sincerity. "I'm
not what you'd call a connoisseur in infantile disorders, but I guess
she's sick. Anyhow, something's the matter. It may be malaria, or
chills, or measles, or whooping-cough, or Bright's disease. But whatever
it is, it keeps her very wakeful at night. It disturbs her rest sadly.
That might, perhaps, be overlooked; but as an intimate consequence it
also disturbs mine. At first I supposed it was because she did not get
enough nourishment, so, as she wouldn't drink any more milk from her
bottle, I bought a syringe, and filling it with milk, I played it down
the little darling's throat."

"Great Scott!" cried Billy, "it's a wonder she didn't choke to death!"

"Is it?" asked Mr. Wrangler innocently. "Well, to tell the truth, she
did come dev'lish near it, and so I inferred that I hadn't correctly
diagnosed the case. After she had got done coughing her spirits seemed
more than ever depressed. I went to bed in the vain hope that her supply
of tears would in time become exhausted. As the hours drew along and
that hope died away, I concluded she must have headache. I had one, and
I thought it only natural that she should, too. The question was, what
remedy should I apply? In a happy moment paregoric occurred to me. I
seemed indistinctly to remember that when I was a child paregoric did
the business. How fortunate one is, dear boy, in such moments as that to
have the memories of his boyhood to fall back on. I got up, dressed, and
went out to hunt a drug-store. Unfortunately, the only two I came across
were closed. I returned disconsolate, but as I entered I heard the sound
of your hammer and saw the glimmer of the lantern on your ladder. I
descended hither. I looked upon you and said: 'Here is a friend.'
Warlock, old fellow, find me some paregoric!"

"I don't know much about babies, Mr. Wrangler," said Billy, slowly and
rather sternly, "for I never had one, and I never was throwed with 'em.
But I think the chances is that you'll kill your'n before morning."

Mr. Wrangler was standing in the shadows where Billy couldn't see him
very well, but his snappy little eyes were shining in a way that Billy
didn't like.

"How old is the baby?" asked Billy.

"I haven't an idea--not one," answered Mr. Wrangler, laughing merrily,
as if his not knowing were a monstrous joke. "But she can walk and
talk."

"And you trying to feed her on milk in a bottle?" exclaimed Billy.
"How'd you like to be fed on iron filings? I rather think they'd make a
good diet for you!" Billy was indignant, and he fetched his hammer down
on a log that lay near with a blow that split it through and through.
Mr. Wrangler stepped back into the shadows still further, and his little
eyes glowed in the darkness like a cat's.

"Ha! ha!" he laughed; "good, very good. But you mustn't make fun of me,
old fellow. It isn't fair, now, really."

"Where is the child, anyhow?"

"Upstairs."

"Here, in this house?"

"Precisely."

"Come on, then; take me to her, and let's see what the matter is."

"That's a good fellow!" cried Mr. Wrangler. "As soon as I saw you I knew
you would prove to be my deliverer. Come."

The forge fire had now gone out, and directing Mr. Wrangler to stand on
top of the ladder, Billy took the lantern, blew out the hanging lamp,
and both ascended from the smithy into the hall of the house. Billy
locked the door behind him and followed Mr. Wrangler upstairs into the
third story. They paused before the hall bedroom and bent forward to
listen. Not a sound broke the night's stillness, and softly Mr. Wrangler
turned the key and opened the door. Billy moved noiselessly ahead and
lit the dull gas.

Upon the bed, with one hand under her cheek and the other one, small and
dotted with dimples, resting lightly on her plump neck, lay as pretty a
child as he had ever seen. Her eyes were closed, for she was sleeping
heavily, as if repose had come to her only when her little frame was
utterly worn out. A great mass of thick, tangled curls clustered on the
pillow about her head. A dark line down her flushed cheek marked the
course of the tears she had been shedding, and the pillow that supported
her was still wet with them.

Billy stooped down and kissed her parted lips and her white forehead,
while Mr. Wrangler, leaning jauntily against the door, hummed in low
strains a melodious lullaby.

"Nothing ails this child," said Billy, when the sound of Mr. Wrangler's
voice had died away. "Nothing at all."

[Illustration: UPON THE BED LAY AS PRETTY A CHILD AS HE HAD EVER SEEN.]

"Warlock, dear boy," replied Wrangler, "I think you told me you had
never been an uncle. The man who has not drank the bitter waters of an
uncle's experience for himself is--pardon me, but I must say it--wholly
incompetent to speak as to the woes of childhood. How often have you
wooed sleep amid the wailings of an infant voice? I'm disappointed in
you, Warlock!"

"Don't talk so loud, you'll waken her."

"Spare us that. Let me have my hat and stick. I'll get that paregoric if
I have to commit burglary!" and Mr. Wrangler started back as if fully
prepared to carry out his threat.

"Be quiet," said Billy, "and look here. My rooms are downstairs where I
live with my mother. It's too cold in here for the child. That's one
thing that ails her. I'll take her down with me, and when she's had her
breakfast in the morning, you can come for her."

Mr. Wrangler seized Billy's hand and shook it fervently. "Dear boy," he
said, "you're the kind of a friend to have. Take her and give her a good
night's rest."

Billy leaned over the bed, lifted the soundly sleeping child tenderly in
his big arms and, followed by Mr. Wrangler, he carried her down to his
own room and deposited her upon the bed. Then he turned to Wrangler.

"You'll come for her in the morning, you know?" he said.

[Illustration: HE CARRIED HER DOWN TO HIS OWN ROOM.]

"Certainly, old fellow. Good-night, I must get some sleep."

"Good-night," said Billy, "and a Merry Christmas to you."

Mr. Wrangler waved his hand with a grand farewell flourish, blew a kiss
toward the little form upon the bed, and passed out into the hall. He
waited there an instant, as if undecided what course to pursue. Then he
ran upstairs to the hall room, hurriedly crowded his personal effects
that lay scattered around the room into his valise, and ran down again
into the street. The front door closed with a sharp bang behind him, and
he quickly disappeared in the snowy night.

Billy could not help confessing to a sense of relief when his curious
new acquaintance left him. Not that he felt any definite fear of Mr.
Wrangler. The human being had yet to be born of whom Billy Warlock was
afraid. But there was a something about Mr. Wrangler that he didn't
fancy. "It's them eyes," said Billy "and he don't make no noise when he
walks." His own bed being occupied by the child, he piled a lot of
blankets on the floor, stretched himself upon them, and was soon asleep.

The Christmas sun was peeping obliquely into Billy's room and making,
with the aid of his shaving-glass, all sorts of fantastic colors on the
wall, when a slight tug at the blankets which covered him moved him to
start, turn over, open his eyes, stare blankly before him, shut them,
open them again, rub them desperately, and finally gaze with awakened
consciousness up at the object which had disturbed his slumbers. She was
leaning half over the bed, her little fat arms, shoulders, and throat
all bare, her bright, tangled hair knotted in bewildering confusion all
about her head, and her big blue eyes looking down upon him with a
curious interest. How long she had been awake he could only conjecture,
but evidently her patience had at last been exhausted, and she had set
about premeditatedly to arouse him. Billy was charmed by the
little-picture above him, and smiled a cheery greeting. She smiled too,
right merrily, and said, "What's your name?"

"Billy," said he. "What's yours?"

The smile straightway faded from her face like the color from a withered
blossom, and she glanced hurriedly and anxiously around the room.

"Where's the black man!" she whispered.

"The black man!" cried Billy. "What black man, my dear?"

"Don't you know him? He's had me ever so long."

Billy was puzzled. "A black man had you?" he repeated. "Why you don't
mean your uncle, do you?"

"Yes," she said, "that's him, and he says if I don't call him 'uncle'
he'll cut off my big toe!"

Billy Warlock jumped upon his feet like a shot. "The devil he did!" he
cried. "I'll punch his head for that!"

"And his knife has got six cutters in it!"

"I guess he was only funning," said Billy. "He didn't mean it."

"That's what he said," she insisted.

"Yes, my dear, but he didn't mean it. He was joking."

"That's what he said!" Her accent was very positive, and she added as if
conning it over, "His knife had six cutters."

Billy felt himself somewhat at a loss to deal with this well-formed
impression, so he contented himself with the remark, "But you haven't
told me what your name is yet?"

She rose upon her knees in the bed and leaned over toward him. "My
really name is Lotchen."

"Lotchen what?"

"That's all--just Lotchen."

"Where's your mother, Lotchen?"

"I don't know; do you?"

