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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Waifs and Strays, by O. Henry
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Waifs and Strays
+
+Author: O. Henry
+
+Release Date: August, 2000 [eBook #2295]
+[Most recently updated: October 30, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Earle C. Beach. HTML version by Al Haines
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAIFS AND STRAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Waifs and Strays
+
+by O. Henry
+
+
+Contents
+
+ PART I—TWELVE STORIES
+ The Red Roses of Tonia
+ Round The Circle
+ The Rubber Plant’s Story
+ Out of Nazareth
+ Confessions of a Humorist
+ The Sparrows in Madison Square
+ Hearts and Hands
+ The Cactus
+ The Detective Detector
+ The Dog and the Playlet
+ A Little Talk About Mobs
+ The Snow Man
+
+
+
+
+THE RED ROSES OF TONIA
+
+
+A trestle burned down on the International Railroad. The south-bound
+from San Antonio was cut off for the next forty-eight hours. On that
+train was Tonia Weaver’s Easter hat.
+
+Espirition, the Mexican, who had been sent forty miles in a buckboard
+from the Espinosa Ranch to fetch it, returned with a shrugging shoulder
+and hands empty except for a cigarette. At the small station, Nopal, he
+had learned of the delayed train and, having no commands to wait,
+turned his ponies toward the ranch again.
+
+Now, if one supposes that Easter, the Goddess of Spring, cares any more
+for the after-church parade on Fifth Avenue than she does for her loyal
+outfit of subjects that assemble at the meeting-house at Cactus, Tex.,
+a mistake has been made. The wives and daughters of the ranchmen of the
+Frio country put forth Easter blossoms of new hats and gowns as
+faithfully as is done anywhere, and the Southwest is, for one day, a
+mingling of prickly pear, Paris, and paradise. And now it was Good
+Friday, and Tonia Weaver’s Easter hat blushed unseen in the desert air
+of an impotent express car, beyond the burned trestle. On Saturday noon
+the Rogers girls, from the Shoestring Ranch, and Ella Reeves, from the
+Anchor-O, and Mrs. Bennet and Ida, from Green Valley, would convene at
+the Espinosa and pick up Tonia. With their Easter hats and frocks
+carefully wrapped and bundled against the dust, the fair aggregation
+would then merrily jog the ten miles to Cactus, where on the morrow
+they would array themselves, subjugate man, do homage to Easter, and
+cause jealous agitation among the lilies of the field.
+
+Tonia sat on the steps of the Espinosa ranch house flicking gloomily
+with a quirt at a tuft of curly mesquite. She displayed a frown and a
+contumelious lip, and endeavored to radiate an aura of disagreeableness
+and tragedy.
+
+“I hate railroads,” she announced positively. “And men. Men pretend to
+run them. Can you give any excuse why a trestle should burn? Ida
+Bennet’s hat is to be trimmed with violets. I shall not go one step
+toward Cactus without a new hat. If I were a man I would get one.”
+
+Two men listened uneasily to this disparagement of their kind. One was
+Wells Pearson, foreman of the Mucho Calor cattle ranch. The other was
+Thompson Burrows, the prosperous sheepman from the Quintana Valley.
+Both thought Tonia Weaver adorable, especially when she railed at
+railroads and menaced men. Either would have given up his epidermis to
+make for her an Easter hat more cheerfully than the ostrich gives up
+his tip or the aigrette lays down its life. Neither possessed the
+ingenuity to conceive a means of supplying the sad deficiency against
+the coming Sabbath. Pearson’s deep brown face and sunburned light hair
+gave him the appearance of a schoolboy seized by one of youth’s
+profound and insolvable melancholies. Tonia’s plight grieved him
+through and through. Thompson Burrows was the more skilled and pliable.
+He hailed from somewhere in the East originally; and he wore neckties
+and shoes, and was made dumb by woman’s presence.
+
+“The big water-hole on Sandy Creek,” said Pearson, scarcely hoping to
+make a hit, “was filled up by that last rain.”
+
+“Oh! Was it?” said Tonia sharply. “Thank you for the information. I
+suppose a new hat is nothing to you, Mr. Pearson. I suppose you think a
+woman ought to wear an old Stetson five years without a change, as you
+do. If your old water-hole could have put out the fire on that trestle
+you might have some reason to talk about it.”
+
+“I am deeply sorry,” said Burrows, warned by Pearson’s fate, “that you
+failed to receive your hat, Miss Weaver—deeply sorry, indeed. If there
+was anything I could do—”
+
+“Don’t bother,” interrupted Tonia, with sweet sarcasm. “If there was
+anything you could do, you’d be doing it, of course. There isn’t.”
+
+Tonia paused. A sudden sparkle of hope had come into her eye. Her frown
+smoothed away. She had an inspiration.
+
+“There’s a store over at Lone Elm Crossing on the Nueces,” she said,
+“that keeps hats. Eva Rogers got hers there. She said it was the latest
+style. It might have some left. But it’s twenty-eight miles to Lone
+Elm.”
+
+The spurs of two men who hastily arose jingled; and Tonia almost
+smiled. The Knights, then, were not all turned to dust; nor were their
+rowels rust.
+
+“Of course,” said Tonia, looking thoughtfully at a white gulf cloud
+sailing across the cerulean dome, “nobody could ride to Lone Elm and
+back by the time the girls call by for me to-morrow. So, I reckon I’ll
+have to stay at home this Easter Sunday.”
+
+And then she smiled.
+
+“Well, Miss Tonia,” said Pearson, reaching for his hat, as guileful as
+a sleeping babe. “I reckon I’ll be trotting along back to Mucho Calor.
+There’s some cutting out to be done on Dry Branch first thing in the
+morning; and me and Road Runner has got to be on hand. It’s too bad
+your hat got sidetracked. Maybe they’ll get that trestle mended yet in
+time for Easter.”
+
+“I must be riding, too, Miss Tonia,” announced Burrows, looking at his
+watch. “I declare, it’s nearly five o’clock! I must be out at my
+lambing camp in time to help pen those crazy ewes.”
+
+Tonia’s suitors seemed to have been smitten with a need for haste. They
+bade her a ceremonious farewell, and then shook each other’s hands with
+the elaborate and solemn courtesy of the Southwesterner.
+
+“Hope I’ll see you again soon, Mr. Pearson,” said Burrows.
+
+“Same here,” said the cowman, with the serious face of one whose friend
+goes upon a whaling voyage. “Be gratified to see you ride over to Mucho
+Calor any time you strike that section of the range.”
+
+Pearson mounted Road Runner, the soundest cow-pony on the Frio, and let
+him pitch for a minute, as he always did on being mounted, even at the
+end of a day’s travel.
+
+“What kind of a hat was that, Miss Tonia,” he called, “that you ordered
+from San Antone? I can’t help but be sorry about that hat.”
+
+“A straw,” said Tonia; “the latest shape, of course; trimmed with red
+roses. That’s what I like—red roses.”
+
+“There’s no color more becoming to your complexion and hair,” said
+Burrows, admiringly.
+
+“It’s what I like,” said Tonia. “And of all the flowers, give me red
+roses. Keep all the pinks and blues for yourself. But what’s the use,
+when trestles burn and leave you without anything? It’ll be a dry old
+Easter for me!”
+
+Pearson took off his hat and drove Road Runner at a gallop into the
+chaparral east of the Espinosa ranch house.
+
+As his stirrups rattled against the brush Burrows’s long-legged sorrel
+struck out down the narrow stretch of open prairie to the southwest.
+
+Tonia hung up her quirt and went into the sitting-room.
+
+“I’m mighty sorry, daughter, that you didn’t get your hat,” said her
+mother.
+
+“Oh, don’t worry, mother,” said Tonia, coolly. “I’ll have a new hat,
+all right, in time to-morrow.”
+
+When Burrows reached the end of the strip of prairie he pulled his
+sorrel to the right and let him pick his way daintily across a sacuista
+flat through which ran the ragged, dry bed of an arroyo. Then up a
+gravelly hill, matted with bush, the horse scrambled, and at length
+emerged, with a snort of satisfaction into a stretch of high, level
+prairie, grassy and dotted with the lighter green of mesquites in their
+fresh spring foliage. Always to the right Burrows bore, until in a
+little while he struck the old Indian trail that followed the Nueces
+southward, and that passed, twenty-eight miles to the southeast,
+through Lone Elm.
+
+Here Burrows urged the sorrel into a steady lope. As he settled himself
+in the saddle for a long ride he heard the drumming of hoofs, the
+hollow “thwack” of chaparral against wooden stirrups, the whoop of a
+Comanche; and Wells Pearson burst out of the brush at the right of the
+trail like a precocious yellow chick from a dark green Easter egg.
+
+Except in the presence of awing femininity melancholy found no place in
+Pearson’s bosom. In Tonia’s presence his voice was as soft as a summer
+bullfrog’s in his reedy nest. Now, at his gleesome yawp, rabbits, a
+mile away, ducked their ears, and sensitive plants closed their fearful
+fronds.
+
+“Moved your lambing camp pretty far from the ranch, haven’t you,
+neighbor?” asked Pearson, as Road Runner fell in at the sorrel’s side.
+
+“Twenty-eight miles,” said Burrows, looking a little grim. Pearson’s
+laugh woke an owl one hour too early in his water-elm on the river
+bank, half a mile away.
+
+“All right for you, sheepman. I like an open game, myself. We’re two
+locoed he-milliners hat-hunting in the wilderness. I notify you. Burr,
+to mind your corrals. We’ve got an even start, and the one that gets
+the headgear will stand some higher at the Espinosa.”
+
+“You’ve got a good pony,” said Burrows, eyeing Road Runner’s
+barrel-like body and tapering legs that moved as regularly as the
+pistonrod of an engine. “It’s a race, of course; but you’re too much of
+a horseman to whoop it up this soon. Say we travel together till we get
+to the home stretch.”
+
+“I’m your company,” agreed Pearson, “and I admire your sense. If
+there’s hats at Lone Elm, one of ’em shall set on Miss Tonia’s brow
+to-morrow, and you won’t be at the crowning. I ain’t bragging, Burr,
+but that sorrel of yours is weak in the fore-legs.”
+
+“My horse against yours,” offered Burrows, “that Miss Tonia wears the
+hat I take her to Cactus to-morrow.”
+
+“I’ll take you up,” shouted Pearson. “But oh, it’s just like
+horse-stealing for me! I can use that sorrel for a lady’s animal
+when—when somebody comes over to Mucho Calor, and—”
+
+Burrows’ dark face glowered so suddenly that the cowman broke off his
+sentence. But Pearson could never feel any pressure for long.
+
+“What’s all this Easter business about, Burr?” he asked, cheerfully.
+“Why do the women folks have to have new hats by the almanac or bust
+all cinches trying to get ’em?”
+
+“It’s a seasonable statute out of the testaments,” explained Burrows.
+“It’s ordered by the Pope or somebody. And it has something to do with
+the Zodiac I don’t know exactly, but I think it was invented by the
+Egyptians.”
+
+“It’s an all-right jubilee if the heathens did put their brand on it,”
+said Pearson; “or else Tonia wouldn’t have anything to do with it. And
+they pull it off at church, too. Suppose there ain’t but one hat in the
+Lone Elm store, Burr!”
+
+“Then,” said Burrows, darkly, “the best man of us’ll take it back to
+the Espinosa.”
+
+“Oh, man!” cried Pearson, throwing his hat high and catching it again,
+“there’s nothing like you come off the sheep ranges before. You talk
+good and collateral to the occasion. And if there’s more than one?”
+
+“Then,” said Burrows, “we’ll pick our choice and one of us’ll get back
+first with his and the other won’t.”
+
+“There never was two souls,” proclaimed Pearson to the stars, “that
+beat more like one heart than yourn and mine. Me and you might be
+riding on a unicorn and thinking out of the same piece of mind.”
+
+At a little past midnight the riders loped into Lone Elm. The half a
+hundred houses of the big village were dark. On its only street the big
+wooden store stood barred and shuttered.
+
+In a few moments the horses were fastened and Pearson was pounding
+cheerfully on the door of old Sutton, the storekeeper.
+
+The barrel of a Winchester came through a cranny of a solid window
+shutter followed by a short inquiry.
+
+“Wells Pearson, of the Mucho Calor, and Burrows, of Green Valley,” was
+the response. “We want to buy some goods in the store. Sorry to wake
+you up but we must have ’em. Come on out, Uncle Tommy, and get a move
+on you.”
+
+Uncle Tommy was slow, but at length they got him behind his counter
+with a kerosene lamp lit, and told him of their dire need.
+
+“Easter hats?” said Uncle Tommy, sleepily. “Why, yes, I believe I have
+got just a couple left. I only ordered a dozen this spring. I’ll show
+’em to you.”
+
+Now, Uncle Tommy Sutton was a merchant, half asleep or awake. In dusty
+pasteboard boxes under the counter he had two left-over spring hats.
+But, alas! for his commercial probity on that early Saturday morn—they
+were hats of two springs ago, and a woman’s eye would have detected the
+fraud at half a glance. But to the unintelligent gaze of the cowpuncher
+and the sheepman they seemed fresh from the mint of contemporaneous
+April.
+
+The hats were of a variety once known as “cart-wheels.” They were of
+stiff straw, colored red, and flat brimmed. Both were exactly alike,
+and trimmed lavishly around their crowns with full blown, immaculate,
+artificial white roses.
+
+“That all you got, Uncle Tommy?” said Pearson. “All right. Not much
+choice here, Burr. Take your pick.”
+
+“They’re the latest styles” lied Uncle Tommy. “You’d see ’em on Fifth
+Avenue, if you was in New York.”
+
+Uncle Tommy wrapped and tied each hat in two yards of dark calico for a
+protection. One Pearson tied carefully to his calfskin saddle-thongs;
+and the other became part of Road Runner’s burden. They shouted thanks
+and farewells to Uncle Tommy, and cantered back into the night on the
+home stretch.
+
+The horsemen jockeyed with all their skill. They rode more slowly on
+their way back. The few words they spoke were not unfriendly. Burrows
+had a Winchester under his left leg slung over his saddle horn. Pearson
+had a six shooter belted around him. Thus men rode in the Frio country.
+
+At half-past seven in the morning they rode to the top of a hill and
+saw the Espinosa Ranch, a white spot under a dark patch of live-oaks,
+five miles away.
+
+The sight roused Pearson from his drooping pose in the saddle. He knew
+what Road Runner could do. The sorrel was lathered, and stumbling
+frequently; Road Runner was pegging away like a donkey engine.
+
+Pearson turned toward the sheepman and laughed. “Good-bye, Burr,” he
+cried, with a wave of his hand. “It’s a race now. We’re on the home
+stretch.”
+
+He pressed Road Runner with his knees and leaned toward the Espinosa.
+Road Runner struck into a gallop, with tossing head and snorting
+nostrils, as if he were fresh from a month in pasture.
+
+Pearson rode twenty yards and heard the unmistakable sound of a
+Winchester lever throwing a cartridge into the barrel. He dropped flat
+along his horse’s back before the crack of the rifle reached his ears.
+
+It is possible that Burrows intended only to disable the horse—he was a
+good enough shot to do that without endangering his rider. But as
+Pearson stooped the ball went through his shoulder and then through
+Road Runner’s neck. The horse fell and the cowman pitched over his head
+into the hard road, and neither of them tried to move.
+
+Burrows rode on without stopping.
+
+In two hours Pearson opened his eyes and took inventory. He managed to
+get to his feet and staggered back to where Road Runner was lying.
+
+Road Runner was lying there, but he appeared to be comfortable. Pearson
+examined him and found that the bullet had “creased” him. He had been
+knocked out temporarily, but not seriously hurt. But he was tired, and
+he lay there on Miss Tonia’s hat and ate leaves from a mesquite branch
+that obligingly hung over the road.
+
+Pearson made the horse get up. The Easter hat, loosed from the
+saddle-thongs, lay there in its calico wrappings, a shapeless thing
+from its sojourn beneath the solid carcass of Road Runner. Then Pearson
+fainted and fell head long upon the poor hat again, crumpling it under
+his wounded shoulders.
+
+It is hard to kill a cowpuncher. In half an hour he revived—long enough
+for a woman to have fainted twice and tried ice-cream for a restorer.
+He got up carefully and found Road Runner who was busy with the near-by
+grass. He tied the unfortunate hat to the saddle again, and managed to
+get himself there, too, after many failures.
+
+At noon a gay and fluttering company waited in front of the Espinosa
+Ranch. The Rogers girls were there in their new buckboard, and the
+Anchor-O outfit and the Green Valley folks—mostly women. And each and
+every one wore her new Easter hat, even upon the lonely prairies, for
+they greatly desired to shine forth and do honor to the coming
+festival.
+
+At the gate stood Tonia, with undisguised tears upon her cheeks. In her
+hand she held Burrow’s Lone Elm hat, and it was at its white roses,
+hated by her, that she wept. For her friends were telling her, with the
+ecstatic joy of true friends, that cart-wheels could not be worn, being
+three seasons passed into oblivion.
+
+“Put on your old hat and come, Tonia,” they urged.
+
+“For Easter Sunday?” she answered. “I’ll die first.” And wept again.
+
+The hats of the fortunate ones were curved and twisted into the style
+of spring’s latest proclamation.
+
+A strange being rode out of the brush among them, and there sat his
+horse languidly. He was stained and disfigured with the green of the
+grass and the limestone of rocky roads.
+
+“Hallo, Pearson,” said Daddy Weaver. “Look like you’ve been breaking a
+mustang. What’s that you’ve got tied to your saddle—a pig in a poke?”
+
+“Oh, come on, Tonia, if you’re going,” said Betty Rogers. “We mustn’t
+wait any longer. We’ve saved a seat in the buckboard for you. Never
+mind the hat. That lovely muslin you’ve got on looks sweet enough with
+any old hat.”
+
+Pearson was slowly untying the queer thing on his saddle. Tonia looked
+at him with a sudden hope. Pearson was a man who created hope. He got
+the thing loose and handed it to her. Her quick fingers tore at the
+strings.
+
+“Best I could do,” said Pearson slowly. “What Road Runner and me done
+to it will be about all it needs.”
+
+“Oh, oh! it’s just the right shape,” shrieked Tonia. “And red roses!
+Wait till I try it on!”
+
+She flew in to the glass, and out again, beaming, radiating, blossomed.
+
+“Oh, don’t red become her?” chanted the girls in recitative. “Hurry up,
+Tonia!”
+
+Tonia stopped for a moment by the side of Road Runner.
+
+“Thank you, thank you, Wells,” she said, happily. “It’s just what I
+wanted. Won’t you come over to Cactus to-morrow and go to church with
+me?”
+
+“If I can,” said Pearson. He was looking curiously at her hat, and then
+he grinned weakly.
+
+Tonia flew into the buckboard like a bird. The vehicles sped away for
+Cactus.
+
+“What have you been doing, Pearson?” asked Daddy Weaver. “You ain’t
+looking so well as common.”
+
+“Me?” said Pearson. “I’ve been painting flowers. Them roses was white
+when I left Lone Elm. Help me down, Daddy Weaver, for I haven’t got any
+more paint to spare.”
+
+
+
+
+ROUND THE CIRCLE
+
+
+[This story is especially interesting as an early treatment (1902) of
+the theme afterward developed with a surer hand in The Pendulum.]
+
+
+“Find yo’ shirt all right, Sam?” asked Mrs. Webber, from her chair
+under the live-oak, where she was comfortably seated with a paper-back
+volume for company.
+
+“It balances perfeckly, Marthy,” answered Sam, with a suspicious
+pleasantness in his tone. “At first I was about ter be a little
+reckless and kick ’cause ther buttons was all off, but since I diskiver
+that the button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn’t go so fur as
+to say the buttons is any loss to speak of.”
+
+“Oh, well,” said his wife, carelessly, “put on your necktie—that’ll
+keep it together.”
+
+Sam Webber’s sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the
+country between the Nueces and the Frio. The ranch house—a two-room box
+structure—was on the rise of a gently swelling hill in the midst of a
+wilderness of high chaparral. In front of it was a small clearing where
+stood the sheep pens, shearing shed, and wool house. Only a few feet
+back of it began the thorny jungle.
+
+Sam was going to ride over to the Chapman ranch to see about buying
+some more improved merino rams. At length he came out, ready for his
+ride. This being a business trip of some importance, and the Chapman
+ranch being almost a small town in population and size, Sam had decided
+to “dress up” accordingly. The result was that he had transformed
+himself from a graceful, picturesque frontiersman into something much
+less pleasing to the sight. The tight white collar awkwardly
+constricted his muscular, mahogany-colored neck. The buttonless shirt
+bulged in stiff waves beneath his unbuttoned vest. The suit of
+“ready-made” effectually concealed the fine lines of his straight,
+athletic figure. His berry-brown face was set to the melancholy dignity
+befitting a prisoner of state. He gave Randy, his three-year-old son, a
+pat on the head, and hurried out to where Mexico, his favorite saddle
+horse, was standing.
+
+Marthy, leisurely rocking in her chair, fixed her place in the book
+with her finger, and turned her head, smiling mischievously as she
+noted the havoc Sam had wrought with his appearance in trying to “fix
+up.”
+
+“Well, ef I must say it, Sam,” she drawled, “you look jest like one of
+them hayseeds in the picture papers, ’stead of a free and independent
+sheepman of the State o’ Texas.”
+
+Sam climbed awkwardly into the saddle.
+
+“You’re the one ought to be ’shamed to say so,” he replied hotly.
+“’Stead of ’tendin’ to a man’s clothes you’re al’ays setting around
+a-readin’ them billy-by-dam yaller-back novils.”
+
+“Oh, shet up and ride along,” said Mrs. Webber, with a little jerk at
+the handles of her chair; “you always fussin’ ’bout my readin’. I do
+a-plenty; and I’ll read when I wanter. I live in the bresh here like a
+varmint, never seein’ nor hearin’ nothin’, and what other ’musement kin
+I have? Not in listenin’ to you talk, for it’s complain, complain, one
+day after another. Oh, go on, Sam, and leave me in peace.”