"There's something queer about this business," said Billy to himself.
"And if that Wrangler man don't make it plain he'll find hisself in
trouble. What is your father's name, Lotchen?" he inquired aloud.

"Who's that?"

"Your father. Haven't you a father?"

"I don't know. The black man says he can turn me into a toothpick if he
wants to."

Billy doubled up his fist and looked at it grimly.

"Well, he won't want to," he said. "Don't you be afraid. I'll take care
of you."

"Oh, will you?"

"For a little while, anyhow."

"How long?"

"Well, till you get your breakfast."

"Where's he gone?"

"Who?"

"The black man."

"He's upstairs in his room. You can go to him after breakfast."

"I don't want to go. I'm afraid of his knife. I sit and hold on my big
toe all day. Have you got a knife, too?" She looked at him with an
expression he could not understand. Perhaps her natural trust in mankind
had been somewhat shaken.

"My knife wont hurt you," he said. Lotchen crawled to the edge of the
bed, leaned over and put her two hands on his, and said, "Then let's you
and me run away from the black man."

Billy looked much amused. "No," he replied, "we won't do that, Lotchen;
but I shouldn't wonder if he was to run away from us. Don't your uncle
love you?"

"He loves his nose better," she replied.

"His which?"

"His nose. He's all the time rubbing it up and down."

"But don't he love you, too?"

"No."

"What makes you think that?"

"'Cause I'm afraid of him."

"When did you see him first, Lotchen?"

"Oh, ever so long. He's had me, you know."

"Yes, I know that. What's he been doing with you?"

The expression on her face was so blank that Billy saw, whatever Mr.
Wrangler might intend, she knew nothing more than that she was being
"had" under circumstances that caused her constant fright. He did not
question her further, but went into the kitchen where his mother was
getting the griddle hot for the buckwheat cakes and the spider hot for
the sausages, and he told her of Wrangler and the child. She went in to
see Lotchen, and snuggled the little one up to her close and tight, and
told her she should have a merry Christmas and she mustn't be afraid of
anybody, for her Billy, that is, Billy's mother's Billy, could whip
anybody on earth, she didn't care who he was, and nobody should frighten
this dear little soul; and the old lady began now to express her ideas
in that strange language which is hidden from the wise and prudent but
revealed unto grandmammas and babes. "B'essings!" she said, "b'essings
on 'e dear heart an' e' 'ittie body, wiv 'e 'ittie youn' nose, an' 'e
ittie b'u' eyes, an' 'e ittie youn' cheeks, an' e' ittie youn' evysing,
an' nobody s'all bozzer her at all, not 'e 'east ittie bit, 'tause s'e
was a sweet ittie fwing, and Billy, wiz him big fist an' him date big
arm, Billy dust take 'e b'ack mans an' all 'e uzzer mans wot bozzer zis
ittie soul an' 'e frow 'em yite in 'e Norf Yiver, yite in, not carin'
'tall bout 'e ice, but dus' frow 'em in an' yet 'em det out e' bes' way
zay tan. B'ess ittie heart!"

Then Lotchen smiled and put up her pretty face to be kissed, which she
didn't have to do twice before it was kissed by them both, and Billy who
hadn't slung hammers all his life for nothing, rolled up his
shirt-sleeves and doubled up his fists, and sparred away at the air as
if to suggest what would happen to any one who laid as much as his
little finger on her.

All through the breakfast Billy kept his eyes on that round, pretty
face, and wondered what he should say and do when the "black man" came
to get her. He began to grow moody and sullen as the buckwheat cakes
disappeared, and when thirty of them had been disposed of Billy felt
himself ready to meet Mr. Wrangler. He had some questions he desired to
ask Mr. Wrangler, and the oftener he thought them over the more he felt
his fingers itch to close themselves around Mr. Wrangler's long and
scraggy neck. He waited an hour, two hours, but no Mr. Wrangler came,
and at last Billy concluded to mount the stairs and to interview Mr.
Wrangler in the hall bedroom.

He told Lotchen to go into his room, where she had spent the night, and
on her assuring him that she wasn't afraid, he locked her in and stowed
the key away in his pocket. Then he shot upstairs to the hall bedroom.
He knocked, but no answer came. He opened the door. The room was empty.
The bed was just as he had left it the night before with the impression
upon it of the little form he had carried away. It had evidently been
without a tenant during the night. All that Christmas Day he waited and
watched for Mr. Wrangler, but he waited and watched in vain.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two days afterward an express wagon drew up before the smithy, and a box
was delivered to Billy marked with his name. It contained a liberal
supply of child's clothing, which Lotchen recognized as hers. Little by
little Billy and his mother drew from her fragments of her history. She
remembered a big house by the water, and a little bed of
lilies-of-the-valley under a couple of pear-trees. She remembered a
colored man named Pete, but there was no response in her memory to the
words "father" and "mother," and the only woman who appeared to be
impressed on her mind was one who called her "Lassie" and gave her
horrid stuff from a bottle in a wooden spoon.

Days and weeks and years went on, and Billy Warlock's purse grew plumper
and his heart grew lighter with each of them. His smithy in the cellar
grew in dimensions and gradually he absorbed the little old house over
it. The saloon disappeared, and the room it had occupied became a parlor
for Lotchen. The lodgers went out one by one until the whole house was
Billy's dwelling.

One day when she was nearly fourteen years old, Billy received a letter
that worried him a good deal. It was dated at the Newcastle Jail in
Delaware. It read:


MY DEAR WARLOCK:

     It seems to be definitely settled about my being an error of
     judgment. You can see by the enclosed newspaper clipping that I
     ought not to have been involved in the scheme of the creation. You
     needn't mention it to anybody else. I forget what name you knew me
     by, but I think it was

CEPHAS WRANGLER.



The newspaper clipping contained these words:

     Nothing, therefore, remains for the Court but to pronounce the
     sentence which a jury, almost wholly of your own selection, has
     adjudged your fitting doom. The crime you have committed is the
     most dreadful known to the law. For it there is but one penalty,
     the requisition of your life in forfeit for the one you have taken.
     The sentence of the Court is that you be conducted hence to the
     prison from which you came, and that you be confined there until
     Friday, the 18th day of March, following, and that you then,
     between the hours of 7 and 11 in the morning, be hanged by the neck
     until you are dead, and may God have mercy on you!

This is all that Billy Warlock knows or cares to know of the
circumstances under which Lotchen became his child. He never made the
slightest effort to discover more. It didn't interest him, and he didn't
wish it to interest her. She was his child, and that was enough--at
least, it was enough for several years. The precise moment at which it
ceased to be enough is not fixed in Billy's mind, but last Christmas,
when Lotchen found a gold watch in her stocking, and when she came and
put her arms around his neck and kissed him, which she hadn't done very
often of late, and when she whispered that she wished she had something
to give him, Billy turned his eyes to the floor and stuck his big fists
in his trowsers pockets, and did a power of thinking. He knew then, if
he had not fully known it before, that for her to be his child was not
enough. So he said very solemnly, "Are you sure you mean that, Lotchen?
Now, don't answer without you know, for you might have something you
wouldn't want to give me, and if I was to ask for it and you was to look
hesitatin', I--well I don't know what I should do."

"I don't have to think, Billy," Lotchen answered promptly, "for I've
been thinking a great deal and wondering whether you--"

She stopped there short, and her face--her pretty face, her dear, round,
dimpled face, her truthful, honest, womanly face--got very red, and she
jumped up and ran out of the room.

After that last Christmas, Billy and Lotchen talked and walked with each
other on a different footing from that on which their intercourse had
previously been conducted. He said nothing to her, nor she to him, that
referred to their interrupted conversation until October came, and then
one day he said: "Lotchen, is my Christmas gift ready?" and he held out
his hand to her--both hands--and smiled.

"Yes, Billy," she answered.

And on next Tuesday morning, Christmas morning, when the bells are
ringing merrily and all the world is glad, Billy Warlock, as I said at
the very beginning of my story, dressed in his big frock coat and the
whitest of snowy neckties, will--but you know the rest, so what's the
use of my telling it?




MR. CINCH.


In the construction of Mr. Cinch nature had been generous, not to say
prodigal, of materials, but certainly a wiser discretion might have been
exercised in using them. The centre of Mr. Cinch's gravity was much too
far above his waist. All the rest of him appeared to have been fitted
out at the expense of his legs, which, unable to endure so oppressive a
burden, had spread.