+
+Sam gave his pony a squeeze with his knees and “shoved” down the wagon
+trail that connected his ranch with the old, open Government road. It
+was eight o’clock, and already beginning to be very warm. He should
+have started three hours earlier. Chapman ranch was only eighteen miles
+away, but there was a road for only three miles of the distance. He had
+ridden over there once with one of the Half-Moon cowpunchers, and he
+had the direction well-defined in his mind.
+
+Sam turned off the old Government road at the split mesquite, and
+struck down the arroyo of the Quintanilla. Here was a narrow stretch of
+smiling valley, upholstered with a rich mat of green, curly mesquite
+grass; and Mexico consumed those few miles quickly with his long, easy
+lope. Again, upon reaching Wild Duck Waterhole, must he abandon
+well-defined ways. He turned now to his right up a little hill,
+pebble-covered, upon which grew only the tenacious and thorny prickly
+pear and chaparral. At the summit of this he paused to take his last
+general view of the landscape for, from now on, he must wind through
+brakes and thickets of chaparral, pear, and mesquite, for the most part
+seeing scarcely farther than twenty yards in any direction, choosing
+his way by the prairie-dweller’s instinct, guided only by an occasional
+glimpse of a far distant hilltop, a peculiarly shaped knot of trees, or
+the position of the sun.
+
+Sam rode down the sloping hill and plunged into the great pear flat
+that lies between the Quintanilla and the Piedra.
+
+In about two hours he discovered that he was lost. Then came the usual
+confusion of mind and the hurry to get somewhere. Mexico was anxious to
+redeem the situation, twisting with alacrity along the tortuous
+labyrinths of the jungle. At the moment his master’s sureness of the
+route had failed his horse had divined the fact. There were no hills
+now that they could climb to obtain a view of the country. They came
+upon a few, but so dense and interlaced was the brush that scarcely
+could a rabbit penetrate the mass. They were in the great, lonely
+thicket of the Frio bottoms.
+
+It was a mere nothing for a cattleman or a sheepman to be lost for a
+day or a night. The thing often happened. It was merely a matter of
+missing a meal or two and sleeping comfortably on your saddle blankets
+on a soft mattress of mesquite grass. But in Sam’s case it was
+different. He had never been away from his ranch at night. Marthy was
+afraid of the country—afraid of Mexicans, of snakes, of panthers, even
+of sheep. So he had never left her alone.
+
+It must have been about four in the afternoon when Sam’s conscience
+awoke. He was limp and drenched, rather from anxiety than the heat or
+fatigue. Until now he had been hoping to strike the trail that led to
+the Frio crossing and the Chapman ranch. He must have crossed it at
+some dim part of it and ridden beyond. If so he was now something like
+fifty miles from home. If he could strike a ranch—a camp—any place
+where he could get a fresh horse and inquire the road, he would ride
+all night to get back to Marthy and the kid.
+
+So, I have hinted, Sam was seized by remorse. There was a big lump in
+his throat as he thought of the cross words he had spoken to his wife.
+Surely it was hard enough for her to live in that horrible country
+without having to bear the burden of his abuse. He cursed himself
+grimly, and felt a sudden flush of shame that over-glowed the summer
+heat as he remembered the many times he had flouted and railed at her
+because she had a liking for reading fiction.
+
+“Ther only so’ce ov amusement ther po’ gal’s got,” said Sam aloud, with
+a sob, which unaccustomed sound caused Mexico to shy a bit. “A-livin’
+with a sore-headed kiote like me—a low-down skunk that ought to be
+licked to death with a saddle cinch—a-cookin’ and a-washin’ and
+a-livin’ on mutton and beans and me abusin’ her fur takin’ a squint or
+two in a little book!”
+
+He thought of Marthy as she had been when he first met her in
+Dogtown—smart, pretty, and saucy—before the sun had turned the roses in
+her cheeks brown and the silence of the chaparral had tamed her
+ambitions.
+
+“Ef I ever speaks another hard word to ther little gal,” muttered Sam,
+“or fails in the love and affection that’s coming to her in the deal, I
+hopes a wildcat’ll t’ar me to pieces.”
+
+He knew what he would do. He would write to Garcia & Jones, his San
+Antonio merchants where he bought his supplies and sold his wool, and
+have them send down a big box of novels and reading matter for Marthy.
+Things were going to be different. He wondered whether a little piano
+could be placed in one of the rooms of the ranch house without the
+family having to move out of doors.
+
+In nowise calculated to allay his self-reproach was the thought that
+Marthy and Randy would have to pass the night alone. In spite of their
+bickerings, when night came Marthy was wont to dismiss her fears of the
+country, and rest her head upon Sam’s strong arm with a sigh of
+peaceful content and dependence. And were her fears so groundless? Sam
+thought of roving, marauding Mexicans, of stealthy cougars that
+sometimes invaded the ranches, of rattlesnakes, centipedes, and a dozen
+possible dangers. Marthy would be frantic with fear. Randy would cry,
+and call for dada to come.
+
+Still the interminable succession of stretches of brush, cactus, and
+mesquite. Hollow after hollow, slope after slope—all exactly alike—all
+familiar by constant repetition, and yet all strange and new. If he
+could only arrive _somewhere_.
+
+The straight line is Art. Nature moves in circles. A straightforward
+man is more an artificial product than a diplomatist is. Men lost in
+the snow travel in exact circles until they sink, exhausted, as their
+footprints have attested. Also, travellers in philosophy and other
+mental processes frequently wind up at their starting-point.
+
+It was when Sam Webber was fullest of contrition and good resolves that
+Mexico, with a heavy sigh, subsided from his regular, brisk trot into a
+slow complacent walk. They were winding up an easy slope covered with
+brush ten or twelve feet high.
+
+“I say now, Mex,” demurred Sam, “this here won’t do. I know you’re
+plumb tired out, but we got ter git along. Oh, Lordy, ain’t there no
+mo’ houses in the world!” He gave Mexico a smart kick with his heels.
+
+Mexico gave a protesting grunt as if to say: “What’s the use of that,
+now we’re so near?” He quickened his gait into a languid trot. Rounding
+a great clump of black chaparral he stopped short. Sam dropped the
+bridle reins and sat, looking into the back door of his own house, not
+ten yards away.
+
+Marthy, serene and comfortable, sat in her rocking-chair before the
+door in the shade of the house, with her feet resting luxuriously upon
+the steps. Randy, who was playing with a pair of spurs on the ground,
+looked up for a moment at his father and went on spinning the rowels
+and singing a little song. Marthy turned her head lazily against the
+back of the chair and considered the arrivals with emotionless eyes.
+She held a book in her lap with her finger holding the place.
+
+Sam shook himself queerly, like a man coming out of a dream, and slowly
+dismounted. He moistened his dry lips.
+
+“I see you are still a-settin’,” he said, “a-readin’ of them
+billy-by-dam yaller-back novils.”
+
+Sam had traveled round the circle and was himself again.
+
+
+
+
+THE RUBBER PLANT’S STORY
+
+
+We rubber plants form the connecting link between the vegetable kingdom
+and the decorations of a Waldorf-Astoria scene in a Third Avenue
+theatre. I haven’t looked up our family tree, but I believe we were
+raised by grafting a gum overshoe on to a 30-cent table d’hôte stalk of
+asparagus. You take a white bulldog with a Bourke Cockran air of
+independence about him and a rubber plant and there you have the fauna
+and flora of a flat. What the shamrock is to Ireland the rubber plant
+is to the dweller in flats and furnished rooms. We get moved from one
+place to another so quickly that the only way we can get our picture
+taken is with a kinetoscope. We are the vagrant vine and the flitting
+fig tree. You know the proverb: “Where the rubber plant sits in the
+window the moving van draws up to the door.”
+
+We are the city equivalent to the woodbine and the honeysuckle. No
+other vegetable except the Pittsburg stogie can withstand as much
+handling as we can. When the family to which we belong moves into a
+flat they set us in the front window and we become lares and penates,
+fly-paper and the peripatetic emblem of “Home Sweet Home.” We aren’t as
+green as we look. I guess we are about what you would call the
+soubrettes of the conservatory. You try sitting in the front window of
+a $40 flat in Manhattan and looking out into the street all day, and
+back into the flat at night, and see whether you get wise or not—hey?
+Talk about the tree of knowledge of good and evil in the garden of
+Eden—say! suppose there had been a rubber plant there when Eve—but I
+was going to tell you a story.
+
+The first thing I can remember I had only three leaves and belonged to
+a member of the pony ballet. I was kept in a sunny window, and was
+generally watered with seltzer and lemon. I had plenty of fun in those
+days. I got cross-eyed trying to watch the numbers of the automobiles
+in the street and the dates on the labels inside at the same time.
+
+Well, then the angel that was molting for the musical comedy lost his
+last feather and the company broke up. The ponies trotted away and I
+was left in the window ownerless. The janitor gave me to a refined
+comedy team on the eighth floor, and in six weeks I had been set in the
+window of five different flats. I took on experience and put out two
+more leaves.
+
+Miss Carruthers, of the refined comedy team—did you ever see her cross
+both feet back of her neck?—gave me to a friend of hers who had made an
+unfortunate marriage with a man in a store. Consequently I was placed
+in the window of a furnished room, rent in advance, water two flights
+up, gas extra after ten o’clock at night. Two of my leaves withered off
+here. Also, I was moved from one room to another so many times that I
+got to liking the odor of the pipes the expressmen smoked.
+
+I don’t think I ever had so dull a time as I did with this lady. There
+was never anything amusing going on inside—she was devoted to her
+husband, and, besides leaning out the window and flirting with the
+iceman, she never did a thing toward breaking the monotony.
+
+When the couple broke up they left me with the rest of their goods at a
+second-hand store. I was put out in front for sale along with the
+jobbiest lot you ever heard of being lumped into one bargain. Think of
+this little cornucopia of wonders, all for $1.89: Henry James’s works,
+six talking machine records, one pair of tennis shoes, two bottles of
+horse radish, and a rubber plant—that was me!
+
+One afternoon a girl came along and stopped to look at me. She had dark
+hair and eyes, and she looked slim, and sad around the mouth.
+
+“Oh, oh!” she says to herself. “I never thought to see one up here.”
+
+She pulls out a little purse about as thick as one of my leaves and
+fingers over some small silver in it. Old Koen, always on the lockout,
+is ready, rubbing his hands. This girl proceeds to turn down Mr. James
+and the other commodities. Rubber plants or nothing is the burden of
+her song. And at last Koen and she come together at 39 cents, and away
+she goes with me in her arms.
+
+She was a nice girl, but not my style. Too quiet and sober looking.
+Thinks I to myself: “I’ll just about land on the fire-escape of a
+tenement, six stories up. And I’ll spend the next six months looking at
+clothes on the line.”
+
+But she carried me to a nice little room only three flights up in quite
+a decent street. And she put me in the window, of course. And then she
+went to work and cooked dinner for herself. And what do you suppose she
+had? Bread and tea and a little dab of jam! Nothing else. Not a single
+lobster, nor so much as one bottle of champagne. The Carruthers comedy
+team had both every evening, except now and then when they took a
+notion for pig’s knuckle and kraut.
+
+After she had finished her dinner my new owner came to the window and
+leaned down close to my leaves and cried softly to herself for a while.
+It made me feel funny. I never knew anybody to cry that way over a
+rubber plant before. Of course, I’ve seen a few of ’em turn on the
+tears for what they could get out of it, but she seemed to be crying
+just for the pure enjoyment of it. She touched my leaves like she loved
+’em, and she bent down her head and kissed each one of ’em. I guess I’m
+about the toughest specimen of a peripatetic orchid on earth, but I
+tell you it made me feel sort of queer. Home never was like that to me
+before. Generally I used to get chewed by poodles and have shirt-waists
+hung on me to dry, and get watered with coffee grounds and peroxide of
+hydrogen.
+
+This girl had a piano in the room, and she used to disturb it with both
+hands while she made noises with her mouth for hours at a time. I
+suppose she was practising vocal music.
+
+One day she seemed very much excited and kept looking at the clock. At
+eleven somebody knocked and she let in a stout, dark man with tousled
+black hair. He sat down at once at the piano and played while she sang
+for him. When she finished she laid one hand on her bosom and looked at
+him. He shook his head, and she leaned against the piano. “Two years
+already,” she said, speaking slowly—“do you think in two more—or even
+longer?”
+
+The man shook his head again. “You waste your time,” he said, roughly I
+thought. “The voice is not there.” And then he looked at her in a
+peculiar way. “But the voice is not everything,” he went on. “You have
+looks. I can place you, as I told you if—”
+
+The girl pointed to the door without saying anything, and the dark man
+left the room. And then she came over and cried around me again. It’s a
+good thing I had enough rubber in me to be water-proof.
+
+About that time somebody else knocked at the door. “Thank goodness,” I
+said to myself. “Here’s a chance to get the water-works turned off. I
+hope it’s somebody that’s game enough to stand a bird and a bottle to
+liven things up a little.” Tell you the truth, this little girl made me
+tired. A rubber plant likes to see a little sport now and then. I don’t
+suppose there’s another green thing in New York that sees as much of
+gay life unless it’s the chartreuse or the sprigs of parsley around the
+dish.
+
+When the girl opens the door in steps a young chap in a traveling cap
+and picks her up in his arms, and she sings out “Oh, Dick!” and stays
+there long enough to—well, you’ve been a rubber plant too, sometimes, I
+suppose.
+
+“Good thing!” says I to myself. “This is livelier than scales and
+weeping. Now there’ll be something doing.”
+
+“You’ve got to go back with me,” says the young man. “I’ve come two
+thousand miles for you. Aren’t you tired of it yet. Bess? You’ve kept
+all of us waiting so long. Haven’t you found out yet what is best?”
+
+“The bubble burst only to-day,” says the girl. “Come here, Dick, and
+see what I found the other day on the sidewalk for sale.” She brings
+him by the hand and exhibits yours truly. “How one ever got away up
+here who can tell? I bought it with almost the last money I had.”
+
+He looked at me, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off her for more than a
+second. “Do you remember the night, Bess,” he said, “when we stood
+under one of those on the bank of the bayou and what you told me then?”
+
+“Geewillikins!” I said to myself. “Both of them stand under a rubber
+plant! Seems to me they are stretching matters somewhat!”
+
+“Do I not,” says she, looking up at him and sneaking close to his vest,
+“and now I say it again, and it is to last forever. Look, Dick, at its
+leaves, how wet they are. Those are my tears, and it was thinking of
+you that made them fall.”
+
+“The dear old magnolias!” says the young man, pinching one of my
+leaves. “I love them all.”
+
+Magnolia! Well, wouldn’t that—say! those innocents thought I was a
+magnolia! What the—well, wasn’t that tough on a genuine little old New
+York rubber plant?
+
+
+
+
+OUT OF NAZARETH
+
+
+Okochee, in Georgia, had a boom, and J. Pinkney Bloom came out of it
+with a “wad.” Okochee came out of it with a half-million-dollar debt, a
+two and a half per cent. city property tax, and a city council that
+showed a propensity for traveling the back streets of the town. These
+things came about through a fatal resemblance of the river Cooloosa to
+the Hudson, as set forth and expounded by a Northern tourist. Okochee
+felt that New York should not be allowed to consider itself the only
+alligator in the swamp, so to speak. And then that harmless, but
+persistent, individual so numerous in the South—the man who is always
+clamoring for more cotton mills, and is ready to take a dollar’s worth
+of stock, provided he can borrow the dollar—that man added his deadly
+work to the tourist’s innocent praise, and Okochee fell.
+
+The Cooloosa River winds through a range of small mountains, passes
+Okochee and then blends its waters trippingly, as fall the mellifluous
+Indian syllables, with the Chattahoochee.
+
+Okochee rose, as it were, from its sunny seat on the post-office stoop,
+hitched up its suspender, and threw a granite dam two hundred and forty
+feet long and sixty feet high across the Cooloosa one mile above the
+town. Thereupon, a dimpling, sparkling lake backed up twenty miles
+among the little mountains. Thus in the great game of municipal rivalry
+did Okochee match that famous drawing card, the Hudson. It was conceded
+that nowhere could the Palisades be judged superior in the way of
+scenery and grandeur. Following the picture card was played the ace of
+commercial importance. Fourteen thousand horsepower would this dam
+furnish. Cotton mills, factories, and manufacturing plants would rise
+up as the green corn after a shower. The spindle and the flywheel and
+turbine would sing the shrewd glory of Okochee. Along the picturesque
+heights above the lake would rise in beauty the costly villas and the
+splendid summer residences of capital. The naphtha launch of the
+millionaire would spit among the romantic coves; the verdured hills
+would take formal shapes of terrace, lawn, and park. Money would be
+spent like water in Okochee, and water would be turned into money.
+
+The fate of the good town is quickly told. Capital decided not to
+invest. Of all the great things promised, the scenery alone came to
+fulfilment. The wooded peaks, the impressive promontories of solemn
+granite, the beautiful green slants of bank and ravine did all they
+could to reconcile Okochee to the delinquency of miserly gold. The
+sunsets gilded the dreamy draws and coves with a minting that should
+charm away heart-burning. Okochee, true to the instinct of its blood
+and clime, was lulled by the spell. It climbed out of the arena, loosed
+its suspender, sat down again on the post-office stoop, and took a
+chew. It consoled itself by drawling sarcasms at the city council which
+was not to blame, causing the fathers, as has been said, to seek back
+streets and figure perspiringly on the sinking fund and the
+appropriation for interest due.
+
+The youth of Okochee—they who were to carry into the rosy future the
+burden of the debt—accepted failure with youth’s uncalculating joy.
+For, here was sport, aquatic and nautical, added to the meagre round of
+life’s pleasures. In yachting caps and flowing neckties they pervaded
+the lake to its limits. Girls wore silk waists embroidered with anchors
+in blue and pink. The trousers of the young men widened at the bottom,
+and their hands were proudly calloused by the oft-plied oar. Fishermen
+were under the spell of a deep and tolerant joy. Sailboats and rowboats
+furrowed the lenient waves, popcorn and ice-cream booths sprang up
+about the little wooden pier. Two small excursion steamboats were
+built, and plied the delectable waters. Okochee philosophically gave up
+the hope of eating turtle soup with a gold spoon, and settled back, not
+ill content, to its regular diet of lotus and fried hominy. And out of
+this slow wreck of great expectations rose up J. Pinkney Bloom with his
+“wad” and his prosperous, cheery smile.
+
+Needless to say J. Pinkney was no product of Georgia soil. He came out
+of that flushed and capable region known as the “North.” He called
+himself a “promoter”; his enemies had spoken of him as a “grafter”;
+Okochee took a middle course, and held him to be no better nor no worse
+than a “Yank.”
+
+Far up the lake—eighteen miles above the town—the eye of this cheerful
+camp-follower of booms had spied out a graft. He purchased there a
+precipitous tract of five hundred acres at forty-five cents per acre;
+and this he laid out and subdivided as the city of Skyland—the Queen
+City of the Switzerland of the South. Streets and avenues were
+surveyed; parks designed; corners of central squares reserved for the
+“proposed” opera house, board of trade, lyceum, market, public schools,
+and “Exposition Hall.” The price of lots ranged from five to five
+hundred dollars. Positively, no lot would be priced higher than five
+hundred dollars.
+
+While the boom was growing in Okochee, J. Pinkney’s circulars, maps,
+and prospectuses were flying through the mails to every part of the
+country. Investors sent in their money by post, and the Skyland Real
+Estate Company (J. Pinkney Bloom) returned to each a deed, duly placed
+on record, to the best lot, at the price, on hand that day. All this
+time the catamount screeched upon the reserved lot of the Skyland Board
+of Trade, the opossum swung by his tail over the site of the exposition
+hall, and the owl hooted a melancholy recitative to his audience of
+young squirrels in opera house square. Later, when the money was coming
+in fast, J. Pinkney caused to be erected in the coming city half a
+dozen cheap box houses, and persuaded a contingent of indigent natives
+to occupy them, thereby assuming the role of “population” in subsequent
+prospectuses, which became, accordingly, more seductive and
+remunerative.
+
+So, when the dream faded and Okochee dropped back to digging bait and
+nursing its two and a half per cent. tax, J. Pinkney Bloom (unloving of
+checks and drafts and the cold interrogatories of bankers) strapped
+about his fifty-two-inch waist a soft leather belt containing eight
+thousand dollars in big bills, and said that all was very good.
+
+One last trip he was making to Skyland before departing to other salad
+fields. Skyland was a regular post-office, and the steamboat, _Dixie
+Belle_, under contract, delivered the mail bag (generally empty) twice
+a week. There was a little business there to be settled—the postmaster
+was to be paid off for his light but lonely services, and the
+“inhabitants” had to be furnished with another month’s homely rations,
+as per agreement. And then Skyland would know J. Pinkney Bloom no more.
+The owners of these precipitous, barren, useless lots might come and
+view the scene of their invested credulity, or they might leave them to
+their fit tenants, the wild hog and the browsing deer. The work of the
+Skyland Real Estate Company was finished.
+
+The little steamboat _Dixie Belle_ was about to shove off on her
+regular up-the-lake trip, when a rickety hired carriage rattled up to
+the pier, and a tall, elderly gentleman, in black, stepped out,
+signaling courteously but vivaciously for the boat to wait. Time was of
+the least importance in the schedule of the _Dixie Belle_; Captain
+MacFarland gave the order, and the boat received its ultimate two
+passengers. For, upon the arm of the tall, elderly gentleman, as he
+crossed the gangway, was a little elderly lady, with a gray curl
+depending quaintly forward of her left ear.
+
+Captain MacFarland was at the wheel; therefore it seemed to J. Pinkney
+Bloom, who was the only other passenger, that it should be his to play
+the part of host to the boat’s new guests, who were, doubtless, on a
+scenery-viewing expedition. He stepped forward, with that translucent,
+child-candid smile upon his fresh, pink countenance, with that air of
+unaffected sincerity that was redeemed from bluffness only by its
+exquisite calculation, with that promptitude and masterly decision of
+manner that so well suited his calling—with all his stock in trade well
+to the front; he stepped forward to receive Colonel and Mrs. Peyton
+Blaylock. With the grace of a grand marshal or a wedding usher, he
+escorted the two passengers to a side of the upper deck, from which the
+scenery was supposed to present itself to the observer in increased
+quantity and quality. There, in comfortable steamer chairs, they sat
+and began to piece together the random lines that were to form an
+intelligent paragraph in the big history of little events.
+
+“Our home, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, removing his wide-brimmed,
+rather shapeless black felt hat, “is in Holly Springs—Holly Springs,
+Georgia. I am very proud to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bloom. Mrs.
+Blaylock and myself have just arrived in Okochee this morning, sir, on
+business—business of importance in connection with the recent rapid
+march of progress in this section of our state.”
+
+The Colonel smoothed back, with a sweeping gesture, his long, smooth,
+locks. His dark eyes, still fiery under the heavy black brows, seemed
+inappropriate to the face of a business man. He looked rather to be an
+old courtier handed down from the reign of Charles, and re-attired in a
+modern suit of fine, but raveling and seam-worn, broadcloth.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bloom, in his heartiest prospectus voice, “things
+have been whizzing around Okochee. Biggest industrial revival and
+waking up to natural resources Georgia ever had. Did you happen to
+squeeze in on the ground floor in any of the gilt-edged grafts,
+Colonel?”
+
+“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, hesitating in courteous doubt, “if I
+understand your question, I may say that I took the opportunity to make
+an investment that I believe will prove quite advantageous—yes, sir, I
+believe it will result in both pecuniary profit and agreeable
+occupation.”
+
+“Colonel Blaylock,” said the little elderly lady, shaking her gray curl
+and smiling indulgent explanation at J. Pinkney Bloom, “is so devoted
+to businesss. He has such a talent for financiering and markets and
+investments and those kind of things. I think myself extremely
+fortunate in having secured him for a partner on life’s journey—I am so
+unversed in those formidable but very useful branches of learning.”
+
+Colonel Blaylock rose and made a bow—a bow that belonged with silk
+stockings and lace ruffles and velvet.
+
+“Practical affairs,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the
+promoter, “are, if I may use the comparison, the garden walks upon
+which we tread through life, viewing upon either side of us the flowers
+which brighten that journey. It is my pleasure to be able to lay out a
+walk or two. Mrs. Blaylock, sir, is one of those fortunate higher
+spirits whose mission it is to make the flowers grow. Perhaps, Mr.
+Bloom, you have perused the lines of Lorella, the Southern poetess.
+That is the name above which Mrs. Blaylock has contributed to the press
+of the South for many years.”
+
+“Unfortunately,” said Mr. Bloom, with a sense of the loss clearly
+written upon his frank face, “I’m like the Colonel—in the walk-making
+business myself—and I haven’t had time to even take a sniff at the
+flowers. Poetry is a line I never dealt in. It must be nice,
+though—quite nice.”
+
+“It is the region,” smiled Mrs. Blaylock, “in which my soul dwells. My
+shawl, Peyton, if you please—the breeze comes a little chilly from yon
+verdured hills.”
+
+The Colonel drew from the tail pocket of his coat a small shawl of
+knitted silk and laid it solicitously about the shoulders of the lady.
+Mrs. Blaylock sighed contentedly, and turned her expressive eyes—still
+as clear and unworldly as a child’s—upon the steep slopes that were
+slowly slipping past. Very fair and stately they looked in the clear
+morning air. They seemed to speak in familiar terms to the responsive
+spirit of Lorella. “My native hills!” she murmured, dreamily. “See how
+the foliage drinks the sunlight from the hollows and dells.”
+
+“Mrs. Blaylock’s maiden days,” said the Colonel, interpreting her mood
+to J. Pinkney Bloom, “were spent among the mountains of northern
+Georgia. Mountain air and mountain scenery recall to her those days.
+Holly Springs, where we have lived for twenty years, is low and flat. I
+fear that she may have suffered in health and spirits by so long a
+residence there. That is one portent reason for the change we are
+making. My dear, can you not recall those lines you wrote—entitled, I
+think, ‘The Georgia Hills’—the poem that was so extensively copied by
+the Southern press and praised so highly by the Atlanta critics?”
+
+Mrs. Blaylock turned a glance of speaking tenderness upon the Colonel,
+fingered for a moment the silvery curl that drooped upon her bosom,
+then looked again toward the mountains. Without preliminary or
+affectation or demurral she began, in rather thrilling and more deeply
+pitched tones to recite these lines:
+
+“The Georgia hills, the Georgia hills!—
+    Oh, heart, why dost thou pine?
+Are not these sheltered lowlands fair
+    With mead and bloom and vine?
+Ah! as the slow-paced river here
+    Broods on its natal rills
+My spirit drifts, in longing sweet,
+    Back to the Georgia hills.
+
+“And through the close-drawn, curtained night
+    I steal on sleep’s slow wings
+Back to my heart’s ease—slopes of pine—
+    Where end my wanderings.
+Oh, heaven seems nearer from their tops—
+    And farther earthly ills—
+Even in dreams, if I may but
+    Dream of my Georgia hills.
+
+The grass upon their orchard sides
+    Is a fine couch to me;
+The common note of each small bird
+    Passes all minstrelsy.
+It would not seem so dread a thing
+    If, when the Reaper wills,
+He might come there and take my hand
+    Up in the Georgia hills.”
+
+
+“That’s great stuff, ma’am,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically,
+when the poetess had concluded. “I wish I had looked up poetry more
+than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself.”
+
+“The mountains ever call to their children,” murmured Mrs. Blaylock. “I
+feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in among these
+beautiful hills. Peyton—a little taste of the currant wine, if you will
+be so good. The journey, though delightful in the extreme, slightly
+fatigues me.” Colonel Blaylock again visited the depths of his prolific
+coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough, black bottle. Mr. Bloom was
+on his feet in an instant.
+
+“Let me bring a glass, ma’am. You come along, Colonel—there’s a little
+table we can bring, too. Maybe we can scare up some fruit or a cup of
+tea on board. I’ll ask Mac.”
+
+Mrs. Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal
+prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The
+Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his
+courtship, and J. Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half
+professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed,
+long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court. The
+currant wine—wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit—went round,
+and then J. Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.
+
+It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs was
+decadent. A third of the population had moved away. Business—and the
+Colonel was an authority on business—had dwindled to nothing. After
+carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had
+sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested
+it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.
+
+“Might I inquire, sir,” said Mr. Bloom, “in what particular line of
+business you inserted your coin? I know that town as well as I know the
+regulations for illegal use of the mails. I might give you a hunch as
+to whether you can make the game go or not.”
+
+J. Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated
+representatives of by-gone days. They were so simple, impractical, and
+unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or
+a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He
+would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did
+these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.
+
+“No, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, pausing to arrange the queen’s wrap.
+“I did not invest in Okochee. I have made an exhaustive study of
+business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable
+fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount. Some months
+ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands a map
+and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built upon
+the lake. The description was so pleasing, the future of the town set
+forth in such convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity
+portrayed in such an attractive style that I decided to take advantage
+of the opportunity it offered. I carefully selected a lot in the centre
+of the business district, although its price was the highest in the
+schedule—five hundred dollars—and made the purchase at once.”
+
+“Are you the man—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in
+Skyland” asked J. Pinkney Bloom.
+
+“I did, sir,” answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest
+millionaire explaining his success; “a lot most excellently situated on
+the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the
+board of trade. I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one. It is my
+intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and open a modest
+book and stationery store. During past years I have met with many
+pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to engage in some
+commercial occupation that will furnish me with a livelihood. The book
+and stationery business, though an humble one, seems to me not inapt
+nor altogether uncongenial. I am a graduate of the University of
+Virginia; and Mrs. Blaylock’s really wonderful acquaintance with
+belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring
+success. Of course, Mrs. Blaylock would not personally serve behind the
+counter. With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I can
+manage the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot. I have an
+old friend in Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store, and he
+has agreed to furnish me with a stock of goods on credit, on extremely
+easy terms. I am pleased to hope, sir, that Mrs. Blaylock’s health and
+happiness will be increased by the change of locality. Already I fancy
+I can perceive the return of those roses that were once the hope and
+despair of Georgia cavaliers.”
+
+Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the
+pale cheek of the poetess. Mrs. Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook
+her curl and gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap. Secret of eternal
+youth—where art thou? Every second the answer comes—“Here, here, here.”
+Listen to thine own heartbeats, O weary seeker after external miracles.
+
+“Those years,” said Mrs. Blaylock, “in Holly Springs were long, long,
+long. But now is the promised land in sight. Skyland!—a lovely name.”
+
+“Doubtless,” said the Colonel, “we shall be able to secure comfortable
+accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates. Our trunks are
+in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent
+arrangements.”
+
+J. Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the
+captain at the wheel.
+
+“Mac,” said he, “do you remember my telling you once that I sold one of
+those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?”
+
+“Seems I do,” grinned Captain MacFarland.
+
+“I’m not a coward, as a general rule,” went on the promoter, “but I
+always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot I’d run
+like a turkey. Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there? Well,
+he’s the boy that drew the prize. That was the only five-hundred-dollar
+lot that went. The rest ranged from ten dollars to two hundred. His
+wife writes poetry. She’s invented one about the high grounds of
+Georgia, that’s way up in G. They’re going to Skyland to open a book
+store.”
+
+“Well,” said MacFarland, with another grin, “it’s a good thing you are
+along, J. P.; you can show ’em around town until they begin to feel at
+home.”
+
+“He’s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,”
+went on J. Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. “And he thinks
+there’s an open house up there.”
+
+Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg a
+roguish slap.
+
+“You old fat rascal!” he chuckled, with a wink.
+
+“Mac, you’re a fool,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went back and
+joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight
+furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being
+shaped within.
+
+“There’s a good many swindles connected with these booms,” he said
+presently. “What if this Skyland should turn out to be one—that is,
+suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no special sale for
+books?”
+
+“My dear sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the back of
+his wife’s chair, “three times I have been reduced to almost penury by
+the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in humanity. If
+I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content, if
+not worldly profit. I am aware that there are dishonest schemers in the
+world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not altogether
+bad. My dear, can you recall those verses entitled ‘He Giveth the
+Increase,’ that you composed for the choir of our church in Holly
+Springs?”
+
+“That was four years ago,” said Mrs. Blaylock; “perhaps I can repeat a
+verse or two.
+
+“The lily springs from the rotting mould;
+    Pearls from the deep sea slime;
+Good will come out of Nazareth
+    All in God’s own time.
+
+“To the hardest heart the softening grace
+    Cometh, at last, to bless;
+Guiding it right to help and cheer
+    And succor in distress.
+
+
+“I cannot remember the rest. The lines were not ambitious. They were
+written to the music composed by a dear friend.”
+
+“It’s a fine rhyme, just the same,” declared Mr. Bloom. “It seems to
+ring the bell, all right. I guess I gather the sense of it. It means
+that the rankest kind of a phony will give you the best end of it once
+in a while.”
+
+Mr. Bloom strayed thoughtfully back to the captain, and stood
+meditating.
+
+“Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now in
+a few minutes,” chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.
+
+“Go to the devil,” said Mr. Bloom, still pensive.
+
+And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village,
+high up on the hills, smothered among green trees. That was Cold
+Branch—no boom town, but the slow growth of many years. Cold Branch lay
+on the edge of the grape and corn lands. The big country road ran just
+back of the heights. Cold Branch had nothing in common with the frisky
+ambition of Okochee with its impertinent lake.
+
+“Mac,” said J. Pinkney suddenly, “I want you to stop at Cold Branch.
+There’s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river
+was up.”
+
+“Can’t,” said the captain, grinning more broadly. “I’ve got the United
+States mails on board. Right to-day this boat’s in the government
+service. Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle
+Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its
+mail? I’m ashamed of your extravagance, J. P.”
+
+“Mac,” almost whispered J. Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, “I looked
+into the engine room of the _Dixie Belle_ a while ago. Don’t you know
+of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black Japan can’t hide
+flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and loan that you
+traded for repairs—they were all yours, of course. I hate to mention
+these things, but—”
+
+“Oh, come now, J. P.,” said the captain. “You know I was just fooling.
+I’ll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so.”
+
+“The other passengers get off there, too,” said Mr. Bloom.
+
+Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the _Dixie Belle_
+turned her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank,
+and the captain, relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the
+passenger deck and made the remarkable announcement: “All out for
+Skyland.”
+
+The Blaylocks and J. Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the _Dixie Belle_
+proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter,
+they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and
+admire the view. Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch.
+Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and
+peaceful beauty. Mr. Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a
+shady street that bore the legend, “Pine-top Inn.” Here he took his
+leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the
+Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the
+day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.
+
+J. Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch’s main street. He did not know
+this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter. Presently he
+saw a sign over a door: “Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary
+Public.” A young man was Mr. Cooly, and awaiting business.
+
+“Get your hat, son,” said Mr. Bloom, in his breezy way, “and a blank
+deed, and come along. It’s a job for you.”
+
+“Now,” he continued, when Mr. Cooly had responded with alacrity, “is
+there a bookstore in town?”
+
+“One,” said the lawyer. “Henry Williams’s.”
+
+“Get there,” said Mr. Bloom. “We’re going to buy it.”
+
+Henry Williams was behind his counter. His store was a small one,
+containing a mixture of books, stationery, and fancy rubbish. Adjoining
+it was Henry’s home—a decent cottage, vine-embowered and cosy. Henry
+was lank and soporific, and not inclined to rush his business.
+
+“I want to buy your house and store,” said Mr. Bloom. “I haven’t got
+time to dicker—name your price.”
+
+“It’s worth eight hundred,” said Henry, too much dazed to ask more than
+its value.
+
+“Shut that door,” said Mr. Bloom to the lawyer. Then he tore off his
+coat and vest, and began to unbutton his shirt.
+
+“Wanter fight about it, do yer?” said Henry Williams, jumping up and
+cracking his heels together twice. “All right, hunky—sail in and cut
+yer capers.”
+
+“Keep your clothes on,” said Mr. Bloom. “I’m only going down to the
+bank.”
+
+He drew eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his money belt and planked
+them down on the counter. Mr. Cooly showed signs of future promise, for
+he already had the deed spread out, and was reaching across the counter
+for the ink bottle. Never before or since was such quick action had in
+Cold Branch.
+
+“Your name, please?” asked the lawyer.
+
+“Make it out to Peyton Blaylock,” said Mr. Bloom. “God knows how to
+spell it.”
+
+Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and Mr. Bloom
+stood on the brick sidewalk with Mr. Cooly, who held in his hand the
+signed and attested deed.
+
+“You’ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Get
+it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He’ll ask you a
+hell’s mint of questions; so here’s ten dollars for the trouble you’ll
+have in not being able to answer ’em. Never run much to poetry, did
+you, young man?”
+
+“Well,” said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his right
+mind, “now and then.”
+
+“Dig into it,” said Mr. Bloom, “it’ll pay you. Never heard a poem, now,
+that run something like this, did you?—
+
+A good thing out of Nazareth
+    Comes up sometimes, I guess,
+On hand, all right, to help and cheer
+    A sucker in distress.”
+
+
+“I believe not,” said Mr. Cooly.
+
+“It’s a hymn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Now, show me the way to a livery
+stable, son, for I’m going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee.”
+
+
+
+
+CONFESSIONS OF A HUMORIST
+
+
+There was a painless stage of incubation that lasted twenty-five years,
+and then it broke out on me, and people said I was It.
+
+But they called it humor instead of measles.
+
+The employees in the store bought a silver inkstand for the senior
+partner on his fiftieth birthday. We crowded into his private office to
+present it. I had been selected for spokesman, and I made a little
+speech that I had been preparing for a week.
+
+It made a hit. It was full of puns and epigrams and funny twists that
+brought down the house—which was a very solid one in the wholesale
+hardware line. Old Marlowe himself actually grinned, and the employees
+took their cue and roared.
+
+My reputation as a humorist dates from half-past nine o’clock on that
+morning. For weeks afterward my fellow clerks fanned the flame of my
+self-esteem. One by one they came to me, saying what an awfully clever
+speech that was, old man, and carefully explained to me the point of
+each one of my jokes.
+
+Gradually I found that I was expected to keep it up. Others might speak
+sanely on business matters and the day’s topics, but from me something
+gamesome and airy was required.
+
+I was expected to crack jokes about the crockery and lighten up the
+granite ware with persiflage. I was second bookkeeper, and if I failed
+to show up a balance sheet without something comic about the footings
+or could find no cause for laughter in an invoice of plows, the other
+clerks were disappointed. By degrees my fame spread, and I became a
+local “character.” Our town was small enough to make this possible. The
+daily newspaper quoted me. At social gatherings I was indispensable.
+
+I believe I did possess considerable wit and a facility for quick and
+spontaneous repartee. This gift I cultivated and improved by practice.
+And the nature of it was kindly and genial, not running to sarcasm or
+offending others. People began to smile when they saw me coming, and by
+the time we had met I generally had the word ready to broaden the smile
+into a laugh.
+
+I had married early. We had a charming boy of three and a girl of five.
+Naturally, we lived in a vine-covered cottage, and were happy. My
+salary as bookkeeper in the hardware concern kept at a distance those
+ills attendant upon superfluous wealth.
+
+At sundry times I had written out a few jokes and conceits that I
+considered peculiarly happy, and had sent them to certain periodicals
+that print such things. All of them had been instantly accepted.
+Several of the editors had written to request further contributions.
+
+One day I received a letter from the editor of a famous weekly
+publication. He suggested that I submit to him a humorous composition
+to fill a column of space; hinting that he would make it a regular
+feature of each issue if the work proved satisfactory. I did so, and at
+the end of two weeks he offered to make a contract with me for a year
+at a figure that was considerably higher than the amount paid me by the
+hardware firm.
+
+I was filled with delight. My wife already crowned me in her mind with
+the imperishable evergreens of literary success. We had lobster
+croquettes and a bottle of blackberry wine for supper that night. Here
+was the chance to liberate myself from drudgery. I talked over the
+matter very seriously with Louisa. We agreed that I must resign my
+place at the store and devote myself to humor.
+
+I resigned. My fellow clerks gave me a farewell banquet. The speech I
+made there coruscated. It was printed in full by the _Gazette_. The
+next morning I awoke and looked at the clock.
+
+“Late, by George!” I exclaimed, and grabbed for my clothes. Louisa
+reminded me that I was no longer a slave to hardware and contractors’
+supplies. I was now a professional humorist.
+
+After breakfast she proudly led me to the little room off the kitchen.
+Dear girl! There was my table and chair, writing pad, ink, and pipe
+tray. And all the author’s trappings—the celery stand full of fresh
+roses and honeysuckle, last year’s calendar on the wall, the
+dictionary, and a little bag of chocolates to nibble between
+inspirations. Dear girl!
+
+I sat me to work. The wall paper is patterned with arabesques or
+odalisks or—perhaps—it is trapezoids. Upon one of the figures I fixed
+my eyes. I bethought me of humor.
+
+A voice startled me—Louisa’s voice.
+
+“If you aren’t too busy, dear,” it said, “come to dinner.”
+
+I looked at my watch. Yes, five hours had been gathered in by the grim
+scytheman. I went to dinner.
+
+“You mustn’t work too hard at first,” said Louisa. “Goethe—or was it
+Napoleon?—said five hours a day is enough for mental labor. Couldn’t
+you take me and the children to the woods this afternoon?”
+
+“I _am_ a little tired,” I admitted. So we went to the woods.
+
+But I soon got the swing of it. Within a month I was turning out copy
+as regular as shipments of hardware.
+
+And I had success. My column in the weekly made some stir, and I was
+referred to in a gossipy way by the critics as something fresh in the
+line of humorists. I augmented my income considerably by contributing
+to other publications.
+
+I picked up the tricks of the trade. I could take a funny idea and make
+a two-line joke of it, earning a dollar. With false whiskers on, it
+would serve up cold as a quatrain, doubling its producing value. By
+turning the skirt and adding a ruffle of rhyme you would hardly
+recognize it as _vers de societe_ with neatly shod feet and a
+fashion-plate illustration.
+
+I began to save up money, and we had new carpets, and a parlor organ.
+My townspeople began to look upon me as a citizen of some consequence
+instead of the merry trifler I had been when I clerked in the hardware
+store.
+
+After five or six months the spontaniety seemed to depart from my
+humor. Quips and droll sayings no longer fell carelessly from my lips.
+I was sometimes hard run for material. I found myself listening to
+catch available ideas from the conversation of my friends. Sometimes I
+chewed my pencil and gazed at the wall paper for hours trying to build
+up some gay little bubble of unstudied fun.
+
+And then I became a harpy, a Moloch, a Jonah, a vampire, to my
+acquaintances. Anxious, haggard, greedy, I stood among them like a
+veritable killjoy. Let a bright saying, a witty comparison, a piquant
+phrase fall from their lips and I was after it like a hound springing
+upon a bone. I dared not trust my memory; but, turning aside guiltily
+and meanly, I would make a note of it in my ever-present memorandum
+book or upon my cuff for my own future use.
+
+My friends regarded me in sorrow and wonder. I was not the same man.
+Where once I had furnished them entertainment and jollity, I now preyed
+upon them. No jests from me ever bid for their smiles now. They were
+too precious. I could not afford to dispense gratuitously the means of
+my livelihood.
+
+I was a lugubrious fox praising the singing of my friends, the crow’s,
+that they might drop from their beaks the morsels of wit that I
+coveted.