To say that the shape of his legs was a source of unhappiness to Mr.
Cinch would be a feeble and inadequate expression of his feelings. "Them
bow-legs" was a phrase into which he poured a degree of self-contempt
altogether pitiful. They were, of course, homely to look at and not in
the least serviceable. Unaided by his stout hickory stick, they could
not transport Mr. Cinch across the room. But there was no evidence that
their shape or size was due on their part to any motive of malice or of
indolence, and it seemed quite unreasonable that he should feel toward
them so harshly.

His disgust for them did not, indeed, originate with himself. It is
entirely probable that he would never have thought of despising them as
he did but for Mrs. Cinch. That excellent lady, with all her many
virtues, could never forgive those legs. Their degeneration, as she
regarded it, had not begun when she married Mr. Cinch. He was then a
slight young man and his legs were unexceptionable in size and shape.
They had become bowed and insufficient within comparatively recent
years, and she had never felt quite able to accept Mr. Cinch's
assurances that he was not at fault in the matter.

Let it not be thought that this excellent couple were wanting toward
each other in those sweet graces which so beautify the marriage
relation. They had lived and loved together nearly a quarter of a
century, and had shared in those years their full measure of joys and
sorrows. But Mrs. Cinch was not without her humors, and when she was
entertaining an acid humor she could not get her husband's unfortunate
legs out of her mind.

No matter what may have been the subject that had originally vexed her,
it was the invariable experience that those legs became the focus to
which her excited wrath was drawn, and then, indeed, it must be owned,
she was exceedingly hard to deal with. She would recall in bitter
phrases the fact that he had married her with other and honester legs,
and she would plainly intimate that in substituting these he had acted
in an unfair and unmanly way.

This was naturally distressing to Mr. Cinch. He keenly felt the
injustice of the insinuation, but at the same time his mind was filled
with a supreme loathing of his legs, and he was only deterred from going
to a hospital and from having them straightway taken off by the
reflection that an entirely legless husband was not likely to be more
satisfactory, upon the whole, than one whose legs were bowed.

It was from a domestic scene such as these sentences have indicated that
Mr. Cinch issued one morning recently, and passing out through his
hallway into the street as fast as he could wobble, he tumbled into his
waiting coupe and hurried down to business. Mr. Cinch was the keeper of
a livery-stable, an establishment held in much esteem by the public and
the trade, and yielding an abundant revenue. His business was one of the
largest of its kind in New York, a fact which, with many others equally
important, was set forth in unmistakable phrases upon Mr. Cinch's
business cards, copiously illustrated with cuts of prancing horses and
handsome vehicles and of the extensive premises in which they were kept.

The appearance of the coupe as it rolled into the stable fetched from
the inner office Mr. Cinch's manager, a bald-headed young man, with red
eyes and a hopeful soul, who dexterously assisted his employer to
alight, and aided him into the main office and into the huge arm-chair,
so placed as to command a fair view of the entire establishment. From
this arm-chair, Mr. Cinch rarely moved throughout the live-long day.

"Well, Bob," said Mr. Cinch, so soon as he had caught his breath, "how's
things going?"

"Fair to middlin', sir, fair to middlin'. The regulars is 'bout the
same, but the casuals is light."

"Well, a man can't always have things the way he wants 'em, Bob; ef he
could there wouldn't be as much trouble as they is."

"No, sir, that's very true, sir, nor so much fun, neither, come to think
of it."

"How do you make that out, Bob?"

"Well, sir, ef everybody could have whatever they wanted, there wouldn't
be much excitement going on. They'd get tired o' wanting before long
fearful that the time 'ud come when they wouldn't be nothin' to want."

Mr. Cinch was quite impressed with the force of this philosophy. Bob's
views on men and things often entertained Mr. Cinch. He had a good deal
of respect for Bob. Bob's circumstances had denied him many of those
early advantages which are so useful in cultivating the habit of
profound thought, and yet, to his greater credit, it must be said that
he not infrequently performed a deal of subtle cogitation. In this he
pleased Mr. Cinch, who was by no means all a man of beef and brawn. Mr.
Cinch had read a considerable quantity of poetry and was a subscriber to
a scientific periodical. He had a decided tendency toward occult
speculation, and had reached that point in his orthodoxy where he
believed there were a good many more things that we don't know than that
we do.

He had turned over Bob's remark once or twice in his mind, and was about
to say something by way of rejoinder when the office door was opened and
a young woman entered, observing that she wished to pay her bill.

She was a tall, well-dressed, stoutly built young woman, with large,
strong features, and an abundant supply of blonde hair, partially
covered with a sombre brown bonnet. Her eyes were big and blue, and her
voice quite pleasant to hear.

"This way, miss," said Bob, from his high stool behind the desk. "What
name, please?"

"Frances Emiline Beeks."

"Beeks, miss? Yes, miss. Let's see--BA to BE, Barker, Becker, Beech,
Beeks! Frances Emiline Beeks. Eighty-seven dollars and fifty cents, if
you please."

"That seems like a good deal of money," observed Miss Beeks.

"Well, now, it is, miss," said Bob. "But you use a kerridge a good deal,
miss, mostly every day and sometimes oftener. You've called more this
month than ever. Why don't you keep a hoss, miss? That ud be the
cheapest."

"It certainly would if my bills are to run up like this. However, I'm
too busy now to talk about it. Let me have your pen while I fill out
this check. There--is that right?"

"Yes, miss, thank you. I think that sorrel would suit you nicely. He's
only--"

"Well, I'll think it over. Good-morning!"

Miss Beeks went out and Mr. Cinch, who had been regarding her over his
glasses, inquired, "Who's the young woman, Bob?"

"I don't know, sir, hardly," said Bob, "but I think she's some kind of a
doctor."

"She seems to be makin' pretty good bills."

"And they gets better all the time. Whatever she doctors, it's a good
business, for she pays her bill the day after she gets it every time."

"What makes you think she doctors?"

"She said so, as near as I could make out. She come in here one day last
month--it was when I had that staving big bile on my elbow, you
remember?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was settin' here huggin' that bile, and it was just thumpin'.
Seemed to me 's if they was a whole bag o' carpet-tacks stuck in that
arm. I was so used up I couldn't walk around, and so stuck full of pain
I couldn't set still. Well, 's I said, she come in and ordered a coach,
and while it was being fetched around she give me a look and she says,
'What's the matter?' I says 'I got a bile.'

"'A what?' says she.

"'A bile,' says I.

"'Oh, no,' says she.

"'Well, if you don't think so,' says I, 'look there,' says I, and I
prodooced the bile, which 'peared to me to be pretty good evidence.

"She looked at it and then says, as cool as you please, 'Well, what of
it?'

[Illustration: "'A WHAT?' SAYS SHE. 'A BILE?' SAYS I.'"]

"'Don't you call that a bile?' says I, 'and if you don't think it hurts
you'd better.' You see, bein' nearly crazy with the hurts of it, and her
so unconcernin', I thought she was workin' a guy on me. But she says,
'I see what you call a bile, and maybe you think it hurts, but I know it
don't. Why, what is it?' says she; 'it's nothing but a little lump of
red flesh. It don't hurt. It can't hurt. How can it? Flesh don't live
any more than wood or stone, and if it don't live, how can it feel? It's
you that feels and hurts, and you have made yourself believe it's this
little lump of red flesh, and you've gone and painted it and greased it
and wrapped it up and fooled with it when there's nothing the matter
with it, and everything the matter with you.' That's what she said,
looking me dead in the eyes."

Mr. Cinch had grown very much interested in Bob's account of this
peculiar conversation. As Bob went on he had screwed around in his
arm-chair, and had drawn his brow into a reflective knot.

"I don't know as I understand what that means, Bob," he observed,
cautiously.

"It took me a good while to get it through me," replied the manager,
"but I think I see what she was driving at. She means that a man's body
is just like any other matter and don't make feelings, and that's it's
his soul that does the feeling, and that when his soul feels bad he says
he has a bile or the colic or the rheumatism, and begins to put on
plasters and take pills when he ought not to do anything of the kind,
but ought to talk to her and get her to cure his soul. That's the way
she give it to me, anyhow. She talked here for half an hour. She said
that it was silly to set your feelings down to this or that place in
your body. She said she could talk to me awhile about the--er, let's
see, gravity, no, yes, gravi--oh, I know! about the gravitation of the
soul, and my feelings would get good and the bile go down."

"Oh, rats!" remarked Mr. Cinch.

"Well, I don't know, sir," replied Bob, doubtfully. "I don't know but
what I think there is something in it?"