+
+Nearly every one began to avoid me. I even forgot how to smile, not
+even paying that much for the sayings I appropriated.
+
+No persons, places, times, or subjects were exempt from my plundering
+in search of material. Even in church my demoralized fancy went hunting
+among the solemn aisles and pillars for spoil.
+
+Did the minister give out the long-meter doxology, at once I began:
+“Doxology—sockdology—sockdolager—meter—meet her.”
+
+The sermon ran through my mental sieve, its precepts filtering
+unheeded, could I but glean a suggestion of a pun or a _bon mot_. The
+solemnest anthems of the choir were but an accompaniment to my thoughts
+as I conceived new changes to ring upon the ancient comicalities
+concerning the jealousies of soprano, tenor, and basso.
+
+My own home became a hunting ground. My wife is a singularly feminine
+creature, candid, sympathetic, and impulsive. Once her conversation was
+my delight, and her ideas a source of unfailing pleasure. Now I worked
+her. She was a gold mine of those amusing but lovable inconsistencies
+that distinguish the female mind.
+
+I began to market those pearls of unwisdom and humor that should have
+enriched only the sacred precincts of home. With devilish cunning I
+encouraged her to talk. Unsuspecting, she laid her heart bare. Upon the
+cold, conspicuous, common, printed page I offered it to the public
+gaze.
+
+A literary Judas, I kissed her and betrayed her. For pieces of silver I
+dressed her sweet confidences in the pantalettes and frills of folly
+and made them dance in the market place.
+
+Dear Louisa! Of nights I have bent over her cruel as a wolf above a
+tender lamb, hearkening even to her soft words murmured in sleep,
+hoping to catch an idea for my next day’s grind. There is worse to
+come.
+
+God help me! Next my fangs were buried deep in the neck of the fugitive
+sayings of my little children.
+
+Guy and Viola were two bright fountains of childish, quaint thoughts
+and speeches. I found a ready sale for this kind of humor, and was
+furnishing a regular department in a magazine with “Funny Fancies of
+Childhood.” I began to stalk them as an Indian stalks the antelope. I
+would hide behind sofas and doors, or crawl on my hands and knees among
+the bushes in the yard to eavesdrop while they were at play. I had all
+the qualities of a harpy except remorse.
+
+Once, when I was barren of ideas, and my copy must leave in the next
+mail, I covered myself in a pile of autumn leaves in the yard, where I
+knew they intended to come to play. I cannot bring myself to believe
+that Guy was aware of my hiding place, but even if he was, I would be
+loath to blame him for his setting fire to the leaves, causing the
+destruction of my new suit of clothes, and nearly cremating a parent.
+
+Soon my own children began to shun me as a pest. Often, when I was
+creeping upon them like a melancholy ghoul, I would hear them say to
+each other: “Here comes papa,” and they would gather their toys and
+scurry away to some safer hiding place. Miserable wretch that I was!
+
+And yet I was doing well financially. Before the first year had passed
+I had saved a thousand dollars, and we had lived in comfort.
+
+But at what a cost! I am not quite clear as to what a pariah is, but I
+was everything that it sounds like. I had no friends, no amusements, no
+enjoyment of life. The happiness of my family had been sacrificed. I
+was a bee, sucking sordid honey from life’s fairest flowers, dreaded
+and shunned on account of my sting.
+
+One day a man spoke to me, with a pleasant and friendly smile. Not in
+months had the thing happened. I was passing the undertaking
+establishment of Peter Heffelbower. Peter stood in the door and saluted
+me. I stopped, strangely wrung in my heart by his greeting. He asked me
+inside.
+
+The day was chill and rainy. We went into the back room, where a fire
+burned, in a little stove. A customer came, and Peter left me alone for
+a while. Presently I felt a new feeling stealing over me—a sense of
+beautiful calm and content, I looked around the place. There were rows
+of shining rosewood caskets, black palls, trestles, hearse plumes,
+mourning streamers, and all the paraphernalia of the solemn trade. Here
+was peace, order, silence, the abode of grave and dignified
+reflections. Here, on the brink of life, was a little niche pervaded by
+the spirit of eternal rest.
+
+When I entered it, the follies of the world abandoned me at the door. I
+felt no inclination to wrest a humorous idea from those sombre and
+stately trappings. My mind seemed to stretch itself to grateful repose
+upon a couch draped with gentle thoughts.
+
+A quarter of an hour ago I was an abandoned humorist. Now I was a
+philosopher, full of serenity and ease. I had found a refuge from
+humor, from the hot chase of the shy quip, from the degrading pursuit
+of the panting joke, from the restless reach after the nimble repartee.
+
+I had not known Heffelbower well. When he came back, I let him talk,
+fearful that he might prove to be a jarring note in the sweet,
+dirgelike harmony of his establishment.
+
+But, no. He chimed truly. I gave a long sigh of happiness. Never have I
+known a man’s talk to be as magnificently dull as Peter’s was. Compared
+with it the Dead Sea is a geyser. Never a sparkle or a glimmer of wit
+marred his words. Commonplaces as trite and as plentiful as
+blackberries flowed from his lips no more stirring in quality than a
+last week’s tape running from a ticker. Quaking a little, I tried upon
+him one of my best pointed jokes. It fell back ineffectual, with the
+point broken. I loved that man from then on.
+
+Two or three evenings each week I would steal down to Heffelbower’s and
+revel in his back room. That was my only joy. I began to rise early and
+hurry through my work, that I might spend more time in my haven. In no
+other place could I throw off my habit of extracting humorous ideas
+from my surroundings. Peter’s talk left me no opening had I besieged it
+ever so hard.
+
+Under this influence I began to improve in spirits. It was the
+recreation from one’s labor which every man needs. I surprised one or
+two of my former friends by throwing them a smile and a cheery word as
+I passed them on the streets. Several times I dumfounded my family by
+relaxing long enough to make a jocose remark in their presence.
+
+I had so long been ridden by the incubus of humor that I seized my
+hours of holiday with a schoolboy’s zest.
+
+Mv work began to suffer. It was not the pain and burden to me that it
+had been. I often whistled at my desk, and wrote with far more fluency
+than before. I accomplished my tasks impatiently, as anxious to be off
+to my helpful retreat as a drunkard is to get to his tavern.
+
+My wife had some anxious hours in conjecturing where I spent my
+afternoons. I thought it best not to tell her; women do not understand
+these things. Poor girl!—she had one shock out of it.
+
+One day I brought home a silver coffin handle for a paper weight and a
+fine, fluffy hearse plume to dust my papers with.
+
+I loved to see them on my desk, and think of the beloved back room down
+at Heffelbower’s. But Louisa found them, and she shrieked with horror.
+I had to console her with some lame excuse for having them, but I saw
+in her eyes that the prejudice was not removed. I had to remove the
+articles, though, at double-quick time.
+
+One day Peter Heffelbower laid before me a temptation that swept me off
+my feet. In his sensible, uninspired way he showed me his books, and
+explained that his profits and his business were increasing rapidly. He
+had thought of taking in a partner with some cash. He would rather have
+me than any one he knew. When I left his place that afternoon Peter had
+my check for the thousand dollars I had in the bank, and I was a
+partner in his undertaking business.
+
+I went home with feelings of delirious joy, mingled with a certain
+amount of doubt. I was dreading to tell my wife about it. But I walked
+on air. To give up the writing of humorous stuff, once more to enjoy
+the apples of life, instead of squeezing them to a pulp for a few drops
+of hard cider to make the pubic feel funny—what a boon that would be!
+
+At the supper table Louisa handed me some letters that had come during
+my absence. Several of them contained rejected manuscript. Ever since I
+first began going to Heffelbower’s my stuff had been coming back with
+alarming frequency. Lately I had been dashing off my jokes and articles
+with the greatest fluency. Previously I had labored like a bricklayer,
+slowly and with agony.
+
+Presently I opened a letter from the editor of the weekly with which I
+had a regular contract. The checks for that weekly article were still
+our main dependence. The letter ran thus:
+
+DEAR SIR:
+
+
+As you are aware, our contract for the year expires with the present
+month. While regretting the necessity for so doing, we must say that we
+do not care to renew same for the coming year. We were quite pleased
+with your style of humor, which seems to have delighted quite a large
+proportion of our readers. But for the past two months we have noticed
+a decided falling off in its quality. Your earlier work showed a
+spontaneous, easy, natural flow of fun and wit. Of late it is labored,
+studied, and unconvincing, giving painful evidence of hard toil and
+drudging mechanism.
+
+
+Again regretting that we do not consider your contributions available
+any longer, we are, yours sincerely,
+
+
+THE EDITOR.
+
+
+I handed this letter to my wife. After she had read it her face grew
+extremely long, and there were tears in her eyes.
+
+“The mean old thing!” she exclaimed indignantly. “I’m sure your pieces
+are just as good as they ever were. And it doesn’t take you half as
+long to write them as it did.” And then, I suppose, Louisa thought of
+the checks that would cease coming. “Oh, John,” she wailed, “what will
+you do now?”
+
+For an answer I got up and began to do a polka step around the supper
+table. I am sure Louisa thought the trouble had driven me mad; and I
+think the children hoped it had, for they tore after me, yelling with
+glee and emulating my steps. I was now something like their old
+playmate as of yore.
+
+“The theatre for us to-night!” I shouted; “nothing less. And a late,
+wild, disreputable supper for all of us at the Palace Restaurant.
+Lumpty-diddle-de-dee-de-dum!”
+
+And then I explained my glee by declaring that I was now a partner in a
+prosperous undertaking establishment, and that written jokes might go
+hide their heads in sackcloth and ashes for all me.
+
+With the editor’s letter in her hand to justify the deed I had done, my
+wife could advance no objections save a few mild ones based on the
+feminine inability to appreciate a good thing such as the little back
+room of Peter Hef—no, of Heffelbower & Co’s. undertaking establishment.
+
+In conclusion, I will say that to-day you will find no man in our town
+as well liked, as jovial, and full of merry sayings as I. My jokes are
+again noised about and quoted; once more I take pleasure in my wife’s
+confidential chatter without a mercenary thought, while Guy and Viola
+play at my feet distributing gems of childish humor without fear of the
+ghastly tormentor who used to dog their steps, notebook in hand.
+
+Our business has prospered finely. I keep the books and look after the
+shop, while Peter attends to outside matters. He says that my levity
+and high spirits would simply turn any funeral into a regular Irish
+wake.
+
+
+
+
+THE SPARROWS IN MADISON SQUARE
+
+
+The young man in straitened circumstances who comes to New York City to
+enter literature has but one thing to do, provided he has studied
+carefully his field in advance. He must go straight to Madison Square,
+write an article about the sparrows there, and sell it to the _Sun_ for
+$15.
+
+I cannot recall either a novel or a story dealing with the popular
+theme of the young writer from the provinces who comes to the
+metropolis to win fame and fortune with his pen in which the hero does
+not get his start that way. It does seem strange that some author, in
+casting about for startlingly original plots, has not hit upon the idea
+of having his hero write about the bluebirds in Union Square and sell
+it to the _Herald_. But a search through the files of metropolitan
+fiction counts up overwhelmingly for the sparrows and the old Garden
+Square, and the _Sun_ always writes the check.
+
+Of course it is easy to understand why this first city venture of the
+budding author is always successful. He is primed by necessity to a
+superlative effort; mid the iron and stone and marble of the roaring
+city he has found this spot of singing birds and green grass and trees;
+every tender sentiment in his nature is battling with the sweet pain of
+homesickness; his genius is aroused as it never may be again; the birds
+chirp, the tree branches sway, the noise of wheels is forgotten; he
+writes with his soul in his pen—and he sells it to the _Sun_ for $15.
+
+I had read of this custom during many years before I came to New York.
+When my friends were using their strongest arguments to dissuade me
+from coming, I only smiled serenely. They did not know of that sparrow
+graft I had up my sleeve.
+
+When I arrived in New York, and the car took me straight from the ferry
+up Twenty-third Street to Madison Square, I could hear that $15 check
+rustling in my inside pocket.
+
+I obtained lodging at an unhyphenated hostelry, and the next morning I
+was on a bench in Madison Square almost by the time the sparrows were
+awake. Their melodious chirping, the benignant spring foliage of the
+noble trees and the clean, fragrant grass reminded me so potently of
+the old farm I had left that tears almost came into my eyes.
+
+Then, all in a moment, I felt my inspiration. The brave, piercing notes
+of those cheerful small birds formed a keynote to a wonderful, light,
+fanciful song of hope and joy and altruism. Like myself, they were
+creatures with hearts pitched to the tune of woods and fields; as I
+was, so were they captives by circumstance in the discordant, dull
+city—yet with how much grace and glee they bore the restraint!
+
+And then the early morning people began to pass through the square to
+their work—sullen people, with sidelong glances and glum faces,
+hurrying, hurrying, hurrying. And I got my theme cut out clear from the
+bird notes, and wrought it into a lesson, and a poem, and a carnival
+dance, and a lullaby; and then translated it all into prose and began
+to write.
+
+For two hours my pencil traveled over my pad with scarcely a rest. Then
+I went to the little room I had rented for two days, and there I cut it
+to half, and then mailed it, white-hot, to the _Sun_.
+
+The next morning I was up by daylight and spent two cents of my capital
+for a paper. If the word “sparrow” was in it I was unable to find it. I
+took it up to my room and spread it out on the bed and went over it,
+column by column. Something was wrong.
+
+Three hours afterward the postman brought me a large envelope
+containing my MS. and a piece of inexpensive paper, about 3 inches by
+4—I suppose some of you have seen them—upon which was written in violet
+ink, “With the _Sun’s_ thanks.”
+
+I went over to the square and sat upon a bench. No; I did not think it
+necessary to eat any breakfast that morning. The confounded pests of
+sparrows were making the square hideous with their idiotic “cheep,
+cheep.” I never saw birds so persistently noisy, impudent, and
+disagreeable in all my life.
+
+By this time, according to all traditions, I should have been standing
+in the office of the editor of the _Sun_. That personage—a tall, grave,
+white-haired man—would strike a silver bell as he grasped my hand and
+wiped a suspicious moisture from his glasses.
+
+“Mr. McChesney,” he would be saying when a subordinate appeared, “this
+is Mr. Henry, the young man who sent in that exquisite gem about the
+sparrows in Madison Square. You may give him a desk at once. Your
+salary, sir, will be $80 a week, to begin with.”
+
+This was what I had been led to expect by all writers who have evolved
+romances of literary New York.
+
+Something was decidedly wrong with tradition. I could not assume the
+blame, so I fixed it upon the sparrows. I began to hate them with
+intensity and heat.
+
+At that moment an individual wearing an excess of whiskers, two hats,
+and a pestilential air slid into the seat beside me.
+
+“Say, Willie,” he muttered cajolingly, “could you cough up a dime out
+of your coffers for a cup of coffee this morning?”
+
+“I’m lung-weary, my friend,” said I. “The best I can do is three
+cents.”
+
+“And you look like a gentleman, too,” said he. “What brung you
+down?—boozer?”
+
+“Birds,” I said fiercely. “The brown-throated songsters carolling songs
+of hope and cheer to weary man toiling amid the city’s dust and din.
+The little feathered couriers from the meadows and woods chirping
+sweetly to us of blue skies and flowering fields. The confounded little
+squint-eyed nuisances yawping like a flock of steam pianos, and
+stuffing themselves like aldermen with grass seeds and bugs, while a
+man sits on a bench and goes without his breakfast. Yes, sir, birds!
+look at them!”
+
+As I spoke I picked up a dead tree branch that lay by the bench, and
+hurled it with all my force into a close congregation of the sparrows
+on the grass. The flock flew to the trees with a babel of shrill cries;
+but two of them remained prostrate upon the turf.
+
+In a moment my unsavory friend had leaped over the row of benches and
+secured the fluttering victims, which he thrust hurriedly into his
+pockets. Then he beckoned me with a dirty forefinger.
+
+“Come on, cully,” he said hoarsely. “You’re in on the feed.”
+
+Thank you very much!
+
+Weakly I followed my dingy acquaintance. He led me away from the park
+down a side street and through a crack in a fence into a vacant lot
+where some excavating had been going on. Behind a pile of old stones
+and lumber he paused, and took out his birds.
+
+“I got matches,” said he. “You got any paper to start a fire with?”
+
+I drew forth my manuscript story of the sparrows, and offered it for
+burnt sacrifice. There were old planks, splinters, and chips for our
+fire. My frowsy friend produced from some interior of his frayed
+clothing half a loaf of bread, pepper, and salt.
+
+In ten minutes each of us was holding a sparrow spitted upon a stick
+over the leaping flames.
+
+“Say,” said my fellow bivouacker, “this ain’t so bad when a fellow’s
+hungry. It reminds me of when I struck New York first—about fifteen
+years ago. I come in from the West to see if I could get a job on a
+newspaper. I hit the Madison Square Park the first mornin’ after, and
+was sitting around on the benches. I noticed the sparrows chirpin’, and
+the grass and trees so nice and green that I thought I was back in the
+country again. Then I got some papers out of my pocket, and—”
+
+“I know,” I interrupted. “You sent it to the _Sun_ and got $15.”
+
+“Say,” said my friend, suspiciously, “you seem to know a good deal.
+Where was you? I went to sleep on the bench there, in the sun, and
+somebody touched me for every cent I had—$15.”
+
+
+
+
+HEARTS AND HANDS
+
+
+At Denver there was an influx of passengers into the coaches on the
+eastbound B. & M. express. In one coach there sat a very pretty young
+woman dressed in elegant taste and surrounded by all the luxurious
+comforts of an experienced traveler. Among the newcomers were two young
+men, one of handsome presence with a bold, frank countenance and
+manner; the other a ruffled, glum-faced person, heavily built and
+roughly dressed. The two were handcuffed together.
+
+As they passed down the aisle of the coach the only vacant seat offered
+was a reversed one facing the attractive young woman. Here the linked
+couple seated themselves. The young woman’s glance fell upon them with
+a distant, swift disinterest; then with a lovely smile brightening her
+countenance and a tender pink tingeing her rounded cheeks, she held out
+a little gray-gloved hand. When she spoke her voice, full, sweet, and
+deliberate, proclaimed that its owner was accustomed to speak and be
+heard.
+
+“Well, Mr. Easton, if you _will_ make me speak first, I suppose I must.
+Don’t you ever recognize old friends when you meet them in the West?”
+
+The younger man roused himself sharply at the sound of her voice,
+seemed to struggle with a slight embarrassment which he threw off
+instantly, and then clasped her fingers with his left hand.
+
+“It’s Miss Fairchild,” he said, with a smile. “I’ll ask you to excuse
+the other hand; it’s otherwise engaged just at present.”
+
+He slightly raised his right hand, bound at the wrist by the shining
+“bracelet” to the left one of his companion. The glad look in the
+girl’s eyes slowly changed to a bewildered horror. The glow faded from
+her cheeks. Her lips parted in a vague, relaxing distress. Easton, with
+a little laugh, as if amused, was about to speak again when the other
+forestalled him. The glum-faced man had been watching the girl’s
+countenance with veiled glances from his keen, shrewd eyes.
+
+“You’ll excuse me for speaking, miss, but, I see you’re acquainted with
+the marshall here. If you’ll ask him to speak a word for me when we get
+to the pen he’ll do it, and it’ll make things easier for me there. He’s
+taking me to Leavenworth prison. It’s seven years for counterfeiting.”
+
+“Oh!” said the girl, with a deep breath and returning color. “So that
+is what you are doing out here? A marshal!”
+
+“My dear Miss Fairchild,” said Easton, calmly, “I had to do something.
+Money has a way of taking wings unto itself, and you know it takes
+money to keep step with our crowd in Washington. I saw this opening in
+the West, and—well, a marshalship isn’t quite as high a position as
+that of ambassador, but—”
+
+“The ambassador,” said the girl, warmly, “doesn’t call any more. He
+needn’t ever have done so. You ought to know that. And so now you are
+one of these dashing Western heroes, and you ride and shoot and go into
+all kinds of dangers. That’s different from the Washington life. You
+have been missed from the old crowd.”
+
+The girl’s eyes, fascinated, went back, widening a little, to rest upon
+the glittering handcuffs.
+
+“Don’t you worry about them, miss,” said the other man. “All marshals
+handcuff themselves to their prisoners to keep them from getting away.
+Mr. Easton knows his business.”
+
+“Will we see you again soon in Washington?” asked the girl.
+
+“Not soon, I think,” said Easton. “My butterfly days are over, I fear.”
+
+“I love the West,” said the girl irrelevantly. Her eyes were shining
+softly. She looked away out the car window. She began to speak truly
+and simply without the gloss of style and manner: “Mamma and I spent
+the summer in Denver. She went home a week ago because father was
+slightly ill. I could live and be happy in the West. I think the air
+here agrees with me. Money isn’t everything. But people always
+misunderstand things and remain stupid—”
+
+“Say, Mr. Marshal,” growled the glum-faced man. “This isn’t quite fair.
+I’m needing a drink, and haven’t had a smoke all day. Haven’t you
+talked long enough? Take me in the smoker now, won’t you? I’m half dead
+for a pipe.”
+
+The bound travelers rose to their feet, Easton with the same slow smile
+on his face.
+
+“I can’t deny a petition for tobacco,” he said, lightly. “It’s the one
+friend of the unfortunate. Good-bye, Miss Fairchild. Duty calls, you
+know.” He held out his hand for a farewell.
+
+“It’s too bad you are not going East,” she said, reclothing herself
+with manner and style. “But you must go on to Leavenworth, I suppose?”
+
+“Yes,” said Easton, “I must go on to Leavenworth.”
+
+The two men sidled down the aisle into the smoker.
+
+The two passengers in a seat near by had heard most of the
+conversation. Said one of them: “That marshal’s a good sort of chap.
+Some of these Western fellows are all right.”
+
+“Pretty young to hold an office like that, isn’t he?” asked the other.
+
+“Young!” exclaimed the first speaker, “why—Oh! didn’t you catch on?
+Say—did you ever know an officer to handcuff a prisoner to his _right_
+hand?”
+
+
+
+
+THE CACTUS
+
+
+The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A
+large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the
+drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may review an entire
+courtship while removing one’s gloves.
+
+That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor
+apartments. On the table stood a singular-looking green plant in a red
+earthen jar. The plant was one of the species of cacti, and was
+provided with long, tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed with the
+slightest breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion.
+
+Trysdale’s friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard
+complaining at being allowed to drink alone. Both men were in evening
+dress. White favors like stars upon their coats shone through the gloom
+of the apartment.
+
+As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdale’s
+mind a swift, scarifying retrospect of the last few hours. It seemed
+that in his nostrils was still the scent of the flowers that had been
+banked in odorous masses about the church, and in his ears the
+lowpitched hum of a thousand well-bred voices, the rustle of crisp
+garments, and, most insistently recurring, the drawling words of the
+minister irrevocably binding her to another.
+
+From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, as if it had
+become a habit of his mind, to reach some conjecture as to why and how
+he had lost her. Shaken rudely by the uncompromising fact, he had
+suddenly found himself confronted by a thing he had never before
+faced—his own innermost, unmitigated, arid unbedecked self. He saw all
+the garbs of pretence and egoism that he had worn now turn to rags of
+folly. He shuddered at the thought that to others, before now, the
+garments of his soul must have appeared sorry and threadbare. Vanity
+and conceit? These were the joints in his armor. And how free from
+either she had always been—But why—
+
+As she had slowly moved up the aisle toward the altar he had felt an
+unworthy, sullen exultation that had served to support him. He had told
+himself that her paleness was from thoughts of another than the man to
+whom she was about to give herself. But even that poor consolation had
+been wrenched from him. For, when he saw that swift, limpid, upward
+look that she gave the man when he took her hand, he knew himself to be
+forgotten. Once that same look had been raised to him, and he had
+gauged its meaning. Indeed, his conceit had crumbled; its last prop was
+gone. Why had it ended thus? There had been no quarrel between them,
+nothing—
+
+For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of those
+last few days before the tide had so suddenly turned.
+
+She had always insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had
+accepted her homage with royal grandeur. It had been a very sweet
+incense that she had burned before him; so modest (he told himself); so
+childlike and worshipful, and (he would once have sworn) so sincere.
+She had invested him with an almost supernatural number of high
+attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had absorbed the
+oblation as a desert drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise
+of blossom or fruit.
+
+As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the
+crowning instance of his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came
+vividly back to him. The scene was the night when he had asked her to
+come up on his pedestal with him and share his greatness. He could not,
+now, for the pain of it, allow his mind to dwell upon the memory of her
+convincing beauty that night—the careless wave of her hair, the
+tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and words. But they had been
+enough, and they had brought him to speak. During their conversation
+she had said:
+
+“And Captain Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language
+like a native. Why have you hidden this accomplishment from me? Is
+there anything you do not know?”
+
+Now, Carruthers was an idiot. No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty
+(he sometimes did such things) of airing at the club some old, canting
+Castilian proverb dug from the hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries.
+Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent admirers, was the very man
+to have magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition.
+
+But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and
+flattering. He allowed the imputation to pass without denial. Without
+protest, he allowed her to twine about his brow this spurious bay of
+Spanish scholarship. He let it grace his conquering head, and, among
+its soft convolutions, he did not feel the prick of the thorn that was
+to pierce him later.
+
+How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was! How she fluttered like a
+snared bird when he laid his mightiness at her feet! He could have
+sworn, and he could swear now, that unmistakable consent was in her
+eyes, but, coyly, she would give him no direct answer. “I will send you
+my answer to-morrow,” she said; and he, the indulgent, confident
+victor, smilingly granted the delay. The next day he waited, impatient,
+in his rooms for the word. At noon her groom came to the door and left
+the strange cactus in the red earthen jar. There was no note, no
+message, merely a tag upon the plant bearing a barbarous foreign or
+botanical name. He waited until night, but her answer did not come. His
+large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her. Two evenings
+later they met at a dinner. Their greetings were conventional, but she
+looked at him, breathless, wondering, eager. He was courteous, adamant,
+waiting her explanation. With womanly swiftness she took her cue from
+his manner, and turned to snow and ice. Thus, and wider from this on,
+they had drifted apart. Where was his fault? Who had been to blame?
+Humbled now, he sought the answer amid the ruins of his self-conceit.
+If—
+
+The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon his
+thoughts, aroused him.
+
+“I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you? You look
+unhappy as if you yourself had been married instead of having acted
+merely as an accomplice. Look at me, another accessory, come two
+thousand miles on a garlicky, cockroachy banana steamer all the way
+from South America to connive at the sacrifice—please to observe how
+lightly my guilt rests upon my shoulders. Only little sister I had,
+too, and now she’s gone. Come now! take something to ease your
+conscience.”
+
+“I don’t drink just now, thanks,” said Trysdale.
+
+“Your brandy,” resumed the other, coming over and joining him, “is
+abominable. Run down to see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try some
+of our stuff that old Garcia smuggles in. It’s worth the trip. Hallo!
+here’s an old acquaintance. Wherever did you rake up this cactus,
+Trysdale?”
+
+“A present,” said Trysdale, “from a friend. Know the species?”
+
+“Very well. It’s a tropical concern. See hundreds of ’em around Punta
+every day. Here’s the name on this tag tied to it. Know any Spanish,
+Trysdale?”
+
+“No,” said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile—“Is it Spanish?”
+
+“Yes. The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to
+you. They call it by this name—Ventomarme. Name means in English, ‘Come
+and take me.’”
+
+
+
+
+THE DETECTIVE DETECTOR
+
+
+I was walking in Central Park with Avery Knight, the great New York
+burglar, highwayman, and murderer.
+
+“But, my dear Knight,” said I, “it sounds incredible. You have
+undoubtedly performed some of the most wonderful feats in your
+profession known to modern crime. You have committed some marvellous
+deeds under the very noses of the police—you have boldly entered the
+homes of millionaires and held them up with an empty gun while you made
+free with their silver and jewels; you have sandbagged citizens in the
+glare of Broadway’s electric lights; you have killed and robbed with
+superb openness and absolute impunity—but when you boast that within
+forty-eight hours after committing a murder you can run down and
+actually bring me face to face with the detective assigned to apprehend
+you, I must beg leave to express my doubts—remember, you are in New
+York.”
+
+Avery Knight smiled indulgently.
+
+“You pique my professional pride, doctor,” he said in a nettled tone.
+“I will convince you.”
+
+About twelve yards in advance of us a prosperous-looking citizen was
+rounding a clump of bushes where the walk curved. Knight suddenly drew
+a revolver and shot the man in the back. His victim fell and lay
+without moving.
+
+The great murderer went up to him leisurely and took from his clothes
+his money, watch, and a valuable ring and cravat pin. He then rejoined
+me smiling calmly, and we continued our walk.
+
+Ten steps and we met a policeman running toward the spot where the shot
+had been fired. Avery Knight stopped him.
+
+“I have just killed a man,” he announced, seriously, “and robbed him of
+his possessions.”
+
+“G’wan,” said the policeman, angrily, “or I’ll run yez in! Want yer
+name in the papers, don’t yez? I never knew the cranks to come around
+so quick after a shootin’ before. Out of th’ park, now, for yours, or
+I’ll fan yez.”
+
+“What you have done,” I said, argumentatively, as Knight and I walked
+on, “was easy. But when you come to the task of hunting down the
+detective that they send upon your trail you will find that you have
+undertaken a difficult feat.”
+
+“Perhaps so,” said Knight, lightly. “I will admit that my success
+depends in a degree upon the sort of man they start after me. If it
+should be an ordinary plain-clothes man I might fail to gain a sight of
+him. If they honor me by giving the case to some one of their
+celebrated sleuths I do not fear to match my cunning and powers of
+induction against his.”
+
+On the next afternoon Knight entered my office with a satisfied look on
+his keen countenance.
+
+“How goes the mysterious murder?” I asked.
+
+“As usual,” said Knight, smilingly. “I have put in the morning at the
+police station and at the inquest. It seems that a card case of mine
+containing cards with my name and address was found near the body. They
+have three witnesses who saw the shooting and gave a description of me.
+The case has been placed in the hands of Shamrock Jolnes, the famous
+detective. He left Headquarters at 11:30 on the assignment. I waited at
+my address until two, thinking he might call there.”
+
+I laughed, tauntingly.
+
+“You will never see Jolnes,” I continued, “until this murder has been
+forgotten, two or three weeks from now. I had a better opinion of your
+shrewdness, Knight. During the three hours and a half that you waited
+he has got out of your ken. He is after you on true induction theories
+now, and no wrongdoer has yet been known to come upon him while thus
+engaged. I advise you to give it up.”
+
+“Doctor,” said Knight, with a sudden glint in his keen gray eye and a
+squaring of his chin, “in spite of the record your city holds of
+something like a dozen homicides without a subsequent meeting of the
+perpetrator, and the sleuth in charge of the case, I will undertake to
+break that record. To-morrow I will take you to Shamrock Jolnes—I will
+unmask him before you and prove to you that it is not an impossibility
+for an officer of the law and a manslayer to stand face to face in your
+city.”
+
+“Do it,” said I, “and you’ll have the sincere thanks of the Police
+Department.”
+
+On the next day Knight called for me in a cab.
+
+“I’ve been on one or two false scents, doctor,” he admitted. “I know
+something of detectives’ methods, and I followed out a few of them,
+expecting to find Jolnes at the other end. The pistol being a
+.45-caliber, I thought surely I would find him at work on the clue in
+Forty-fifth Street. Then, again, I looked for the detective at the
+Columbia University, as the man’s being shot in the back naturally
+suggested hazing. But I could not find a trace of him.”
+
+“—Nor will you,” I said, emphatically.
+
+“Not by ordinary methods,” said Knight. “I might walk up and down
+Broadway for a month without success. But you have aroused my pride,
+doctor; and if I fail to show you Shamrock Jolnes this day, I promise
+you I will never kill or rob in your city again.”
+
+“Nonsense, man,” I replied. “When our burglars walk into our houses and
+politely demand, thousands of dollars’ worth of jewels, and then dine
+and bang the piano an hour or two before leaving, how do you, a mere
+murderer, expect to come in contact with the detective that is looking
+for you?”
+
+Avery Knight, sat lost in thought for a while. At length he looked up
+brightly.
+
+“Doc,” said he, “I have it. Put on your hat, and come with me. In half
+an hour I guarantee that you shall stand in the presence of Shamrock
+Jolnes.”
+
+I entered a cab with Avery Knight. I did not hear his instructions to
+the driver, but the vehicle set out at a smart pace up Broadway,
+turning presently into Fifth Avenue, and proceeding northward again. It
+was with a rapidly beating heart that I accompanied this wonderful and
+gifted assassin, whose analytical genius and superb self-confidence had
+prompted him to make me the tremendous promise of bringing me into the
+presence of a murderer and the New York detective in pursuit of him
+simultaneously. Even yet I could not believe it possible.
+
+“Are you sure that you are not being led into some trap?” I asked.
+“Suppose that your clue, whatever it is, should bring us only into the
+presence of the Commissioner of Police and a couple of dozen cops!”
+
+“My dear doctor,” said Knight, a little stiffly. “I would remind you
+that I am no gambler.”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” said I. “But I do not think you will find Jolnes.”
+
+The cab stopped before one of the handsomest residences on the avenue.
+Walking up and down in front of the house was a man with long red
+whiskers, with a detective’s badge showing on the lapel of his coat.
+Now and then the man would remove his whiskers to wipe his face, and
+then I would recognize at once the well-known features of the great New
+York detective. Jolnes was keeping a sharp watch upon the doors and
+windows of the house.
+
+“Well, doctor,” said Knight, unable to repress a note of triumph in his
+voice, “have you seen?”
+
+“It is wonderful—wonderful!” I could not help exclaiming as our cab
+started on its return trip. “But how did you do it? By what process of
+induction—”
+
+“My dear doctor,” interrupted the great murderer, “the inductive theory
+is what the detectives use. My process is more modern. I call it the
+saltatorial theory. Without bothering with the tedious mental phenomena
+necessary to the solution of a mystery from slight clues, I jump at
+once to a conclusion. I will explain to you the method I employed in
+this case.
+
+“In the first place, I argued that as the crime was committed in New
+York City in broad daylight, in a public place and under peculiarly
+atrocious circumstances, and that as the most skilful sleuth available
+was let loose upon the case, the perpetrator would never be discovered.
+Do you not think my postulation justified by precedent?”
+
+“Perhaps so,” I replied, doggedly. “But if Big Bill Dev—”
+
+“Stop that,” interrupted Knight, with a smile, “I’ve heard that several
+times. It’s too late now. I will proceed.
+
+“If homicides in New York went undiscovered, I reasoned, although the
+best detective talent was employed to ferret them out, it must be true
+that the detectives went about their work in the wrong way. And not
+only in the wrong way, but exactly opposite from the right way. That
+was my clue.
+
+“I slew the man in Central Park. Now, let me describe myself to you.
+
+“I am tall, with a black beard, and I hate publicity. I have no money
+to speak of; I do not like oatmeal, and it is the one ambition of my
+life to die rich. I am of a cold and heartless disposition. I do not
+care for my fellowmen and I never give a cent to beggars or charity.
+
+“Now, my dear doctor, that is the true description of myself, the man
+whom that shrewd detective was to hunt down. You who are familiar with
+the history of crime in New York of late should be able to foretell the
+result. When I promised you to exhibit to your incredulous gaze the
+sleuth who was set upon me, you laughed at me because you said that
+detectives and murderers never met in New York. I have demonstrated to
+you that the theory is possible.”
+
+“But how did you do it?” I asked again.
+
+“It was very simple,” replied the distinguished murderer. “I assumed
+that the detective would go exactly opposite to the clues he had. I
+have given you a description of myself. Therefore, he must necessarily
+set to work and trail a short man with a white beard who likes to be in
+the papers, who is very wealthy, is fond ‘of oatmeal, wants to die
+poor, and is of an extremely generous and philanthropic disposition.
+When thus far is reached the mind hesitates no longer. I conveyed you
+at once to the spot where Shamrock Jolnes was piping off Andrew
+Carnegie’s residence.”
+
+“Knight,” said I, “you’re a wonder. If there was no danger of your
+reforming, what a rounds man you’d make for the Nineteenth Precinct!”
+
+
+
+
+THE DOG AND THE PLAYLET
+
+
+[This story has been rewritten and published in “Strictly Business”
+under the title, The Proof of the Pudding.]
+
+
+Usually it is a cold day in July when you can stroll up Broadway in
+that month and get a story out of the drama. I found one a few
+breathless, parboiling days ago, and it seems to decide a serious
+question in art.
+
+There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me—and two or
+three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters. The
+elect had fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already begun
+to draw for additional funds. Every evening Hollis and I prowled about
+the deserted town searching for coolness in empty cafes, dining-rooms,
+and roofgardens. We knew to the tenth part of a revolution the speed of
+every electric fan in Gotham, and we followed the swiftest as they
+varied. Hollis’s fiancee. Miss Loris Sherman, had been in the
+Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month. In another week he
+would join her party there. In the meantime, he cursed the city
+cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society because I suffered
+him to show me her photograph during the black coffee every time we
+dined together.
+
+My revenge was to read to him my one-act play.
+
+It was one insufferable evening when the overplus of the day’s heat was
+being hurled quiveringly back to the heavens by every surcharged brick
+and stone and inch of iron in the panting town. But with the cunning of
+the two-legged beasts we had found an oasis where the hoofs of Apollo’s
+steed had not been allowed to strike. Our seats were on an ocean of
+cool, polished oak; the white linen of fifty deserted tables flapped
+like seagulls in the artificial breeze; a mile away a waiter lingered
+for a heliographic signal—we might have roared songs there or fought a
+duel without molestation.
+
+Out came Miss Loris’s photo with the coffee, and I once more praised
+the elegant poise of the neck, the extremely low-coiled mass of heavy
+hair, and the eyes that followed one, like those in an oil painting.
+
+“She’s the greatest ever,” said Hollis, with enthusiasm. “Good as Great
+Northern Preferred, and a disposition built like a watch. One week more
+and I’ll be happy Jonny-on-the-spot. Old Tom Tolliver, my best college
+chum, went up there two weeks ago. He writes me that Loris doesn’t talk
+about anything but me. Oh, I guess Rip Van Winkle didn’t have all the
+good luck!”
+
+“Yes, yes,” said I, hurriedly, pulling out my typewritten play. “She’s
+no doubt a charming girl. Now, here’s that little curtain-raiser you
+promised to listen to.”
+
+“Ever been tried on the stage?” asked Hollis.
+
+“Not exactly,” I answered. “I read half of it the other day to a fellow
+whose brother knows Robert Edeson; but he had to catch a train before I
+finished.”
+
+“Go on,” said Hollis, sliding back in his chair like a good fellow.
+“I’m no stage carpenter, but I’ll tell you what I think of it from a
+first-row balcony standpoint. I’m a theatre bug during the season, and
+I can size up a fake play almost as quick as the gallery can. Flag the
+waiter once more, and then go ahead as hard as you like with it. I’ll
+be the dog.”
+
+I read my little play lovingly, and, I fear, not without some
+elocution. There was one scene in it that I believed in greatly. The
+comedy swiftly rises into thrilling and unexpectedly developed drama.
+Capt. Marchmont suddenly becomes cognizant that his wife is an
+unscrupulous adventuress, who has deceived him from the day of their
+first meeting. The rapid and mortal duel between them from that
+moment—she with her magnificent lies and siren charm, winding about him
+like a serpent, trying to recover her lost ground; he with his man’s
+agony and scorn and lost faith, trying to tear her from his heart. That
+scene I always thought was a crackerjack. When Capt. Marchmont
+discovers her duplicity by reading on a blotter in a mirror the
+impression of a note that she has written to the Count, he raises his
+hand to heaven and exclaims: “O God, who created woman while Adam
+slept, and gave her to him for a companion, take back Thy gift and
+return instead the sleep, though it last forever!”
+
+“Rot,” said Hollis, rudely, when I had given those lines with proper
+emphasis.
+
+“I beg your pardon!” I said, as sweetly as I could.
+
+“Come now,” went on Hollis, “don’t be an idiot. You know very well that
+nobody spouts any stuff like that these days. That sketch went along
+all right until you rang in the skyrockets. Cut out that right-arm
+exercise and the Adam and Eve stunt, and make your captain talk as you
+or I or Bill Jones would.”
+
+“I’ll admit,” said I, earnestly (for my theory was being touched upon),
+“that on all ordinary occasions all of us use commonplace language to
+convey our thoughts. You will remember that up to the moment when the
+captain makes his terrible discovery all the characters on the stage
+talk pretty much as they would, in real life. But I believe that I am
+right in allowing him lines suitable to the strong and tragic situation
+into which he falls.”
+
+“Tragic, my eye!” said my friend, irreverently. “In Shakespeare’s day
+he might have sputtered out some high-cockalorum nonsense of that sort,
+because in those days they ordered ham and eggs in blank verse and
+discharged the cook with an epic. But not for B’way in the summer of
+1905!”
+
+“It is my opinion,” said I, “that great human emotions shake up our
+vocabulary and leave the words best suited to express them on top. A
+sudden violent grief or loss or disappointment will bring expressions
+out of an ordinary man as strong and solemn and dramatic as those used
+in fiction or on the stage to portray those emotions.”
+
+“That’s where you fellows are wrong,” said Hollis. “Plain, every-day
+talk is what goes. Your captain would very likely have kicked the cat,
+lit a cigar, stirred up a highball, and telephoned for a lawyer,
+instead of getting off those Robert Mantell pyrotechnics.”
+
+“Possibly, a little later,” I continued. “But just at the time—just as
+the blow is delivered, if something Scriptural or theatrical and
+deep-tongued isn’t wrung from a man in spite of his modern and
+practical way of speaking, then I’m wrong.”
+
+“Of course,” said Hollis, kindly, “you’ve got to whoop her up some
+degrees for the stage. The audience expects it. When the villain
+kidnaps little Effie you have to make her mother claw some chunks out
+of the atmosphere, and scream: “Me chee-ild, me chee-ild!” What she
+would actually do would be to call up the police by ’phone, ring for
+some strong tea, and get the little darling’s photo out, ready for the
+reporters. When you get your villain in a corner—a stage corner—it’s
+all right for him to clap his hand to his forehead and hiss: “All is
+lost!” Off the stage he would remark: “This is a conspiracy against
+me—I refer you to my lawyers.’”
+
+“I get no consolation,” said I, gloomily, “from your concession of an
+accentuated stage treatment. In my play I fondly hoped that I was
+following life. If people in real life meet great crises in a
+commonplace way, they should do the same on the stage.”
+
+And then we drifted, like two trout, out of our cool pool in the great
+hotel and began to nibble languidly at the gay flies in the swift
+current of Broadway. And our question of dramatic art was unsettled.
+
+We nibbled at the flies, and avoided the hooks, as wise trout do; but
+soon the weariness of Manhattan in summer overcame us. Nine stories up,
+facing the south, was Hollis’s apartment, and we soon stepped into an
+elevator bound for that cooler haven.
+
+I was familiar in those quarters, and quickly my play was forgotten,
+and I stood at a sideboard mixing things, with cracked ice and glasses
+all about me. A breeze from the bay came in the windows not altogether
+blighted by the asphalt furnace over which it had passed. Hollis,
+whistling softly, turned over a late-arrived letter or two on his
+table, and drew around the coolest wicker armchairs.