"Stuff! Bob, how kin there be? Do you mean that she made out 'at she
could cure anything by just talking to you?"

"Not exactly; no sir. Her p'int is that what we call biles or malaria,
or--"

"Bow-legs, mebbe," put in Mr. Cinch both jocosely and ruefully.

"Yes, sir, bow-legs."

"What!"

"Bow-legs, too--why not? Just as easy bow-legs as biles."

"Well, go on."

"All such things, she says, is appearances. Our souls being sick, they
look through our eyes in a sorter cock-eyed way and see something they
call a bile or a pair of bow-legs. The bile and the bow-legs aint really
there, you know; we only think so, which is just as bad as if they was
there. If we was to go to her and get our souls well, we'd look out of
our eyes straight and wouldn't see no bile or bow-legs. Neither would
nobody else. This is the best explaining I can do, sir. I understands it
pretty well, but I can't talk it. She's a daisy talker, though. She can
talk like a dictionary."

"Bob," said Mr. Cinch, solemnly, "do you mean to tell me that this young
woman can talk me into believing that I aint got bow-legs?"

Bob hesitated. He looked at Mr. Cinch long and seriously. Mr. Cinch took
up his walking-stick and slowly lifted himself upon his feet.

"Look at them legs, Bob. You can shove a prize punkin through 'em
without touching. Can this young woman make me believe them legs is
straight? If she can, Bob, if she can, she don't need to buy no hoss,
nor pay no coach-hire any more."

The responsibility of this awful moment was too much for Bob. "If I was
you," he said discreetly, "I'd talk to her about it the next time she
comes in."

[Illustration: "LOOK AT THEM LEGS, BOB!"]

Mr. Cinch made no reply, but he continued for several minutes to look
ruefully down where he believed his legs to be, and then he resumed
his chair. Bob returned to his accounts and a heavy tide of business
flowed in to engage their attention. Business was always well done in
Mr. Cinch's office, and it suffered that morning no more than on any
other morning, and yet there was a certain influence in the room which
seemed to be affecting both him and Bob. They talked together less than
usual and in addressing others were short and sharp. When Bob got off
his stool and said he was going to luncheon he broke a silence which
might almost be called ominous.

He was not long gone, but upon his return the office was empty. It was
so unusual a circumstance for Mr. Cinch to go out that Bob wondered not
a little what had happened. His wonderment increased as the afternoon
drew along and Mr. Cinch did not return. Nobody could tell where or when
he had gone or in what manner his departure had been effected. He had
not made use of his coupe or any other vehicle. No scrap of writing
could be found that threw the least light upon so startling a
proceeding, nor did any one turn up with whom a message had been left.

Evening approached and numerous misgivings entered Bob's mind. He knew
that Mr. Cinch's domestic life was not without moments of bitterness,
and he was satisfied that one of them had preceded his appearance at
the office that morning. The vague suspicions that crept into his head
were strengthened when, just before 6 o'clock, a messenger came from
Mrs. Cinch loaded with inquiries. Mr. Cinch's life was as regular as the
movements of the stars. He had gone home at 4:30 P.M. for twenty years.
Bob was really alarmed. He made a careful search throughout the stables.
That failing to give him the slightest clew, he went to see Mrs. Cinch.

When he told that excellent woman that her husband had disappeared, she
precipitately swooned away. The unhappy incident of the morning was
still fresh in her repentant mind, and she could have no doubt that her
over-worried lord had sought in the North River the peace of mind she
had denied him in his home. Bob could not comfort her. He could only
apply a wet towel to her heated temples and beg her to be calm. This he
did with praiseworthy diligence during the greater part of the evening,
and when he left it was with the understanding that, if the missing man
were not seen or heard from by the next morning, he would notify the
police and have them send out a general alarm.

This, indeed, had to be done. Mr. Cinch had disappeared. His affairs
were all right, his fortune untouched and no motive anywhere apparent
why he should have taken so reckless a step. The police could get no
trace of him. Fat and bow-legged men were encountered here, there and
everywhere, were seized and sharply questioned, but from none of these
incidents of the search was the slightest hope extracted. Two days
passed, and still another, but the mystery continued to be dark and
impenetrable and Mrs. Cinch was wrapped in an envelope of grief.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bob's story about Miss Beeks and her novel views had profoundly
impressed Mr. Cinch, and being so constituted that when he got hold of
an idea he had to give himself up to its consideration, Miss Beeks and
the possible effect of her conversation upon his legs kept revolving
before his eyes all the morning. He was not able to form any very
definite idea of what she might be expected to do, but he thought it
quite within the possibilities for her to improve the situation. The
notion that in ailments of all kinds there was a large element of
imagination had occurred to him frequently when listening to Mrs.
Cinch's accounts of her numerous physical tribulations, and he was by no
means sure that his legs were as bad as they had been represented. He
thought it might well be that he had obtained an exaggerated notion of
their deformity, and if Miss Beeks merely succeeded in convincing him of
that the gain would be something. He picked up the address-book during
the morning and ascertained that she lived in a large apartment-house in
Broadway, distant from his stables less than a block. While Bob was at
luncheon he got upon his feet, went to the door and looked down the
street at the big flat. An irresistible desire to go and talk the matter
over with Miss Beeks took possession of him, and almost before he knew
it he was seated in a little reception-room waiting for the appearance
of the remarkable young woman who professed to be able to talk away a
boil.

She did not keep him waiting long, and when she held out her hand and
wished him "Good-morning," he was quite captivated with her cheery voice
and smile.

Mr. Cinch proceeded directly to business. First he took from his
pocket-book one of his large and profusely illustrated business cards
and delivered it with something of pride by way of introduction. Then he
remarked that he had heard of her and of her way of doctoring and he
thought he'd just drop around and see what she could do in his case.

"Why, what ails you?" she asked. "You look very comfortable."

"So I be," replied Mr. Cinch, much gratified, "but it's all along of my
legs."

"And what of them?"

"Well you see, they're bowed, and--"

"Don't say what I see, Mr. Cinch. We see with our minds and only through
our eyes. My mind is healthy, and as I see your legs there's nothing the
matter with them."

"You don't say so!"

"To be sure I do. At the same time if you say your legs are bowed, there
is, of course, trouble somewhere."

"Of course," assented Mr. Cinch.

"The question is, where? Some people would say, in the legs. They would
try to make you believe that your legs, mere combinations of flesh and
blood, could go off by themselves and get bowed, or knock-kneed, or long
or short, or slim or fat, or gouty, or palsied, or paralyzed, or
rheumatic, or shriveled or anything else just as they wanted to and all
of their own option, as though they were a living soul with a living
will and not simply so many square inches of inanimate matter. Now, Mr.
Cinch, that's all nonsense. Don't you believe a word of it!"

[Illustration: "OUR BODIES ARE BUT GHOSTS," SAID THE SCIENTIST.]

"Well, now," replied the old man slowly, "I never thought of it
that-away. It don't seem as if they could go and get bowed all of
themselves. But," and he looked down toward them dubiously, "they do
'pear to be bowed, now, don't they?"

"Maybe they do. We'll come to that presently. But first let me prove
that, if they are bowed, they didn't do it. Suppose you were to have
them cut off at your hips, would they go on and bow more?"

"Why, no."

"Of course not," said the Scientist, triumphantly. "That shows they
didn't bow themselves. Then who did bow them? I'll tell you. You have
done it, Mr. Cinch, you, yourself."

"Mebbe I did, mebbe I did. I won't deny it. But this I will say--that I
didn't go for to do it."

"Perhaps not. But, consciously or unconsciously, your mind became--well,
for want of a better word, sick. In that sick condition it began to look
around for a place in your body to reflect its trouble upon. It chose
your legs, and straightway your eyes, prompted by your diseased mind,
began to tell you that your legs were bowed."

"Well, really!" cried Mr. Cinch, "how very plain you make it."

"It's plain enough to such as will see. Matter, Mr. Cinch, does not
act. Matter has no will. It doesn't feel, or get tired, or wear out or
do any of the things attributed to it by thoughtless people. Matter is
inanimate and takes form only as the mind, the soul, the Vital Force,
wills that it shall. It responds to the soul. Therefore, if your legs
are bowed, your mind is at fault."

"What a very uncomfortable thing your mind must be!" said Mr. Cinch.
"It's 'most as well not to have none!"