+
+I was just measuring the Vermouth carefully when I heard a sound. Some
+man’s voice groaned hoarsely: “False, oh, God!—false, and Love is a lie
+and friendship but the byword of devils!”
+
+I looked around quickly. Hollis lay across the table with his head down
+upon his outstretched arms. And then he looked up at me and laughed in
+his ordinary manner.
+
+I knew him—he was poking fun at me about my theory. And it did seem so
+unnatural, those swelling words during our quiet gossip, that I half
+began to believe I had been mistaken—that my theory was wrong.
+
+Hollis raised himself slowly from the table.
+
+“You were right about that theatrical business, old man,” he said,
+quietly, as he tossed a note to me.
+
+I read it.
+
+Loris had run away with Tom Tolliver.
+
+
+
+
+A LITTLE TALK ABOUT MOBS
+
+
+“I see,” remarked the tall gentleman in the frock coat and black slouch
+hat, “that another street car motorman in your city has narrowly
+excaped lynching at the hands of an infuriated mob by lighting a cigar
+and walking a couple of blocks down the street.”
+
+“Do you think they would have lynched him?” asked the New Yorker, in
+the next seat of the ferry station, who was also waiting for the boat.
+
+“Not until after the election,” said the tall man, cutting a corner off
+his plug of tobacco. “I’ve been in your city long enough to know
+something about your mobs. The motorman’s mob is about the least
+dangerous of them all, except the National Guard and the Dressmakers’
+Convention.
+
+“You see, when little Willie Goldstein is sent by his mother for pigs’
+knuckles, with a nickel tightly grasped in his chubby fist, he always
+crosses the street car track safely twenty feet ahead of the car; and
+then suddenly turns back to ask his mother whether it was pale ale or a
+spool of 80 white cotton that she wanted. The motorman yells and throws
+himself on the brakes like a football player. There is a horrible
+grinding and then a ripping sound, and a piercing shriek, and Willie is
+sitting, with part of his trousers torn away by the fender, screaming
+for his lost nickel.
+
+“In ten seconds the car is surrounded by 600 infuriated citizens,
+crying, ‘Lynch the motorman! Lynch the motorman!’ at the top of their
+voices. Some of them run to the nearest cigar store to get a rope; but
+they find the last one has just been cut up and labelled. Hundreds of
+the excited mob press close to the cowering motorman, whose hand is
+observed to tremble perceptibly as he transfers a stick of pepsin gum
+from his pocket to his mouth.
+
+“When the bloodthirsty mob of maddened citizens has closed in on the
+motorman, some bringing camp stools and sitting quite close to him, and
+all shouting, ‘Lynch him!’ Policeman Fogarty forces his way through
+them to the side of their prospective victim.
+
+“‘Hello, Mike,’ says the motorman in a low voice, ‘nice day. Shall I
+sneak off a block or so, or would you like to rescue me?’
+
+“‘Well, Jerry, if you don’t mind,’ says the policeman, ‘I’d like to
+disperse the infuriated mob singlehanded. I haven’t defeated a lynching
+mob since last Tuesday; and that was a small one of only 300, that
+wanted to string up a Dago boy for selling wormy pears. It would boost
+me some down at the station.’
+
+“‘All right, Mike,’ says the motorman, ‘anything to oblige. I’ll turn
+pale and tremble.’
+
+“And he does so; and Policeman Fogarty draws his club and says, ‘G’wan
+wid yez!’ and in eight seconds the desperate mob has scattered and gone
+about its business, except about a hundred who remain to search for
+Willie’s nickel.”
+
+“I never heard of a mob in our city doing violence to a motorman
+because of an accident,” said the New Yorker.
+
+“You are not liable to,” said the tall man. “They know the motorman’s
+all right, and that he wouldn’t even run over a stray dog if he could
+help it. And they know that not a man among ’em would tie the knot to
+hang even a Thomas cat that had been tried and condemned and sentenced
+according to law.”
+
+“Then why do they become infuriated and make threats of lynching?”
+asked the New Yorker.
+
+“To assure the motorman,” answered the tall man, “that he is safe. If
+they really wanted to do him up they would go into the houses and drop
+bricks on him from the third-story windows.”
+
+“New Yorkers are not cowards,” said the other man, a little stiffly.
+
+“Not one at a time,” agreed the tall man, promptly. “You’ve got a fine
+lot of single-handed scrappers in your town. I’d rather fight three of
+you than one; and I’d go up against all the Gas Trust’s victims in a
+bunch before I’d pass two citizens on a dark corner, with my watch
+chain showing. When you get rounded up in a bunch you lose your nerve.
+Get you in crowds and you’re easy. Ask the ‘L’ road guards and George
+B. Cortelyou and the tintype booths at Coney Island. Divided you stand,
+united you fall. _E pluribus nihil_. Whenever one of your mobs
+surrounds a man and begins to holler, ‘Lynch him!’ he says to himself,
+“Oh, dear, I suppose I must look pale to please the boys, but I will,
+forsooth, let my life insurance premium lapse to-morrow. This is a sure
+tip for me to play Methuselah straight across the board in the next
+handicap.’
+
+“I can imagine the tortured feelings of a prisoner in the hands of New
+York policemen when an infuriated mob demands that he be turned over to
+them for lynching. ‘For God’s sake, officers,’ cries the distracted
+wretch, ‘have ye hearts of stone, that ye will not let them wrest me
+from ye?’
+
+“‘Sorry, Jimmy,’ says one of the policemen, ‘but it won’t do. There’s
+three of us—me and Darrel and the plain-clothes man; and there’s only
+sivin thousand of the mob. How’d we explain it at the office if they
+took ye? Jist chase the infuriated aggregation around the corner,
+Darrel, and we’ll be movin’ along to the station.’”
+
+“Some of our gatherings of excited citizens have not been so harmless,”
+said the New Yorker, with a faint note of civic pride.
+
+“I’ll admit that,” said the tall man. “A cousin of mine who was on a
+visit here once had an arm broken and lost an ear in one of them.”
+
+“That must have been during the Cooper Union riots,” remarked the New
+Yorker.
+
+“Not the Cooper Union,” explained the tall man—“but it was a union
+riot—at the Vanastor wedding.”
+
+“You seem to be in favor of lynch law,” said the New Yorker, severely.
+
+“No, sir, I am not. No intelligent man is. But, sir, there are certain
+cases when people rise in their just majesty and take a righteous
+vengeance for crimes that the law is slow in punishing. I am an
+advocate of law and order, but I will say to you that less than six
+months ago I myself assisted at the lynching of one of that race that
+is creating a wide chasm between your section of country and mine,
+sir.”
+
+“It is a deplorable condition,” said the New Yorker, “that exists in
+the South, but—”
+
+“I am from Indiana, sir,” said the tall man, taking another chew; “and
+I don’t think you will condemn my course when I tell you that the
+colored man in question had stolen $9.60 in cash, sir, from my own
+brother.”
+
+
+
+
+THE SNOW MAN
+
+
+EDITORIAL NOTE.—_Before the fatal illness of William Sydney Porter
+(known through his literary work as “O. Henry”) this American master of
+short-story writing had begun for Hampton’s Magazine the story printed
+below. Illness crept upon him rapidly and he was compelled to give up
+writing about at the point where the girl enters the story._
+
+
+_When he realized that he could do no more (it was his lifelong habit
+to write with a pencil, never dictating to a stenographer), O. Henry
+told in detail the remainder of The Snow Man to Harris Merton Lyon,
+whom he had often spoken of as one of the most effective short-story
+writers of the present time. Mr. Porter had delineated all of the
+characters, leaving only the rounding out of the plot in the final
+pages to Mr. Lyon._
+
+
+Housed and windowpaned from it, the greatest wonder to little children
+is the snow. To men, it is something like a crucible in which their
+world melts into a white star ten million miles away. The man who can
+stand the test is a Snow Man; and this is his reading by Fahrenheit,
+Réaumur, or Moses’s carven tablets of stone.
+
+Night had fluttered a sable pinion above the cañon of Big Lost River,
+and I urged my horse toward the Bay Horse Ranch because the snow was
+deepening. The flakes were as large as an hour’s circular tatting by
+Miss Wilkins’s ablest spinster, betokening a heavy snowfall and less
+entertainment and more adventure than the completion of the tatting
+could promise. I knew Ross Curtis of the Bay Horse, and that I would be
+welcome as a snow-bound pilgrim, both for hospitality’s sake and
+because Ross had few chances to confide in living creatures who did not
+neigh, bellow, bleat, yelp, or howl during his discourse.
+
+The ranch house was just within the jaws of the cañon where its builder
+may have fatuously fancied that the timbered and rocky walls on both
+sides would have protected it from the wintry Colorado winds; but I
+feared the drift. Even now through the endless, bottomless rift in the
+hills—the speaking tube of the four winds—came roaring the voice of the
+proprietor to the little room on the top floor.
+
+At my “hello,” a ranch hand came from an outer building and received my
+thankful horse. In another minute, Ross and I sat by a stove in the
+dining-room of the four-room ranch house, while the big, simple welcome
+of the household lay at my disposal. Fanned by the whizzing norther,
+the fine, dry snow was sifted and bolted through the cracks and
+knotholes of the logs. The cook room, without a separating door,
+appended.
+
+In there I could see a short, sturdy, leisurely and weather-beaten man
+moving with professional sureness about his red-hot stove. His face was
+stolid and unreadable—something like that of a great thinker, or of one
+who had no thoughts to conceal. I thought his eye seemed unwarrantably
+superior to the elements and to the man, but quickly attributed that to
+the characteristic self-importance of a petty chef. “Camp cook” was the
+niche that I gave him in the Hall of Types; and he fitted it as an
+apple fits a dumpling.
+
+Cold it was in spite of the glowing stove; and Ross and I sat and
+talked, shuddering frequently, half from nerves and half from the
+freezing draughts. So he brought the bottle and the cook brought
+boiling water, and we made prodigious hot toddies against the attacks
+of Boreas. We clinked glasses often. They sounded like icicles dropping
+from the eaves, or like the tinkle of a thousand prisms on a Louis XIV
+chandelier that I once heard at a boarder’s dance in the parlor of a
+ten-a-week boarding-house in Gramercy Square. _Sic transit_.
+
+Silence in the terrible beauty of the snow and of the Sphinx and of the
+stars; but they who believe that all things, from a without-wine table
+d’hôte to the crucifixion, may be interpreted through music, might have
+found a nocturne or a symphony to express the isolation of that
+blotted-out world. The clink of glass and bottle, the aeolian chorus of
+the wind in the house crannies, its deeper trombone through the cañon
+below, and the Wagnerian crash of the cook’s pots and pans, united in a
+fit, discordant melody, I thought. No less welcome an accompaniment was
+the sizzling of broiling ham and venison cutlet indorsed by the solvent
+fumes of true Java, bringing rich promises of comfort to our yearning
+souls.
+
+The cook brought the smoking supper to the table. He nodded to me
+democratically as he cast the heavy plates around as though he were
+pitching quoits or hurling the discus. I looked at him with some
+appraisement and curiosity and much conciliation. There was no prophet
+to tell us when that drifting evil outside might cease to fall; and it
+is well, when snow-bound, to stand somewhere within the radius of the
+cook’s favorable consideration. But I could read neither favor nor
+disapproval in the face and manner of our pot-wrestler.
+
+He was about five feet nine inches, and two hundred pounds of
+commonplace, bull-necked, pink-faced, callous calm. He wore brown duck
+trousers too tight and too short, and a blue flannel shirt with sleeves
+rolled above his elbows. There was a sort of grim, steady scowl on his
+features that looked to me as though he had fixed it there purposely as
+a protection against the weakness of an inherent amiability that, he
+fancied, were better concealed. And then I let supper usurp his brief
+occupancy of my thoughts.
+
+“Draw up, George,” said Ross. “Let’s all eat while the grub’s hot.”
+
+“You fellows go on and chew,” answered the cook. “I ate mine in the
+kitchen before sun-down.”
+
+“Think it’ll be a big snow, George?” asked the ranchman.
+
+George had turned to reenter the cook room. He moved slowly around and,
+looking at his face, it seemed to me that he was turning over the
+wisdom and knowledge of centuries in his head.
+
+“It might,” was his delayed reply.
+
+At the door of the kitchen he stopped and looked back at us. Both Ross
+and I held our knives and forks poised and gave him our regard. Some
+men have the power of drawing the attention of others without speaking
+a word. Their attitude is more effective than a shout.
+
+“And again it mightn’t,” said George, and went back to his stove.
+
+After we had eaten, he came in and gathered the emptied dishes. He
+stood for a moment, while his spurious frown deepened.
+
+“It might stop any minute,” he said, “or it might keep up for days.”
+
+At the farther end of the cook room I saw George pour hot water into
+his dishpan, light his pipe, and put the tableware through its required
+lavation. He then carefully unwrapped from a piece of old saddle
+blanket a paperback book, and settled himself to read by his dim oil
+lamp.
+
+And then the ranchman threw tobacco on the cleared table and set forth
+again the bottles and glasses; and I saw that I stood in a deep channel
+through which the long dammed flood of his discourse would soon be
+booming. But I was half content, comparing my fate with that of the
+late Thomas Tucker, who had to sing for his supper, thus doubling the
+burdens of both himself and his host.
+
+“Snow is a hell of a thing,” said Ross, by way of a foreword. “It
+ain’t, somehow, it seems to me, salubrious. I can stand water and mud
+and two inches below zero and a hundred and ten in the shade and
+medium-sized cyclones, but this here fuzzy white stuff naturally gets
+me all locoed. I reckon the reason it rattles you is because it changes
+the look of things so much. It’s like you had a wife and left her in
+the morning with the same old blue cotton wrapper on, and rides in of a
+night and runs across her all outfitted in a white silk evening frock,
+waving an ostrich-feather fan, and monkeying with a posy of lily
+flowers. Wouldn’t it make you look for your pocket compass? You’d be
+liable to kiss her before you collected your presence of mind.”
+
+By and by, the flood of Ross’s talk was drawn up into the clouds (so it
+pleased me to fancy) and there condensed into the finer snowflakes of
+thought; and we sat silent about the stove, as good friends and bitter
+enemies will do. I thought of Ross’s preamble about the mysterious
+influence upon man exerted by that ermine-lined monster that now
+covered our little world, and knew he was right.
+
+Of all the curious knickknacks, mysteries, puzzles, Indian gifts,
+rat-traps, and well-disguised blessings that the gods chuck down to us
+from the Olympian peaks, the most disquieting and evil-bringing is the
+snow. By scientific analysis it is absolute beauty and purity—so, at
+the beginning we look doubtfully at chemistry.
+
+It falls upon the world, and lo! we live in another. It hides in a
+night the old scars and familiar places with which we have grown
+heart-sick or enamored. So, as quietly as we can, we hustle on our
+embroidered robes and hie us on Prince Camaralzaman’s horse or in the
+reindeer sleigh into the white country where the seven colors converge.
+This is when our fancy can overcome the bane of it.
+
+But in certain spots of the earth comes the snow-madness, made known by
+people turned wild and distracted by the bewildering veil that has
+obscured the only world they know. In the cities, the white fairy who
+sets the brains of her dupes whirling by a wave of her wand is cast for
+the comedy role. Her diamond shoe buckles glitter like frost; with a
+pirouette she invites the spotless carnival.
+
+But in the waste places the snow is sardonic. Sponging out the world of
+the outliers, it gives no foothold on another sphere in return. It
+makes of the earth a firmament under foot; it leaves us clawing and
+stumbling in space in an inimical fifth element whose evil outdoes its
+strangeness and beauty, There Nature, low comedienne, plays her tricks
+on man. Though she has put him forth as her highest product, it appears
+that she has fashioned him with what seems almost incredible
+carelessness and indexterity. One-sided and without balance, with his
+two halves unequally fashioned and joined, must he ever jog his
+eccentric way. The snow falls, the darkness caps it, and the ridiculous
+man-biped strays in accurate circles until he succumbs in the ruins of
+his defective architecture.
+
+In the throat of the thirsty the snow is vitriol. In appearance as
+plausible as the breakfast food of the angels, it is as hot in the
+mouth as ginger, increasing the pangs of the water-famished. It is a
+derivative from water, air, and some cold, uncanny fire from which the
+caloric has been extracted. Good has been said of it; even the poets,
+crazed by its spell and shivering in their attics under its touch, have
+indited permanent melodies commemorative of its beauty.
+
+Still, to the saddest overcoated optimist it is a plague—a corroding
+plague that Pharaoh successfully side-stepped. It beneficently covers
+the wheat fields, swelling the crop—and the Flour Trust gets us by the
+throat like a sudden quinsy. It spreads the tail of its white kirtle
+over the red seams of the rugged north—and the Alaskan short story is
+born. Etiolated perfidy, it shelters the mountain traveler burrowing
+from the icy air—and, melting to-morrow, drowns his brother in the
+valley below.
+
+At its worst it is lock and key and crucible, and the wand of Circe.
+When it corrals man in lonely ranches, mountain cabins, and forest
+huts, the snow makes apes and tigers of the hardiest. It turns the
+bosoms of weaker ones to glass, their tongues to infants’ rattles,
+their hearts to lawlessness and spleen. It is not all from the
+isolation; the snow is not merely a blockader; it is a Chemical Test.
+It is a good man who can show a reaction that is not chiefly composed
+of a drachm or two of potash and magnesia, with traces of Adam,
+Ananias, Nebuchadnezzar, and the fretful porcupine.
+
+This is no story, you say; well, let it begin.
+
+There was a knock at the door (is the opening not full of context and
+reminiscence oh, best buyers of best sellers?).
+
+We drew the latch, and in stumbled Etienne Girod (as he afterward named
+himself). But just then he was no more than a worm struggling for life,
+enveloped in a killing white chrysalis.
+
+We dug down through snow, overcoats, mufflers, and waterproofs, and
+dragged forth a living thing with a Van Dyck beard and marvellous
+diamond rings. We put it through the approved curriculum of
+snow-rubbing, hot milk, and teaspoonful doses of whiskey, working him
+up to a graduating class entitled to a diploma of three fingers of rye
+in half a glassful of hot water. One of the ranch boys had already come
+from the quarters at Ross’s bugle-like yell and kicked the stranger’s
+staggering pony to some sheltered corral where beasts were entertained.
+
+Let a paragraphic biography of Girod intervene.
+
+Etienne was an opera singer originally, we gathered; but adversity and
+the snow had made him _non compos vocis_. The adversity consisted of
+the stranded San Salvador Opera Company, a period of hotel second-story
+work, and then a career as a professional palmist, jumping from town to
+town. For, like other professional palmists, every time he worked the
+Heart Line too strongly he immediately moved along the Line of Least
+Resistance. Though Etienne did not confide this to us, we surmised that
+he had moved out into the dusk about twenty minutes ahead of a
+constable, and had thus encountered the snow. In his most sacred blue
+language he dilated upon the subject of snow; for Etienne was
+Paris-born and loved the snow with the same passion that an orchid
+does.
+
+“Mee-ser-rhable!” commented Etienne, and took another three fingers.
+
+“Complete, cast-iron, pussy-footed, blank... blank!” said Ross, and
+followed suit.
+
+“Rotten,” said I.
+
+The cook said nothing. He stood in the door weighing our outburst; and
+insistently from behind that frozen visage I got two messages (via the
+M. A. M wireless). One was that George considered our vituperation
+against the snow childish; the other was that George did not love
+Dagoes. Inasmuch as Etienne was a Frenchman, I concluded I had the
+message wrong. So I queried the other: “Bright eyes, you don’t really
+mean Dagoes, do you?” and over the wireless came three deathly, psychic
+taps: “Yes.” Then I reflected that to George all foreigners were
+probably “Dagoes.” I had once known another camp cook who had thought
+Mons., Sig., and Millie (Trans-Mississippi for Mlle.) were Italian
+given names; this cook used to marvel therefore at the paucity of
+Neo-Roman precognomens, and therefore why not—
+
+I have said that snow is a test of men. For one day, two days, Etienne
+stood at the window, Fletcherizing his finger nails and shrieking and
+moaning at the monotony. To me, Etienne was just about as unbearable as
+the snow; and so, seeking relief, I went out on the second day to look
+at my horse, slipped on a stone, broke my collarbone, and thereafter
+underwent not the snow test, but the test of flat-on-the-back. A test
+that comes once too often for any man to stand.
+
+However, I bore up cheerfully. I was now merely a spectator, and from
+my couch in the big room I could lie and watch the human interplay with
+that detached, impassive, impersonal feeling which French writers tell
+us is so valuable to the litterateur, and American writers to the
+faro-dealer.
+
+“I shall go crazy in this abominable, mee-ser-rhable place!” was
+Etienne’s constant prediction.
+
+“Never knew Mark Twain to bore me before,” said Ross, over and over. He
+sat by the other window, hour after hour, a box of Pittsburg stogies of
+the length, strength, and odor of a Pittsburg graft scandal deposited
+on one side of him, and “Roughing It,” “The Jumping Frog,” and “Life on
+the Mississippi” on the other. For every chapter he lit a new stogy,
+puffing furiously. This in time, gave him a recurrent premonition of
+cramps, gastritis, smoker’s colic or whatever it is they have in
+Pittsburg after a too deep indulgence in graft scandals. To fend off
+the colic, Ross resorted time and again to Old Doctor Still’s
+Amber-Colored U. S. A. Colic Cure. Result, after forty-eight
+hours—nerves.
+
+“Positive fact I never knew Mark Twain to make me tired before.
+Positive fact.” Ross slammed “Roughing It” on the floor. “When you’re
+snowbound this-away you want tragedy, I guess. Humor just seems to
+bring out all your cussedness. You read a man’s poor, pitiful attempts
+to be funny and it makes you so nervous you want to tear the book up,
+get out your bandana, and have a good, long cry.”