"Better," exclaimed the Scientist, earnestly, "if it is to be out of
harmony with the Mind Universal. And now we come to the real point. The
thing to cure is the thing that is sick. The bowness of your legs is the
reflection of your bowed mind. Straighten your mind and your legs will
be as straight as your walking-stick. Shut your eyes, Mr. Cinch, and
think only of what I say. Nothing is real except the ideal. The
corporeal realm of created being corresponds precisely to the condition
of the ideal. Do you see the point?"

"Sorter," replied Mr. Cinch, feebly, "but I b'lieve I could see it
better if I was to open my eyes."

"No, no, no!" cried the Scientist. "It is highly necessary to keep them
shut and turned inwards."

"I don't b'lieve I can come that, mum," Mr. Cinch rejoined,
apologetically. "My eyes is getting a bit old."

"Sink them far into your soul! Look there to find your bad and ugly
ideals! Give me your hand, Mr. Cinch. Thus, with our hands clasped, will
our spiritual understandings commune. Together we will pursue our
investigations into the recesses of your ethereal nature, and with the
clean new broom of inspired reason, will we sweep away the dusty cobwebs
of bad ideals!"

Mr. Cinch heaved a huge sigh! But he shut his eyes vigorously, and
received into his big hard fist the Scientist's little white one, and
murmured, "All right, mum; whip up lively."

"Our bodies are but ghosts," said the Scientist, "combinations of
symbols. The combinations change as the soul that they symbolize
changes. I look at your body and it tells me of your soul. I see a soul
full of doubt and darkness, and the doubt and darkness are symbolized in
the curved and ugly form of your legs. Brush away the doubt! Dispel the
darkness! Aspire toward the Life of the Spirit, and as your aspirations
are tenacious they will draw your legs into the shape which, like the
spirit it typifies, will be all beauty. Does your soul respond, Mr.
Cinch?"

"Well, mum, I dunno. I'm trying hard, but--"

"Ah, there is unbelief there. I see it--a black mountain-cloud of
unbelief. Faith, Mr. Cinch, is the ethical law of gravitation. You
already feel its influence. It draws you to the Spiritual Center of
Essence. Your soul still walks in the shadow, but toward the light. You
are being drawn away from the doubt. Don't you feel yourself being
drawn, Mr. Cinch?"

"I b'lieve I do, mum; I really b'lieve I do. That left leg give a kinder
twitch just as you spoke."

"Of course it did! Of course it did! You are in the sea of Infinite
Thought, floating, floating like a chip on the water. The evil ways of
falsehood, doubt and unbelief are trying to beat you away from the
Current of Truth,--but no! it shall not be! I will stand by to fight
them back, and to urge on those other waves that will bear you into the
current. One is approaching now--the Wave of Harmony. It touches you
gently, lifts you on its crystal bosom, and, ere it leaves to do the
same duty to another floating chip, it moves you many paces nearer to
the current. And now, as you rest, another comes. Lo, it is intercepted
by the discordant ripples of suspicion, and a struggle ensues! But,
look! Oh, prythee look! From the white caps of conflict the wave,
larger, purer than ever, emerges, and comes on apace. It is the Wave of
Joy! It moves quickly! It takes you upon its sparkling crest! Whence the
diamond lights of happiness flash! Merrily flash! It heaves you swiftly
on! On! On! Ah! Yes! Nearer! Nearer still! One more impulse and you are
there! It lifts its glittering form again! And NOW!--Oh, Mr. Cinch! you
are in the Current! the CURRENT! Do you not feel its swift influence?
The Current of Truth! Brightly, joyously, swiftly does this Spiritual
Gulf Stream bear you toward the Great Central Calm! Ah!--ah!"

The Scientist was evidently in a great state of excitement. Her voice
had risen to a keen soprano key, and her eyes sparkled wildly. When she
had finally succeeded in getting Mr. Cinch into the Current, she fell
back in her chair, quite exhausted.

Neither spoke for several minutes, and then Miss Beeks finally said:
"Open your eyes, Mr. Cinch!" The old man looked at her with evident
curiosity. "You talk beautiful," he said, earnestly, "and I really think
I feel better!"

[Illustration: "IT WAS A GOOD DEAL, MR. GROANER."]

"Don't say 'feel,' Mr. Cinch. Cultivate thought and not sensation. I
know you are better and that means, of course, that the supposititious
curvature of your limbs, never real, is less apparent. You must put
yourself under my treatment from this moment. The advantage gained
already must not be lost. You must not go home, or to business, or out
of this room until your mind is thoroughly healed. You must not get out
of the Current until you are safely in the Calm Centre."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the fourth day after her husband's strange disappearance, and
Mrs. Cinch was seated in the back parlor of her desolate house,
receiving spiritual consolation from an elderly clerical gentleman. "Oh,
sir," she was saying, "he was such a good man, so gentle and easy to get
along with. He had no harsh words, no matter how much he had to bear.
And I'm fearful it was a good deal, Mr. Groaner, I'm fearful it was a
good deal."

Mr. Groaner sighed with much feeling, and said she must not repine,
adding in a comforting way that the world was full of sorrow.

"Yes," said Mrs. Cinch, as though greatly consoled by that fact, "I know
it. We all have our burdens and I s'pose we need 'em."

"Indeed we do, Sister Cinch," Mr. Groaner replied, "but for our burdens
we should grow vain and worldly."

This disastrous result being in Mrs. Cinch's case rendered less menacing
through the supposed death of her partner, the good man proceeded to
show her the necessity of "bearing up," and of counting all things good,
and of drawing from these mournful visitations the valuable lesson that
earthly affections are empty and void. Much had been accomplished toward
reconciling her to the unhappy situation when a familiar click was heard
in the front door latch.

Mrs. Cinch started.

The click was repeated and then the door was flung open, and a heavy
footfall sounded in the hallway.

"William!" cried Mrs. Cinch. "It's William, Brother Groaner! Help me up!
Help me to run and meet him! William, my dear, good, sweet, bow-legged
old William! O, Brother Groaner, I shall go crazy with happiness! Hear
his old feet, stuck on them dear bow-legs of his, making a sound that
I'd know 'mong ten thousand! Come along, Brother Groaner, come long."

They got into the hall with as much speed as possible, and there, coming
toward them was Mr. Cinch, his round face lighted with a peaceful smile.
He paused, and there was something in his manner and attitude that
caused them to pause as well. He brought his pudgy feet closely together
and straightened his figure to its loftiest possibility, as if to call
attention to its perfect beauty.

"Maria, my dear," he said, in deep, low tones, "I float in the Calm
Centre of Infinite Truth."

A look of profound alarm came upon Mrs. Cinch's face, and she glanced at
the Rev. Mr. Groaner. He shook his head sadly.

Mr. Cinch observed the dubious looks and he hastened to dispel them.

"I am in harmony with the Universal Mind," he said. "Look at them legs!"

They looked. "Yes, William," answered Mrs. Cinch, profoundly disturbed,
"I see them legs, and dear, sweet, precious old legs they are, William,
and if I ever said they wasn't, I told a story and goodness knows I've
suffered enough for it in the last three days and nights. I love them
cunning old legs, William, better'n all the rest of you put together,
and I don't care where you're floating nor what you're in harmony with,
I only just know you're back again with the same beautiful, chubby,
round old legs you took away, and I'm downright crying happy, and the
rounder they gets the more I'll love them!"

And, unable longer to restrain herself, the good old lady rushed upon
him and hugged him black and blue.

Mr. Cinch may still be floating in the Calm Centre of Infinite Truth,
or he may not. He may still be in harmony with the Universal Mind or he
may not. He hasn't mentioned lately. But this is sure truth--that
wherever he floats, Mrs. Cinch is floating with him, and whatever else
he may be in harmony with he is certainly in harmony with her. He
wobbles and toddles up and down just as he used to do, but never a word
does he hear to the prejudice of his legs. And whether they be as
crooked as a ram's horn or as straight as a rifle-barrel, he can't see
them and she won't--so what's the odds, anyhow?

[Illustration]




XIII.

GRANDMOTHER CRUNCHER.


Tony Scollop's great point was enterprise. When he looked at anything it
was always with the query running through his mind, how can this be
turned to account? The beauty of utility was the beauty which Tony's
eyes detected and which his heart valued.

There may be a want of true and pure sentiment in this way of
considering the world and its contents, but Tony's lot had been cast in
a sphere where necessity encroaches upon sentiment. Bread was dear and
babies cheap in the tenement where Tony was born, and his character was
greatly affected by this circumstance.