+
+At the other end of the room, the Frenchman took his finger nails out
+of his mouth long enough to exclaim: “Humor! Humor at such a time as
+thees! My God, I shall go crazy in thees abominable—”
+
+“Supper,” announced George.
+
+These meals were not the meals of Rabelais who said, “the great God
+makes the planets and we make the platters neat.” By that time, the
+ranch-house meals were not affairs of gusto; they were mental
+distraction, not bodily provender. What they were to be later shall
+never be forgotten by Ross or me or Etienne.
+
+After supper, the stogies and finger nails began again. My shoulder
+ached wretchedly, and with half-closed eyes I tried to forget it by
+watching the deft movements of the stolid cook.
+
+Suddenly I saw him cock his ear, like a dog. Then, with a swift step,
+he moved to the door, threw it open, and stood there.
+
+The rest of us had heard nothing.
+
+“What is it, George?” asked Ross.
+
+The cook reached out his hand into the darkness alongside the jamb.
+With careful precision he prodded something. Then he made one careful
+step into the snow. His back muscles bulged a little under the arms as
+he stooped and lightly lifted a burden. Another step inside the door,
+which he shut methodically behind him, and he dumped the burden at a
+safe distance from the fire.
+
+He stood up and fixed us with a solemn eye. None of us moved under that
+Orphic suspense until,
+
+“A woman,” remarked George.
+
+Miss Willie Adams was her name. Vocation, school-teacher. Present
+avocation, getting lost in the snow. Age, yum-yum (the Persian for
+twenty). Take to the woods if you would describe Miss Adams. A willow
+for grace; a hickory for fibre; a birch for the clear whiteness of her
+skin; for eyes, the blue sky seen through treetops; the silk in cocoons
+for her hair; her voice, the murmur of the evening June wind in the
+leaves; her mouth, the berries of the wintergreen; fingers as light as
+ferns; her toe as small as a deer track. General impression upon the
+dazed beholder—you could not see the forest for the trees.
+
+Psychology, with a capital P and the foot of a lynx, at this juncture
+stalks into the ranch house. Three men, a cook, a pretty young
+woman—all snowbound. Count me out of it, as I did not count, anyway. I
+never did, with women. Count the cook out, if you like. But note the
+effect upon Ross and Etienne Girod.
+
+Ross dumped Mark Twain in a trunk and locked the trunk. Also, he
+discarded the Pittsburg scandals. Also, he shaved off a three days’
+beard.
+
+Etienne, being French, began on the beard first. He pomaded it, from a
+little tube of grease Hongroise in his vest pocket. He combed it with a
+little aluminum comb from the same vest pocket. He trimmed it with
+manicure scissors from the same vest pocket. His light and Gallic
+spirits underwent a sudden, miraculous change. He hummed a blithe San
+Salvador Opera Company tune; he grinned, smirked, bowed, pirouetted,
+twiddled, twaddled, twisted, and tooralooed. Gayly, the notorious
+troubadour, could not have equalled Etienne.
+
+Ross’s method of advance was brusque, domineering. “Little woman,” he
+said, “you’re welcome here!”—and with what he thought subtle double
+meaning—“welcome to stay here as long as you like, snow or no snow.”
+
+Miss Adams thanked him a little wildly, some of the wintergreen berries
+creeping into the birch bark. She looked around hurriedly as if seeking
+escape. But there was none, save the kitchen and the room allotted her.
+She made an excuse and disappeared into her own room.
+
+Later I, feigning sleep, heard the following:
+
+“Mees Adams, I was almost to perish-die-of monotony w’en your fair and
+beautiful face appear in thees mee-ser-rhable house.” I opened my
+starboard eye. The beard was being curled furiously around a finger,
+the Svengali eye was rolling, the chair was being hunched closer to the
+school-teacher’s. “I am French—you see—temperamental—nervous! I cannot
+endure thees dull hours in thees ranch house; but—a woman comes! Ah!”
+The shoulders gave nine ’rahs and a tiger. “What a difference! All is
+light and gay; ever’ting smile w’en you smile. You have ’eart, beauty,
+grace. My ’eart comes back to me w’en I feel your ’eart. So!” He laid
+his hand upon his vest pocket. From this vantage point he suddenly
+snatched at the school-teacher’s own hand, “Ah! Mees Adams, if I could
+only tell you how I ad—”
+
+“Dinner,” remarked George. He was standing just behind the Frenchman’s
+ear. His eyes looked straight into the school-teacher’s eyes. After
+thirty seconds of survey, his lips moved, deep in the flinty, frozen
+maelstrom of his face: “Dinner,” he concluded, “will be ready in two
+minutes.”
+
+Miss Adams jumped to her feet, relieved. “I must get ready for dinner,”
+she said brightly, and went into her room.
+
+Ross came in fifteen minutes late. After the dishes had been cleaned
+away, I waited until a propitious time when the room was temporarily
+ours alone, and told him what had happened.
+
+He became so excited that he lit a stogy without thinking.
+“Yeller-hided, unwashed, palm-readin’ skunk,” he said under his breath.
+“I’ll shoot him full o’ holes if he don’t watch out—talkin’ that way to
+my wife!”
+
+I gave a jump that set my collarbone back another week. “Your wife!” I
+gasped.
+
+“Well, I mean to make her that,” he announced.
+
+The air in the ranch house the rest of that day was tense with pent-up
+emotions, oh, best buyers of best sellers.
+
+Ross watched Miss Adams as a hawk does a hen; he watched Etienne as a
+hawk does a scarecrow, Etienne watched Miss Adams as a weasel does a
+henhouse. He paid no attention to Ross.
+
+The condition of Miss Adams, in the role of sought-after, was feverish.
+Lately escaped from the agony and long torture of the white cold, where
+for hours Nature had kept the little school-teacher’s vision locked in
+and turned upon herself, nobody knows through what profound feminine
+introspections she had gone. Now, suddenly cast among men, instead of
+finding relief and security, she beheld herself plunged anew into other
+discomforts. Even in her own room she could hear the loud voices of her
+imposed suitors. “I’ll blow you full o’ holes!” shouted Ross.
+“Witnesses,” shrieked Etienne, waving his hand at the cook and me. She
+could not have known the previous harassed condition of the men,
+fretting under indoor conditions. All she knew was, that where she had
+expected the frank freemasonry of the West, she found the subtle tangle
+of two men’s minds, bent upon exacting whatever romance there might be
+in her situation.
+
+She tried to dodge Ross and the Frenchman by spells of nursing me. They
+also came over to help nurse. This combination aroused such a natural
+state of invalid cussedness on my part that they were all forced to
+retire. Once she did manage to whisper: “I am so worried here. I don’t
+know what to do.”
+
+To which I replied, gently, hitching up my shoulder, that I was a
+hunch-savant and that the Eighth House under this sign, the Moon being
+in Virgo, showed that everything would turn out all right.
+
+But twenty minutes later I saw Etienne reading her palm and felt that
+perhaps I might have to recast her horoscope, and try for a dark man
+coming with a bundle.
+
+Toward sunset, Etienne left the house for a few moments and Ross, who
+had been sitting taciturn and morose, having unlocked Mark Twain, made
+another dash. It was typical Ross talk.
+
+He stood in front of her and looked down majestically at that cool and
+perfect spot where Miss Adams’ forehead met the neat part in her
+fragrant hair. First, however, he cast a desperate glance at me. I was
+in a profound slumber.
+
+“Little woman,” he began, “it’s certainly tough for a man like me to
+see you bothered this way. You”—gulp—“you have been alone in this world
+too long. You need a protector. I might say that at a time like this
+you need a protector the worst kind—a protector who would take a
+three-ring delight in smashing the saffron-colored kisser off of any
+yeller-skinned skunk that made himself obnoxious to you. Hem. Hem. I am
+a lonely man, Miss Adams. I have so far had to carry on my life without
+the”—gulp—“sweet radiance”—gulp—“of a woman around the house. I feel
+especially doggoned lonely at a time like this, when I am pretty near
+locoed from havin’ to stall indoors, and hence it was with delight I
+welcomed your first appearance in this here shack. Since then I have
+been packed jam full of more different kinds of feelings, ornery, mean,
+dizzy, and superb, than has fallen my way in years.”
+
+Miss Adams made a useless movement toward escape. The Ross chin stuck
+firm. “I don’t want to annoy you, Miss Adams, but, by heck, if it comes
+to that you’ll have to be annoyed. And I’ll have to have my say. This
+palm-ticklin’ slob of a Frenchman ought to be kicked off the place and
+if you’ll say the word, off he goes. But I don’t want to do the wrong
+thing. You’ve got to show a preference. I’m gettin’ around to the
+point, Miss—Miss Willie, in my own brick fashion. I’ve stood about all
+I can stand these last two days and somethin’s got to happen. The
+suspense hereabouts is enough to hang a sheepherder. Miss Willie”—he
+lassooed her hand by main force—“just say the word. You need somebody
+to take your part all your life long. Will you mar—”
+
+“Supper,” remarked George, tersely, from the kitchen door.
+
+Miss Adams hurried away.
+
+Ross turned angrily. “You—”
+
+“I have been revolving it in my head,” said George.
+
+He brought the coffee pot forward heavily. Then bravely the big platter
+of pork and beans. Then somberly the potatoes. Then profoundly the
+biscuits. “I have been revolving it in my mind. There ain’t no use
+waitin’ any longer for Swengalley. Might as well eat now.”
+
+From my excellent vantage-point on the couch I watched the progress of
+that meal. Ross, muddled, glowering, disappointed; Etienne, eternally
+blandishing, attentive, ogling; Miss Adams, nervous, picking at her
+food, hesitant about answering questions, almost hysterical; now and
+then the solid, flitting shadow of the cook, passing behind their backs
+like a Dreadnaught in a fog.
+
+I used to own a clock which gurgled in its throat three minutes before
+it struck the hour. I know, therefore, the slow freight of
+Anticipation. For I have awakened at three in the morning, heard the
+clock gurgle, and waited those three minutes for the three strokes I
+knew were to come. _Alors_. In Ross’s ranch house that night the slow
+freight of Climax whistled in the distance.
+
+Etienne began it after supper. Miss Adams had suddenly displayed a
+lively interest in the kitchen layout and I could see her in there,
+chatting brightly at George—not with him—the while he ducked his head
+and rattled his pans.
+
+“My fren’,” said Etienne, exhaling a large cloud from his cigarette and
+patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand which,
+hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, “I see I mus’ be frank with
+you. Firs’, because we are rivals; second, because you take these
+matters so serious. I—I am Frenchman. I love the women”—he threw back
+his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an unsavory kiss toward the
+kitchen. “It is, I suppose, a trait of my nation. All Frenchmen love
+the women—pretty women. Now, look: Here I am!” He spread out his arms.
+“Cold outside! I detes’ the col-l-l! Snow! I abominate the
+mees-ser-rhable snow! Two men! This—” pointing to me—“an’ this!”
+Pointing to’ Ross. “I am distracted! For two whole days I stan’ at the
+window an’ tear my ’air! I am nervous, upset, pr-r-ro-foun’ly distress
+inside my ’ead! An’ suddenly—be’old! A woman, a nice, pretty, charming,
+innocen’ young woman! I, naturally, rejoice. I become myself again—gay,
+light-’earted, ’appy. I address myself to mademoiselle; it passes the
+time. That, m’sieu’, is wot the women are for—pass the time!
+Entertainment—like the music, like the wine!
+
+“They appeal to the mood, the caprice, the temperamen’. To play with
+thees woman, follow her through her humor, pursue her—ah! that is the
+mos’ delightful way to sen’ the hours about their business.”
+
+Ross banged the table. “Shut up, you miserable yeller pup!” he roared.
+“I object to your pursuin’ anything or anybody in my house. Now, you
+listen to me, you—” He picked up the box of stogies and used it on the
+table as an emphasizer. The noise of it awoke the attention of the girl
+in the kitchen. Unheeded, she crept into the room. “I don’t know
+anything about your French ways of lovemakin’ an’ I don’t care. In my
+section of the country, it’s the best man wins. And I’m the best man
+here, and don’t you forget it! This girl’s goin’ to be mine. There
+ain’t going to be any playing, or philandering, or palm reading about
+it. I’ve made up my mind I’ll have this girl, and that settles it. My
+word is the law in this neck o’ the woods. She’s mine, and as soon as
+she says she’s mine, you pull out.” The box made one final, tremendous
+punctuation point.
+
+Etienne’s bravado was unruffled. “Ah! that is no way to win a woman,”
+he smiled, easily. “I make prophecy you will never win ’er that way.
+No. Not thees woman. She mus’ be played along an’ then keessed, this
+charming, delicious little creature. One kees! An’ then you ’ave her.”
+Again he displayed his unpleasant teeth. “I make you a bet I will kees
+her—”
+
+As a cheerful chronicler of deeds done well, it joys me to relate that
+the hand which fell upon Etienne’s amorous lips was not his own. There
+was one sudden sound, as of a mule kicking a lath fence, and
+then—through the swinging doors of oblivion for Etienne.
+
+I had seen this blow delivered. It was an aloof, unstudied, almost
+absent-minded affair. I had thought the cook was rehearsing the proper
+method of turning a flapjack.
+
+Silently, lost in thought, he stood there scratching his head. Then he
+began rolling down his sleeves.
+
+“You’d better get your things on, Miss, and we’ll get out of here,” he
+decided. “Wrap up warm.”
+
+I heard her heave a little sigh of relief as she went to get her cloak,
+sweater, and hat.
+
+Ross jumped to his feet, and said: “George, what are you goin’ to do?”
+
+George, who had been headed in my direction, slowly swivelled around
+and faced his employer. “Bein’ a camp cook, I ain’t over-burdened with
+hosses,” George enlightened us. “Therefore, I am going to try to borrow
+this feller’s here.”
+
+For the first time in four days my soul gave a genuine cheer. “If it’s
+for Lochinvar purposes, go as far as you like,” I said, grandly.
+
+The cook studied me a moment, as if trying to find an insult in my
+words. “No,” he replied. “It’s for mine and the young lady’s purposes,
+and we’ll go only three miles—to Hicksville. Now let me tell you
+somethin’, Ross.” Suddenly I was confronted with the cook’s chunky back
+and I heard a low, curt, carrying voice shoot through the room at my
+host. George had wheeled just as Ross started to speak. “You’re nutty.
+That’s what’s the matter with you. You can’t stand the snow. You’re
+getting nervouser, and nuttier every day. That and this Dago”—he jerked
+a thumb at the half-dead Frenchman in the corner—“has got you to the
+point where I thought I better horn in. I got to revolving it around in
+my mind and I seen if somethin’ wasn’t done, and done soon, there’d be
+murder around here and maybe”—his head gave an imperceptible list
+toward the girl’s room—“worse.”
+
+He stopped, but he held up a stubby finger to keep any one else from
+speaking. Then he plowed slowly through the drift of his ideas. “About
+this here woman. I know you, Ross, and I know what you reely think
+about women. If she hadn’t happened in here durin’ this here snow,
+you’d never have given two thoughts to the whole woman question.
+Likewise, when the storm clears, and you and the boys go hustlin’ out,
+this here whole business ’ll clear out of your head and you won’t think
+of a skirt again until Kingdom Come. Just because o’ this snow here,
+don’t forget you’re living in the selfsame world you was in four days
+ago. And you’re the same man, too. Now, what’s the use o’ getting all
+snarled up over four days of stickin’ in the house? That there’s what I
+been revolvin’ in my mind and this here’s the decision I’ve come to.”
+
+He plodded to the door and shouted to one of the ranch hands to saddle
+my horse.
+
+Ross lit a stogy and stood thoughtful in the middle of the room. Then
+he began: “I’ve a durn good notion, George, to knock your confounded
+head off and throw you into that snowbank, if—”
+
+“You’re wrong, mister. That ain’t a durned good notion you’ve got. It’s
+durned bad. Look here!” He pointed steadily out of doors until we were
+both forced to follow his finger. “You’re in here for more’n a week
+yet.” After allowing this fact to sink in, he barked out at Ross: “Can
+you cook?” Then at me: “Can you cook?” Then he looked at the wreck of
+Etienne and sniffed.
+
+There was an embarrassing silence as Ross and I thought solemnly of a
+foodless week.
+
+“If you just use hoss sense,” concluded George, “and don’t go for to
+hurt my feelin’s, all I want to do is to take this young gal down to
+Hicksville; and then I’ll head back here and cook fer you.”
+
+The horse and Miss Adams arrived simultaneously, both of them very
+serious and quiet. The horse because he knew what he had before him in
+that weather; the girl because of what she had left behind.
+
+Then all at once I awoke to a realization of what the cook was doing.
+“My God, man!” I cried, “aren’t you afraid to go out in that snow?”
+
+Behind my back I heard Ross mutter, “Not him.”
+
+George lifted the girl daintily up behind the saddle, drew on his
+gloves, put his foot in the stirrup, and turned to inspect me
+leisurely.
+
+As I passed slowly in his review, I saw in my mind’s eye the algebraic
+equation of Snow, the equals sign, and the answer in the man before me.
+
+“Snow is my last name,” said George. He swung into the saddle and they
+started cautiously out into the darkening swirl of fresh new currency
+just issuing from the Snowdrop Mint. The girl, to keep her place, clung
+happily to the sturdy figure of the camp cook.
+
+I brought three things away from Ross Curtis’s ranch house—yes, four.
+One was the appreciation of snow, which I have so humbly tried here to
+render; (2) was a collarbone, of which I am extra careful; (3) was a
+memory of what it is to eat very extremely bad food for a week; and (4)
+was the cause of (3) a little note delivered at the end of the week and
+hand-painted in blue pencil on a sheet of meat paper.
+
+“I cannot come back there to that there job. Mrs. Snow say no, George.
+I been revolvin’ it in my mind; considerin’ circumstances she’s right.”
+
+
+
+
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+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Waifs and Strays, by O. Henry</title>
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Waifs and Strays, by O. Henry</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Waifs and Strays</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: O. Henry</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August, 2000 [eBook #2295]<br />
+[Most recently updated: October 30, 2021]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Earle C. Beach. HTML version by Al Haines</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAIFS AND STRAYS ***</div>
+
+<h1>Waifs and Strays</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">by O. Henry</h2>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2>Contents</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <b>PART I&mdash;TWELVE STORIES</b></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap01">The Red Roses of Tonia</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap02">Round The Circle</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap03">The Rubber Plant&rsquo;s Story</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap04">Out of Nazareth</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap05">Confessions of a Humorist</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap06">The Sparrows in Madison Square</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap07">Hearts and Hands</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap08">The Cactus</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap09">The Detective Detector</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap10">The Dog and the Playlet</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap11">A Little Talk About Mobs</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap12">The Snow Man</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap01"></a>THE RED ROSES OF TONIA</h2>
+
+<p>
+A trestle burned down on the International Railroad. The south-bound from San
+Antonio was cut off for the next forty-eight hours. On that train was Tonia
+Weaver&rsquo;s Easter hat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Espirition, the Mexican, who had been sent forty miles in a buckboard from the
+Espinosa Ranch to fetch it, returned with a shrugging shoulder and hands empty
+except for a cigarette. At the small station, Nopal, he had learned of the
+delayed train and, having no commands to wait, turned his ponies toward the
+ranch again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now, if one supposes that Easter, the Goddess of Spring, cares any more for the
+after-church parade on Fifth Avenue than she does for her loyal outfit of
+subjects that assemble at the meeting-house at Cactus, Tex., a mistake has been
+made. The wives and daughters of the ranchmen of the Frio country put forth
+Easter blossoms of new hats and gowns as faithfully as is done anywhere, and
+the Southwest is, for one day, a mingling of prickly pear, Paris, and paradise.
+And now it was Good Friday, and Tonia Weaver&rsquo;s Easter hat blushed unseen
+in the desert air of an impotent express car, beyond the burned trestle. On
+Saturday noon the Rogers girls, from the Shoestring Ranch, and Ella Reeves,
+from the Anchor-O, and Mrs. Bennet and Ida, from Green Valley, would convene at
+the Espinosa and pick up Tonia. With their Easter hats and frocks carefully
+wrapped and bundled against the dust, the fair aggregation would then merrily
+jog the ten miles to Cactus, where on the morrow they would array themselves,
+subjugate man, do homage to Easter, and cause jealous agitation among the
+lilies of the field.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tonia sat on the steps of the Espinosa ranch house flicking gloomily with a
+quirt at a tuft of curly mesquite. She displayed a frown and a contumelious
+lip, and endeavored to radiate an aura of disagreeableness and tragedy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hate railroads,&rdquo; she announced positively. &ldquo;And men. Men
+pretend to run them. Can you give any excuse why a trestle should burn? Ida
+Bennet&rsquo;s hat is to be trimmed with violets. I shall not go one step
+toward Cactus without a new hat. If I were a man I would get one.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two men listened uneasily to this disparagement of their kind. One was Wells
+Pearson, foreman of the Mucho Calor cattle ranch. The other was Thompson
+Burrows, the prosperous sheepman from the Quintana Valley. Both thought Tonia
+Weaver adorable, especially when she railed at railroads and menaced men.
+Either would have given up his epidermis to make for her an Easter hat more
+cheerfully than the ostrich gives up his tip or the aigrette lays down its
+life. Neither possessed the ingenuity to conceive a means of supplying the sad
+deficiency against the coming Sabbath. Pearson&rsquo;s deep brown face and
+sunburned light hair gave him the appearance of a schoolboy seized by one of
+youth&rsquo;s profound and insolvable melancholies. Tonia&rsquo;s plight
+grieved him through and through. Thompson Burrows was the more skilled and
+pliable. He hailed from somewhere in the East originally; and he wore neckties
+and shoes, and was made dumb by woman&rsquo;s presence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The big water-hole on Sandy Creek,&rdquo; said Pearson, scarcely hoping
+to make a hit, &ldquo;was filled up by that last rain.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh! Was it?&rdquo; said Tonia sharply. &ldquo;Thank you for the
+information. I suppose a new hat is nothing to you, Mr. Pearson. I suppose you
+think a woman ought to wear an old Stetson five years without a change, as you
+do. If your old water-hole could have put out the fire on that trestle you
+might have some reason to talk about it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am deeply sorry,&rdquo; said Burrows, warned by Pearson&rsquo;s fate,
+&ldquo;that you failed to receive your hat, Miss Weaver&mdash;deeply sorry,
+indeed. If there was anything I could do&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t bother,&rdquo; interrupted Tonia, with sweet sarcasm.