And yet Tony was not unmindful of the fact that sentiment is a powerful
stimulant. As such, he prized it. His acute perception disclosed to him
that people would pay freely to have their sentiments fed, and Tony was
willing to do almost anything not specifically mentioned in the Criminal
Code, for pay. It had been early impressed upon his mind that the
profitable sentiments of a great proportion of mankind were reached
through their curiosity. This lesson was first enforced upon Tony by a
Monkey.

The monkey was a particularly clever knave. He was in the retinue
consisting, besides himself, of a woman, two babies, a hand-organ and a
tin-cup, appertaining to a dusky Neapolitan who infested the tenement
district in which Tony's boyhood was spent. That monkey had on several
occasions seduced a penny from Tony's unwilling hand. Thereby he had
earned Tony's respect and had caused Tony's reflections to dwell upon
him. That monkey had a large place in the circumstances which led Tony
to go into the dime-museum business.

As a dime-museum manager, to which exalted station Tony finally arose
and in which he was now engaged, he was a remarkable success. He seemed
to have found just the field for his talents. They led him into a great
variety of speculations, but from one and all he emerged plethoric with
dimes. His museum had grown until it now occupied the three floors of
one of the largest buildings in the Bowery.

It was in the very height of his great career, when his enterprise was
most conspicuous, his curiosities most numerous, his patronage most
extensive, and his self-appreciation most complete and complacent, that
he was called upon to face a singular emergency.

A gentleman in Hoboken had boiled his mother-in-law. It is of no moment
now why he had boiled his mother-in-law, though at the time the
consideration of this question had filled columns upon columns of the
daily newspapers. There had been a controversy between the gentleman and
his mother-in-law, prolonged and distracting, and the long and short of
a very painful conjunction of circumstances is that the gentleman had
felt himself reduced to the necessity of doing something serious to his
mother-in-law, and, thus moved, he had boiled her. It would have been
wiser, doubtless, had he taken some other course, though that is a
matter of judgment into which I refrain from going. The only fact
needful to be mentioned here is that the event had taken up a vast
amount of space in the papers, which had printed large maps of the room
wherein the boiling had occurred, together with striking pictures of the
gentleman, the mother-in-law, the kettle in which the boiling had been
done, the cat which usually slept in the kettle, and other important
accessories of the event.

Among these was the gentleman's grand-mother, a venerable lady living in
Wisconsin, who, upon being informed that her grandson was in jail for
boiling his mother-in-law, had come on to Hoboken to comfort him. She
was met at the depot by a considerable company of reporters, and by Mr.
Tony Scollop, who, with an enterprise all his own, provided a coach for
her, went with her to the jail, remained during the sad interview that
took place with her unhappy grandson, and gave her a gorgeous bouquet
with which to assuage her grief. He took her to a hotel, and did not
leave her until she had signed a ten weeks' contract to appear in his
dime museum. These, with many other facts illustrative of Tony's
generosity and gentle sympathy, appeared in many of the newspapers the
next day.

Whatever may have been their general effect, there were bosoms in which
they produced disagreeable sensations, and among these was the bosom of
Billy O'Fake, the Wild Man from Borneo. Indeed Mr. O'Fake was positively
angry when he saw that Grandmother Cruncher was to be exhibited from the
same platform with himself. He stuck his pipe in his mouth, his hat on
his head, and his feet on the footboard of his bed, and said
emphatically that he be domned if he'd shtand the loikes av this
gran'mother business any more at all. It had gone the laste bit too fur,
an', bedad, he'd lay the hull matter before the Brotherhood and
Sisterhood of Animated Frakes that blissid marnin'!

The more Mr. O'Fake thought it over the more outraged his feelings
became. At last, unable longer to contain himself, he strode from his
room, descended into the Bowery, passed into East Broadway, and
clambered aloft to the fifth story of a rickety flat. There he knocked
loudly at a door and responded in something of violent haste to the
invitation to enter.

Seated in one corner of the room, over a small, red-hot stove, was a
queer-looking little man. There was a tin plate on the stove from which
the odor of melting cheese arose, and mingling with the odor of burning
tobacco, contributed from the little man's pipe, burdened the atmosphere
with dense and by no means delightful fumes. The little man had a fork
in one hand and a mug of beer in the other and he was snatching the
cheese from the plate, shoving it into his mouth and washing it down
with the beer at a rate and with a disregard of heat and cold that were
wonderful to observe.

[Illustration: "SIT, IS IT? WHERE?" SAID BILLY.]

He was anything but a pretty little man. His head was big and his body
small and his legs very short and very thick. He sat upon a keg, the top
of which he quite amply covered, but his feet came scarcely half-way
to the floor. His gray eyes twinkled from holes sunk far into his head,
and twinkled so brightly that you had to look at them, but so sharply
that you wouldn't if you could have helped it. He peeked quickly at Mr.
O'Fake, and cried in a shrill voice:

"Hi! hi! Billy! Come in an' sit down!"

"Sit, is it? Where?" said Billy.

"Vhere?" repeated the queer little man. "If I vos to tell you vhere,
Billy, your hingenuity vouldn't be drored out. Von o' the uses of
hexperience, Billy, is to dror hout the hingenuity. You're lookin'
summat doleful, Billy. Cheer hup, me boy, cheer hup! I'd like to inwite
you to this 'ere feast, but there's honly von 'elp o' cheese left, an'
honly von svaller of beer. But pull hout yer pipe an'--vot's on yer
mind, Billy?"

Mr. O'Fake was standing with his back against the door, his arms folded,
his hat on the side of his head, and an ominous expression on his face.

"Have ye seen the marnin' papers, Runty?" he inquired.

"Papers, Billy, papers? Vot do I vant wid the papers. No, Billy, I shuns
'em. No man can be a 'abitchual reader huv the papers, Billy, vidout
comin' to a bad hend."

Mr. O'Fake drew from his pocket a copy of "The Daily Bazoo," and
pointing at a certain paragraph, said: "Rade thot, Runty!"

The queer little man stuck his fork under the tin plate and flipped it
off the stove upon the floor, heedless of Mr. O'Fake's wishes. "Hexcuse
me, Billy," he said, "I never wiolate my princerples. I 'ave no use for
papers an' I never reads 'em. Wot's it say?"

"Bedad, I'll tell ye pwhat it says. It says outrage. It says another wan
o' thim ould women has come bechune me an' me daily bread. It says that
Tony Scollop's been and hired some ould hag av a gran'mother to shtep in
an' discredit the perfession. I was a lad av tin years, sor, when I
furst shtepped upon the boords av a doime moosaum in the well-known
characther av the Son av the Cannibal King. From that day to this, sor,
I have exhibited my charrums to the deloighted eyes av the populus fer
tin cints per look. I have been a Zulu Chafetain, a Tattooed Grake, a
Noted Malay Pirate, a Bushman from Australier, an' afther a public
career which there ben't no better, I am to this day, sor, to this day a
Wild Man from Barneo. Widout the natcheral advantages which a ginerous
Heaven has besthowed upon you, sor, or upon my honored frind, Misther
Kwang, the Chinaze Giant, or upon Maddlemerzelle Bristelli, the bearded
Woman, or upon Ko-ko, the T'ree-Headed Girrul,--widout sich natcheral
advantages, sor, for to raise me at wanst to the front rank av Frakes,
my coorse has been wan av worruk, sor. That worruk has been done; my
name as the greatest living Wild Man from Barneo is writ, sor, in
letthers av goold upon fame's highest pin--er, pinister! There, sor, it
is to-day, and shall I now--"

"Billy," replied the queer little man, "you shall not. Your vords is
werry booterful an' werry true. This 'ere bizness of bringin' in Nurse
Connellys, an' Marie Wan Zandts, an' the huncles an' hants an' neffies
an' nieces an' gran'mothers belonging to influential murderers an' Young
Napoleons uv Finance an' sich, is a-puttin' the persitions uv
legitermate Freaks in peril. I speaks as the Gran' Worthy Sublime an'
Mighty Past High Master uv the Brother'ood an' Sister'ood uv Hanimated
Freaks, an' I says hit vont' do! Our rights an' liberties is not thus to
be er--is they, Billy?"

"Sor, they air not. They--"

"Vell, then, Billy, you shall come before the Brother'ood an' say so.
You shall say it this werry mornin' vith your best langwidge. Vith that
tongue o' yours, Billy, an' that 'ere himposin' presence, ef you honly
ad' a crook in yer back or ef yer heye vos honly in the middle uv yer
'ed, Billy, you'd be the leadin' Freak on herth!"

[Illustration: "HEXCUSE ME, BILLY," HE SAID, "I NEVER WIOLATE MY
PRINCERPLES."]

With this genial and deserved tribute, which Mr. O'Fake received most
graciously, the dwarf tumbled from his keg, which tumbled also in its
turn, raked a heavy overcoat and a rough fur cap from a dark closet, and
having got himself into them, he begged Billy to accompany him without
delay.

The Brotherhood and Sisterhood of Animated Freaks was and is one of the
most important and distinguished of the labor organizations of New York.
Its membership is composed, as its name implies, of the ladies and
gentlemen actually engaged in the entertainment of the public by the
exhibition of their interesting bodies. Its purposes are to encourage
social pleasures among its members, and to protect them against the
encroachments of domineering managers. Such an organization was made
necessary by the continued aggressions of the managerial classes, who
were led by their unbridled greed to resort to all kinds of unjust
expedients whereby to grind down and trample under foot the poor and
needy Freak. This sort of foul injustice went on from year to year,
rendering the Freaks more and more dependent on the opulent and
tyrannical managers, until the wrongs resultant from it cried to heaven
for vengeance. At last, from the depths of their misery the Freaks arose
and with one masterful effort they threw off their base shackles and
declared themselves free.

It was truly a majestic movement. The Brotherhood was firmly established
in all parts of America and Great Britain, and it duly resolved that no
one should hereafter be a Freak, or be tolerated in the society of
Freaks, who was not a member of the Brotherhood in good standing. It
resolved that no manager should employ any one claiming to be a Freak
who was not thus rendered legitimate. It resolved to various purports,
and in phrases most solemn the majesty of the manhood and womanhood of
the freakly profession was vindicated.

The managers, of course, retaliated in kind. They organized a trust.
They classified the Freaks and rated them. The relations between labor
and capital engaged in the museum industry became thereby greatly
strained, but as yet no actual rupture had occurred. All hoped in the
public interest to avert such a catastrophe, but each side felt that a
fierce struggle was imminent.

Only some such incident as had been supplied in the enterprising stroke
of business accomplished by Tony Scollop was needed to fan the sparks of
resentment into a flame. The flame was already burning in the bosom of
Mr. Billy O'Fake, and when he and the dwarf reached the Brotherhood's
headquarters they were ready to perform the functions of a torch.

The Executive Council of the Brotherhood, District No. 6, F. I. M. X. T.
S. Z., was about to hold a meeting. The Council was composed of seven
eminent Freaks--Sim Boles, the Double-Jointed Wonder; Bony Perkins, the
Ossified Man; Duffer Leech, the Man with the Phenomenal Skull; Miss
Tilly Boles, the Beautiful Mermaid of the Southern Sea; Mrs. Smock, the
Bearded Circassian Beauty; Mr. Billy O'Fake, the Wild Man from Borneo,
and the President of the Brotherhood, Runty, the Dwarf. These ladies and
gentlemen were the leaders, nay, the fathers and mothers of the
organization, distinguished for their sagacity, resolution and prudence.

The arrival of Mr. O'Fake and the Dwarf completed the council, which
proceeded promptly to business. Runty took the chair, and in a few
earnest and well-chosen words, he dispatched the Ossified Man for a
pitcher of beer. The transaction of other routine business occupied the
attention of the council for a brief while, but it soon gave way to the
pressing business of the hour. This came in the shape of a resolution
presented by Mr. O'Fake, in these words:

     _Whereas_, Mr. T. Scollop, manager of the Universal Dime Museum of
     Natural Wonders, has seen fit to involve our honorable profession
     in disgrace by the employment for exhibition as an Animated Freak
     of Grandmother Cruncher, so called; and,

     _Whereas_, The said Grandmother Cruncher is not a member of this
     Honorable Brotherhood, nor a Freak, but merely a person of vulgar
     notoriety; and,

     _Whereas_, The said employment by the said T. Scollop of the said
     Female is in violation of Paragraph 13 of Article 210 of Section
     306 of Chapter 194 of Book 8 of the Constitution and By-Laws of
     this Honorable Brotherhood, therefore be it,

     RESOLVED, That a committee of three members of this Council be
     appointed by the Grand Worthy Sublime and Mighty Past High Master
     to see the said T. Scollop and to inform him of the displeasure
     which his course herein set forth has excited in this Council, and
     to insist upon the immediate discharge of the said Cruncher.

"Wid the Chair's permission," said Mr. O'Fake, when his resolutions had
been read, "I will spake a worrud wid regard to the riserlooshuns. Sor,
I hav no apolergy to make for thim riserlooshuns. They manes business.
We are threatened, sor, wid a didly pur'l. It has not come upon us uv a
sudden, sor, not to wanst. It is a repetition, sor, av an ould offince,
an' I am here, sor, in this reshpicted prisence, sor, to say that the
toime has come fer this Brotherhood to make its power filt!"

Mr. O'Fake brought his clinched fist down upon the back of the Chair in
front of him with a smart tap and looked proudly at the admiring faces
of his fellow-members. Mr. O'Fake was eminent for his attainments as a
speaker, and well he knew it. A murmur of applause broke out as he
stopped, but he stilled it with a majestic wave of the hand.

"Sor," he continued, "I am wan av those which belaves that the managers
nades a lesson. They nades to be towld, sor, that Frakes is not dogs.
They have gone on in their coorse--"

At this point a shrill "Mr. Cheerman!" sounded out from the rear of the
hall, and to the great indignation of Mr. O'Fake and to everybody else's
surprise, Mr. Duffer Leech, the Man with the Phenomenal Skull, was
observed to be standing with his arm lifted and his index finger
extended towards the Chair.

Mr. O'Fake was much too astonished at Mr. Leech's audacity to express
himself. The Chair looked from one gentleman to the other in perplexity,
mysteriously winking at Mr. Leech and nodding at Mr. O'Fake as if to
call the attention of the one to the fact that the other was already
addressing the council. These repeated gestures having produced no other
effect than to draw another "Mr. Cheerman!" from Mr. Leech, the dwarf
was moved to inquire, "Vell, Duffer, vot's hup?"

"I wants to know wot's all dis talkin' about. I ain't got all day to sit
here and listen to chin-moosic. Wot's de trouble?"

It was easy to see that Duffer had been drinking. No man in his senses
would have ventured so rudely to have checked the flow of Mr. O'Fake's
oratory. Duffer had clearly been drinking, and the lion whose anger he
had roused turned upon him quickly.

"Phwat's the throuble!" he repeated, sarcastically. "I should say the
throuble was plain enough. If the gintleman has any difficulty seein' it
now, he won't long. It'll take the farm av snakes, sor, an' little rid
divils wid long tails in doo toime!"

Mr. O'Fake spoke with much dignity and great effect. In the roar of
laughter which followed Duffer perceived he had been vanquished and in
some confusion he sat down, while his victor proceeded:

"The offince minshuned in me riserlooshuns is a blow at the daily brid
av us all, sor. If any ould woman kin be placed in the froont rank av
Frakes fer the rayson that her gran'son killed another ould woman, wull
ye tell me, sor, phwat becomes av our janius an' harrud work? Sor, I am
bould to say that yersilf, honored as ye are fer hevin' the biggest hid
on the shmallest body in the world, had yer hid been as big as a base
dhrum an' yer body as shmall as a marble, ye would be regarded as av no
impartance in comparison wid this ould witch av a Gran'mother Cruncher."

The impression produced by Mr. O'Fake's remarks was evidently deep and
painful. He sat down amid silence which was presently broken by the
shrill voice of Duffer.

"Mr. Cheerman," said Duffer. "I rise to a p'int o' order."

"Pint o' vot?" inquired the Chair.

"Order, sir, order!" cried Duffer, who had long been a member of an East
Side debating club.

"Vell, I hunderstands you, Duffer, hall as far's you've vent. But it's
wery himportant, me boy, vot you horders a pint of. If it's a pint of
vhisky, vhy, all right; but if it's honly a pint of beer vhen there's
seven hon'able ladies an' gents--"

"I bigs the Chair's pardon," interrupted Mr. O'Fake, "but the Chair
labors under a slight misaper--ahem!" Mr. O'Fake finished the word with
a cough. It was a cough which he always kept ready for use in that way
whenever needed. "The gintleman manes he objects to the persadin's."

"He does, does 'e? Vell, if that's vot 'e means, 'e hexpresses hisself
in a werry poor vay," answered the Chair, directing a look at Duffer
which precipitated him at once into his seat.

Mrs. Smock, the Circassian Beauty, said very decidedly that she didn't
want any Grandmother Crunchers on the platform with her, and what was
the use of having a Brotherhood if you didn't stop such things, which
was debasing as everybody knew, and made her blood just boil every time
it happened for she couldn't stand having her rights took away and
wasn't going to. These energetic remarks decided the Chair to act.

"Vell," he said, "it happears to be a go. The Chair happoints hisself
an' Billy an' Sim Boles, an' the sooner ve sees Tony the sooner vill the
band begin to play. If you don't think there'll be moosic as'll make
your ears 'um, you don't know Tony Scollop."

The Chair thereupon descended from its lofty place, and with
characteristic promptness worked itself into its hat and coat. The
occasion was felt by all to be somewhat solemn, and murmurs of advice
arose to each of the committee as to the best method of proceeding. It
was agreed that the other members of the council should remain in the
headquarters until the committee's return.

Runty considered himself something of a diplomat, and he let it be
understood while on the way to Mr. Scollop's office that he would
present the case. They found Mr. Scollop in an amiable humor and most
happy to see them. There was a pause after the greetings, and to relieve
it Mr. Scollop remarked again that it was a fine day.

"So it is," rejoined Runty, "vich in combination with the natur' of hour
business haccounts for hour smilin' faces."

"That's right," said Tony. "Only if I was you I wouldn't smile in the
sun. Three such smilin' faces as yours turned right up at him would
produce a shadder, Runty. Now, what are you fellows up to? Some
Brotherhood game, I'll bet a hat."

"Wot a werry hactive mind!" cried Runty admiringly. "If you vos to guess
again you'd hit the game itself an' save us playin' it."

"No, you'd better lead off."

"Vell, then, clubs is trumps, an' we have got a big von vith a knot on
the hend for Gran'mother Cruncher--see?"

Mr. Scollop smiled thoughtfully and said he saw. "I see a long ways," he
added. "Cruncher is upstairs now, and the public is piling in head over
heels to see her. Her portographs is selling like hot cakes and the more
you kicks the more she'll be worth to me. Fact is, I wish you would
raise a disturbance. There's nothin' like judicious advertisin' in this
mooseum business. It would be worth a little something to have a nice,
hard strike. Now, then, do you see?"

Runty smiled in his turn and also said he saw. "If that's vot you vant,"
he said, "you've got it. The strike is on, an' afore you gets through
with Gran'mother Cruncher you'll have so much o' the same kind o'
notoriety that you an' her'll make a team, an' you both orter grow rich
by just hex'ibitin' of your two selves!"

[Illustration: THERE STOOD THE NOBLE OLD LADY IN ALL HER PATHETIC
BEAUTY.]

"Capital!" cried Mr. Scollop in much excitement, ringing his bell
vigorously. "This is the best thing 'ats happened to me in ten years.
Hey, there, you, Dick! Rush around the corner an' get a canvas
painted--make it big--fifteen by twenty feet, and great big black and
red letters. Come now, be quick! Take down the words: 'Strike!' Make
each letter two feet long! 'Our Freaks Fight Grandmother Cruncher! They
Refuse To Exhibit Along With The Old Lady! Jealous Of Her Dazzling
Beauty! Manager Scollop Stands Firm! Says He Will Be Loyal To
Grandmother Cruncher Till The Heavens Fall! Not A Freak Left! But
Grandmother Cruncher Remains Nobly At Her Post! Thousands Shake Her By
The Hand! She Is Now Making A Speech To The Multitude! Hurry Up To Hear
Her Thrilling Words! Come One! Come All! Only Ten Cents!'

"There, got it down?" continued the Manager, breathlessly. "Got it all
down? Then rush off, Dick! By the great horn spoon! Was there ever such
a stroke of luck as this! Now, Runty, you fellows hurry up to your
headquarters, so's to be there when the reporters come. Tell 'em the
whole business. Tell 'em you'll never give in! Tell 'em it's a battle to
the death! I'll send up a couple o' kegs o' beer and a lot o' cigars. Be
lively, now."

Mr. Scollop sprang from his chair and ran upstairs in frantic haste to
give directions for rendering the exhibition-room as commodious as
possible, leaving Runty and his fellow-committeemen in quite a state of
mind.

"Vell!" said the dwarf, drawing a prolonged breath and elevating his
eyebrows with a curious expression of mingled surprise and dismay,
"'ere's vot I calls a go!"

Bony Perkins rubbed his ossified eyes with his ossified knuckles and
observed that it looked as if somebody was going to get fooled.

Mr. O'Fake arose majestically from his chair, and looked grimly at his
colleagues. "Gintlemen," he said, "he'll be talkin' in another tone
within a wake. Bedad, we'll tache him phwat he don't know. We'll send
out an appale fer foonds, an' we'll give him all the fight he wants."

Mr. O'Fake's hopeful tone was needed to brace up the drooping courage of
his friends. They immediately returned to the council and briefly
reported that their grievances had been ignored, and that the strike was
on and would be general. Orders were at once issued and forwarded to
every museum in New York directing all Freaks straightway to quit
exhibiting and appeals were issued to the public and to all labor
associations for financial aid. The headquarters were soon in a state of
commotion. Mr. Scollop's kegs of beer had arrived and aided greatly in
increasing the ardor of everybody's feelings. The Ossified Man
surrounded himself with the Fat Woman, Little Bow-Legs and the Chinese
Giant, and lectured them long and earnestly on the rights of labor and
the tyranny of class rule. Mr. O'Fake delivered a full score of
beautiful orations, and the entire Brotherhood agreed that its power
should be exerted to the last extreme.

[Illustration: THE OSSIFIED MAN LECTURED LONG AND EARNESTLY.]

Meanwhile Mr. Scollop's museum was the scene of an even greater tumult.
The enormous "Strike!" placard had been posted and had produced an
immediate effect. Vast crowds of people, wild to see Grandmother
Cruncher, besieged the ticket-office and packed the exhibition-room,
where, upon the platform, elsewise deserted, stood that noble old lady
in all her pathetic beauty. Mr. Scollop, in a condition of rapture
scarcely possible of portrayal, stood all the afternoon in his private
office opening wine for the gentlemen of the press and giving them the
fullest information. He truly said he had nothing to conceal. He had
made an honest man's contract and he would stand by it till he dropped
in his tracks. He was not the man to desert a poor old woman in her
sorrow at the bidding of an irresponsible clique of labor bosses. The
Freaks did not want to strike, anyhow. They were nagged on to it by
their leaders, who were not genuine Freaks at all, but professional
agitators. Aside from his duty to Grandmother Cruncher, he was not going
to have his business run by outsiders--not if he knew himself! There
would be no abandonment of principle or position on his part, the public
might depend on it.

Mr. Scollop professed the deepest sorrow at the annoyance and vexation
to which the public was exposed by the unfair conduct of the strikers,
but he couldn't help it. It was not his fault. He knew he would have the
sympathy of all fair-minded people. He would do his best to satisfy his
patrons even under these trying circumstances. The museum was open now,
as the reporters could easily see, and would be kept open. Grandmother
Cruncher would exhibit and would be the great and permanent feature of
his show hereafter, Brotherhood or no Brotherhood!

These remarks, amplified and extended, appeared in the papers, together
with interviews with the strikers and many thrilling incidents of the
struggle. Public interest was aroused in the most general and intense
degree, and Mr. Scollop's cashier made daily trips to the bank with a
bushel-basket full of dimes. How long the contest would have continued
and what the final result would have been are problems too deep for me.
But at the end of the first week Grandmother Cruncher's rheumatism was
too much for her and she was compelled to retire. Short as was her
professional career, it gave her undying fame. In labor circles many
ugly rumors are floating about concerning the management of the strike.
It is broadly intimated that the whole thing was a "sell," and
significant remark is made upon the fact that Runty, the Dwarf, shortly
after the strike was ordered off, appeared upon the street scintillating
under a new diamond pin. One of the leading daily journals editorially
explained the matter by stating that the rheumatism story was a ruse,
that public interest in Grandmother Cruncher began to wane, and that
thereupon Manager Scollop "fixed the matter up" with the strikers. Tony,
however, declares that the Brotherhood gave in, while Runty says it is
stronger than ever and more than ever determined to protect the rights
of its members. Where the exact truth lies it is far from me to say, but
it may be pertinent to mention that Runty and Mr. O'Fake have started a
saloon in the Bowery.


THE END.





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