+&ldquo;If there was anything you could do, you&rsquo;d be doing it, of course.
+There isn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tonia paused. A sudden sparkle of hope had come into her eye. Her frown
+smoothed away. She had an inspiration.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a store over at Lone Elm Crossing on the Nueces,&rdquo;
+she said, &ldquo;that keeps hats. Eva Rogers got hers there. She said it was
+the latest style. It might have some left. But it&rsquo;s twenty-eight miles to
+Lone Elm.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The spurs of two men who hastily arose jingled; and Tonia almost smiled. The
+Knights, then, were not all turned to dust; nor were their rowels rust.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said Tonia, looking thoughtfully at a white gulf cloud
+sailing across the cerulean dome, &ldquo;nobody could ride to Lone Elm and back
+by the time the girls call by for me to-morrow. So, I reckon I&rsquo;ll have to
+stay at home this Easter Sunday.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then she smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, Miss Tonia,&rdquo; said Pearson, reaching for his hat, as guileful
+as a sleeping babe. &ldquo;I reckon I&rsquo;ll be trotting along back to Mucho
+Calor. There&rsquo;s some cutting out to be done on Dry Branch first thing in
+the morning; and me and Road Runner has got to be on hand. It&rsquo;s too bad
+your hat got sidetracked. Maybe they&rsquo;ll get that trestle mended yet in
+time for Easter.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I must be riding, too, Miss Tonia,&rdquo; announced Burrows, looking at
+his watch. &ldquo;I declare, it&rsquo;s nearly five o&rsquo;clock! I must be
+out at my lambing camp in time to help pen those crazy ewes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tonia&rsquo;s suitors seemed to have been smitten with a need for haste. They
+bade her a ceremonious farewell, and then shook each other&rsquo;s hands with
+the elaborate and solemn courtesy of the Southwesterner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hope I&rsquo;ll see you again soon, Mr. Pearson,&rdquo; said Burrows.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Same here,&rdquo; said the cowman, with the serious face of one whose
+friend goes upon a whaling voyage. &ldquo;Be gratified to see you ride over to
+Mucho Calor any time you strike that section of the range.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pearson mounted Road Runner, the soundest cow-pony on the Frio, and let him
+pitch for a minute, as he always did on being mounted, even at the end of a
+day&rsquo;s travel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What kind of a hat was that, Miss Tonia,&rdquo; he called, &ldquo;that
+you ordered from San Antone? I can&rsquo;t help but be sorry about that
+hat.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A straw,&rdquo; said Tonia; &ldquo;the latest shape, of course; trimmed
+with red roses. That&rsquo;s what I like&mdash;red roses.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s no color more becoming to your complexion and hair,&rdquo;
+said Burrows, admiringly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s what I like,&rdquo; said Tonia. &ldquo;And of all the
+flowers, give me red roses. Keep all the pinks and blues for yourself. But
+what&rsquo;s the use, when trestles burn and leave you without anything?
+It&rsquo;ll be a dry old Easter for me!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pearson took off his hat and drove Road Runner at a gallop into the chaparral
+east of the Espinosa ranch house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As his stirrups rattled against the brush Burrows&rsquo;s long-legged sorrel
+struck out down the narrow stretch of open prairie to the southwest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tonia hung up her quirt and went into the sitting-room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m mighty sorry, daughter, that you didn&rsquo;t get your
+hat,&rdquo; said her mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t worry, mother,&rdquo; said Tonia, coolly.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have a new hat, all right, in time to-morrow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+When Burrows reached the end of the strip of prairie he pulled his sorrel to
+the right and let him pick his way daintily across a sacuista flat through
+which ran the ragged, dry bed of an arroyo. Then up a gravelly hill, matted
+with bush, the horse scrambled, and at length emerged, with a snort of
+satisfaction into a stretch of high, level prairie, grassy and dotted with the
+lighter green of mesquites in their fresh spring foliage. Always to the right
+Burrows bore, until in a little while he struck the old Indian trail that
+followed the Nueces southward, and that passed, twenty-eight miles to the
+southeast, through Lone Elm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here Burrows urged the sorrel into a steady lope. As he settled himself in the
+saddle for a long ride he heard the drumming of hoofs, the hollow
+&ldquo;thwack&rdquo; of chaparral against wooden stirrups, the whoop of a
+Comanche; and Wells Pearson burst out of the brush at the right of the trail
+like a precocious yellow chick from a dark green Easter egg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Except in the presence of awing femininity melancholy found no place in
+Pearson&rsquo;s bosom. In Tonia&rsquo;s presence his voice was as soft as a
+summer bullfrog&rsquo;s in his reedy nest. Now, at his gleesome yawp, rabbits,
+a mile away, ducked their ears, and sensitive plants closed their fearful
+fronds.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Moved your lambing camp pretty far from the ranch, haven&rsquo;t you,
+neighbor?&rdquo; asked Pearson, as Road Runner fell in at the sorrel&rsquo;s
+side.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Twenty-eight miles,&rdquo; said Burrows, looking a little grim.
+Pearson&rsquo;s laugh woke an owl one hour too early in his water-elm on the
+river bank, half a mile away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All right for you, sheepman. I like an open game, myself. We&rsquo;re
+two locoed he-milliners hat-hunting in the wilderness. I notify you. Burr, to
+mind your corrals. We&rsquo;ve got an even start, and the one that gets the
+headgear will stand some higher at the Espinosa.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got a good pony,&rdquo; said Burrows, eyeing Road
+Runner&rsquo;s barrel-like body and tapering legs that moved as regularly as
+the pistonrod of an engine. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a race, of course; but
+you&rsquo;re too much of a horseman to whoop it up this soon. Say we travel
+together till we get to the home stretch.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m your company,&rdquo; agreed Pearson, &ldquo;and I admire your
+sense. If there&rsquo;s hats at Lone Elm, one of &rsquo;em shall set on Miss
+Tonia&rsquo;s brow to-morrow, and you won&rsquo;t be at the crowning. I
+ain&rsquo;t bragging, Burr, but that sorrel of yours is weak in the
+fore-legs.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My horse against yours,&rdquo; offered Burrows, &ldquo;that Miss Tonia
+wears the hat I take her to Cactus to-morrow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take you up,&rdquo; shouted Pearson. &ldquo;But oh,
+it&rsquo;s just like horse-stealing for me! I can use that sorrel for a
+lady&rsquo;s animal when&mdash;when somebody comes over to Mucho Calor,
+and&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Burrows&rsquo; dark face glowered so suddenly that the cowman broke off his
+sentence. But Pearson could never feel any pressure for long.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s all this Easter business about, Burr?&rdquo; he asked,
+cheerfully. &ldquo;Why do the women folks have to have new hats by the almanac
+or bust all cinches trying to get &rsquo;em?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a seasonable statute out of the testaments,&rdquo; explained
+Burrows. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s ordered by the Pope or somebody. And it has
+something to do with the Zodiac I don&rsquo;t know exactly, but I think it was
+invented by the Egyptians.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s an all-right jubilee if the heathens did put their brand on
+it,&rdquo; said Pearson; &ldquo;or else Tonia wouldn&rsquo;t have anything to
+do with it. And they pull it off at church, too. Suppose there ain&rsquo;t but
+one hat in the Lone Elm store, Burr!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Burrows, darkly, &ldquo;the best man of us&rsquo;ll
+take it back to the Espinosa.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, man!&rdquo; cried Pearson, throwing his hat high and catching it
+again, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s nothing like you come off the sheep ranges before.
+You talk good and collateral to the occasion. And if there&rsquo;s more than
+one?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Burrows, &ldquo;we&rsquo;ll pick our choice and one of
+us&rsquo;ll get back first with his and the other won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There never was two souls,&rdquo; proclaimed Pearson to the stars,
+&ldquo;that beat more like one heart than yourn and mine. Me and you might be
+riding on a unicorn and thinking out of the same piece of mind.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At a little past midnight the riders loped into Lone Elm. The half a hundred
+houses of the big village were dark. On its only street the big wooden store
+stood barred and shuttered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a few moments the horses were fastened and Pearson was pounding cheerfully
+on the door of old Sutton, the storekeeper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The barrel of a Winchester came through a cranny of a solid window shutter
+followed by a short inquiry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wells Pearson, of the Mucho Calor, and Burrows, of Green Valley,&rdquo;
+was the response. &ldquo;We want to buy some goods in the store. Sorry to wake
+you up but we must have &rsquo;em. Come on out, Uncle Tommy, and get a move on
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Uncle Tommy was slow, but at length they got him behind his counter with a
+kerosene lamp lit, and told him of their dire need.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Easter hats?&rdquo; said Uncle Tommy, sleepily. &ldquo;Why, yes, I
+believe I have got just a couple left. I only ordered a dozen this spring.
+I&rsquo;ll show &rsquo;em to you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now, Uncle Tommy Sutton was a merchant, half asleep or awake. In dusty
+pasteboard boxes under the counter he had two left-over spring hats. But, alas!
+for his commercial probity on that early Saturday morn&mdash;they were hats of
+two springs ago, and a woman&rsquo;s eye would have detected the fraud at half
+a glance. But to the unintelligent gaze of the cowpuncher and the sheepman they
+seemed fresh from the mint of contemporaneous April.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The hats were of a variety once known as &ldquo;cart-wheels.&rdquo; They were
+of stiff straw, colored red, and flat brimmed. Both were exactly alike, and
+trimmed lavishly around their crowns with full blown, immaculate, artificial
+white roses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That all you got, Uncle Tommy?&rdquo; said Pearson. &ldquo;All right.
+Not much choice here, Burr. Take your pick.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They&rsquo;re the latest styles&rdquo; lied Uncle Tommy.
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;d see &rsquo;em on Fifth Avenue, if you was in New
+York.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Uncle Tommy wrapped and tied each hat in two yards of dark calico for a
+protection. One Pearson tied carefully to his calfskin saddle-thongs; and the
+other became part of Road Runner&rsquo;s burden. They shouted thanks and
+farewells to Uncle Tommy, and cantered back into the night on the home stretch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The horsemen jockeyed with all their skill. They rode more slowly on their way
+back. The few words they spoke were not unfriendly. Burrows had a Winchester
+under his left leg slung over his saddle horn. Pearson had a six shooter belted
+around him. Thus men rode in the Frio country.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At half-past seven in the morning they rode to the top of a hill and saw the
+Espinosa Ranch, a white spot under a dark patch of live-oaks, five miles away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sight roused Pearson from his drooping pose in the saddle. He knew what
+Road Runner could do. The sorrel was lathered, and stumbling frequently; Road
+Runner was pegging away like a donkey engine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pearson turned toward the sheepman and laughed. &ldquo;Good-bye, Burr,&rdquo;
+he cried, with a wave of his hand. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a race now. We&rsquo;re on
+the home stretch.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He pressed Road Runner with his knees and leaned toward the Espinosa. Road
+Runner struck into a gallop, with tossing head and snorting nostrils, as if he
+were fresh from a month in pasture.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pearson rode twenty yards and heard the unmistakable sound of a Winchester
+lever throwing a cartridge into the barrel. He dropped flat along his
+horse&rsquo;s back before the crack of the rifle reached his ears.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is possible that Burrows intended only to disable the horse&mdash;he was a
+good enough shot to do that without endangering his rider. But as Pearson
+stooped the ball went through his shoulder and then through Road Runner&rsquo;s
+neck. The horse fell and the cowman pitched over his head into the hard road,
+and neither of them tried to move.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Burrows rode on without stopping.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In two hours Pearson opened his eyes and took inventory. He managed to get to
+his feet and staggered back to where Road Runner was lying.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Road Runner was lying there, but he appeared to be comfortable. Pearson
+examined him and found that the bullet had &ldquo;creased&rdquo; him. He had
+been knocked out temporarily, but not seriously hurt. But he was tired, and he
+lay there on Miss Tonia&rsquo;s hat and ate leaves from a mesquite branch that
+obligingly hung over the road.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pearson made the horse get up. The Easter hat, loosed from the saddle-thongs,
+lay there in its calico wrappings, a shapeless thing from its sojourn beneath
+the solid carcass of Road Runner. Then Pearson fainted and fell head long upon
+the poor hat again, crumpling it under his wounded shoulders.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is hard to kill a cowpuncher. In half an hour he revived&mdash;long enough
+for a woman to have fainted twice and tried ice-cream for a restorer. He got up
+carefully and found Road Runner who was busy with the near-by grass. He tied
+the unfortunate hat to the saddle again, and managed to get himself there, too,
+after many failures.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At noon a gay and fluttering company waited in front of the Espinosa Ranch. The
+Rogers girls were there in their new buckboard, and the Anchor-O outfit and the
+Green Valley folks&mdash;mostly women. And each and every one wore her new
+Easter hat, even upon the lonely prairies, for they greatly desired to shine
+forth and do honor to the coming festival.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the gate stood Tonia, with undisguised tears upon her cheeks. In her hand
+she held Burrow&rsquo;s Lone Elm hat, and it was at its white roses, hated by
+her, that she wept. For her friends were telling her, with the ecstatic joy of
+true friends, that cart-wheels could not be worn, being three seasons passed
+into oblivion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Put on your old hat and come, Tonia,&rdquo; they urged.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;For Easter Sunday?&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll die
+first.&rdquo; And wept again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The hats of the fortunate ones were curved and twisted into the style of
+spring&rsquo;s latest proclamation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A strange being rode out of the brush among them, and there sat his horse
+languidly. He was stained and disfigured with the green of the grass and the
+limestone of rocky roads.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hallo, Pearson,&rdquo; said Daddy Weaver. &ldquo;Look like you&rsquo;ve
+been breaking a mustang. What&rsquo;s that you&rsquo;ve got tied to your
+saddle&mdash;a pig in a poke?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, come on, Tonia, if you&rsquo;re going,&rdquo; said Betty Rogers.
+&ldquo;We mustn&rsquo;t wait any longer. We&rsquo;ve saved a seat in the
+buckboard for you. Never mind the hat. That lovely muslin you&rsquo;ve got on
+looks sweet enough with any old hat.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pearson was slowly untying the queer thing on his saddle. Tonia looked at him
+with a sudden hope. Pearson was a man who created hope. He got the thing loose
+and handed it to her. Her quick fingers tore at the strings.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Best I could do,&rdquo; said Pearson slowly. &ldquo;What Road Runner and
+me done to it will be about all it needs.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, oh! it&rsquo;s just the right shape,&rdquo; shrieked Tonia.
+&ldquo;And red roses! Wait till I try it on!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She flew in to the glass, and out again, beaming, radiating, blossomed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t red become her?&rdquo; chanted the girls in recitative.
+&ldquo;Hurry up, Tonia!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tonia stopped for a moment by the side of Road Runner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thank you, thank you, Wells,&rdquo; she said, happily. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
+just what I wanted. Won&rsquo;t you come over to Cactus to-morrow and go to
+church with me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If I can,&rdquo; said Pearson. He was looking curiously at her hat, and
+then he grinned weakly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tonia flew into the buckboard like a bird. The vehicles sped away for Cactus.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What have you been doing, Pearson?&rdquo; asked Daddy Weaver. &ldquo;You
+ain&rsquo;t looking so well as common.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Me?&rdquo; said Pearson. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been painting flowers. Them
+roses was white when I left Lone Elm. Help me down, Daddy Weaver, for I
+haven&rsquo;t got any more paint to spare.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap02"></a>ROUND THE CIRCLE</h2>
+
+<p class="letter">
+[This story is especially interesting as an early treatment (1902) of the theme
+afterward developed with a surer hand in The Pendulum.]
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+&ldquo;Find yo&rsquo; shirt all right, Sam?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Webber, from her
+chair under the live-oak, where she was comfortably seated with a paper-back
+volume for company.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It balances perfeckly, Marthy,&rdquo; answered Sam, with a suspicious
+pleasantness in his tone. &ldquo;At first I was about ter be a little reckless
+and kick &rsquo;cause ther buttons was all off, but since I diskiver that the
+button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn&rsquo;t go so fur as to say the
+buttons is any loss to speak of.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, well,&rdquo; said his wife, carelessly, &ldquo;put on your
+necktie&mdash;that&rsquo;ll keep it together.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam Webber&rsquo;s sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the
+country between the Nueces and the Frio. The ranch house&mdash;a two-room box
+structure&mdash;was on the rise of a gently swelling hill in the midst of a
+wilderness of high chaparral. In front of it was a small clearing where stood
+the sheep pens, shearing shed, and wool house. Only a few feet back of it began
+the thorny jungle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam was going to ride over to the Chapman ranch to see about buying some more
+improved merino rams. At length he came out, ready for his ride. This being a
+business trip of some importance, and the Chapman ranch being almost a small
+town in population and size, Sam had decided to &ldquo;dress up&rdquo;
+accordingly. The result was that he had transformed himself from a graceful,
+picturesque frontiersman into something much less pleasing to the sight. The
+tight white collar awkwardly constricted his muscular, mahogany-colored neck.
+The buttonless shirt bulged in stiff waves beneath his unbuttoned vest. The
+suit of &ldquo;ready-made&rdquo; effectually concealed the fine lines of his
+straight, athletic figure. His berry-brown face was set to the melancholy
+dignity befitting a prisoner of state. He gave Randy, his three-year-old son, a
+pat on the head, and hurried out to where Mexico, his favorite saddle horse,
+was standing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Marthy, leisurely rocking in her chair, fixed her place in the book with her
+finger, and turned her head, smiling mischievously as she noted the havoc Sam
+had wrought with his appearance in trying to &ldquo;fix up.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, ef I must say it, Sam,&rdquo; she drawled, &ldquo;you look jest
+like one of them hayseeds in the picture papers, &rsquo;stead of a free and
+independent sheepman of the State o&rsquo; Texas.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam climbed awkwardly into the saddle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re the one ought to be &rsquo;shamed to say so,&rdquo; he
+replied hotly. &ldquo;&rsquo;Stead of &rsquo;tendin&rsquo; to a man&rsquo;s
+clothes you&rsquo;re al&rsquo;ays setting around a-readin&rsquo; them
+billy-by-dam yaller-back novils.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, shet up and ride along,&rdquo; said Mrs. Webber, with a little jerk
+at the handles of her chair; &ldquo;you always fussin&rsquo; &rsquo;bout my
+readin&rsquo;. I do a-plenty; and I&rsquo;ll read when I wanter. I live in the
+bresh here like a varmint, never seein&rsquo; nor hearin&rsquo; nothin&rsquo;,
+and what other &rsquo;musement kin I have? Not in listenin&rsquo; to you talk,
+for it&rsquo;s complain, complain, one day after another. Oh, go on, Sam, and
+leave me in peace.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam gave his pony a squeeze with his knees and &ldquo;shoved&rdquo; down the
+wagon trail that connected his ranch with the old, open Government road. It was
+eight o&rsquo;clock, and already beginning to be very warm. He should have
+started three hours earlier. Chapman ranch was only eighteen miles away, but
+there was a road for only three miles of the distance. He had ridden over there
+once with one of the Half-Moon cowpunchers, and he had the direction
+well-defined in his mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam turned off the old Government road at the split mesquite, and struck down
+the arroyo of the Quintanilla. Here was a narrow stretch of smiling valley,
+upholstered with a rich mat of green, curly mesquite grass; and Mexico consumed
+those few miles quickly with his long, easy lope. Again, upon reaching Wild
+Duck Waterhole, must he abandon well-defined ways. He turned now to his right
+up a little hill, pebble-covered, upon which grew only the tenacious and thorny
+prickly pear and chaparral. At the summit of this he paused to take his last
+general view of the landscape for, from now on, he must wind through brakes and
+thickets of chaparral, pear, and mesquite, for the most part seeing scarcely
+farther than twenty yards in any direction, choosing his way by the
+prairie-dweller&rsquo;s instinct, guided only by an occasional glimpse of a far
+distant hilltop, a peculiarly shaped knot of trees, or the position of the sun.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam rode down the sloping hill and plunged into the great pear flat that lies
+between the Quintanilla and the Piedra.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In about two hours he discovered that he was lost. Then came the usual
+confusion of mind and the hurry to get somewhere. Mexico was anxious to redeem
+the situation, twisting with alacrity along the tortuous labyrinths of the
+jungle. At the moment his master&rsquo;s sureness of the route had failed his
+horse had divined the fact. There were no hills now that they could climb to
+obtain a view of the country. They came upon a few, but so dense and interlaced
+was the brush that scarcely could a rabbit penetrate the mass. They were in the
+great, lonely thicket of the Frio bottoms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a mere nothing for a cattleman or a sheepman to be lost for a day or a
+night. The thing often happened. It was merely a matter of missing a meal or
+two and sleeping comfortably on your saddle blankets on a soft mattress of
+mesquite grass. But in Sam&rsquo;s case it was different. He had never been
+away from his ranch at night. Marthy was afraid of the country&mdash;afraid of
+Mexicans, of snakes, of panthers, even of sheep. So he had never left her
+alone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It must have been about four in the afternoon when Sam&rsquo;s conscience
+awoke. He was limp and drenched, rather from anxiety than the heat or fatigue.
+Until now he had been hoping to strike the trail that led to the Frio crossing
+and the Chapman ranch. He must have crossed it at some dim part of it and
+ridden beyond. If so he was now something like fifty miles from home. If he
+could strike a ranch&mdash;a camp&mdash;any place where he could get a fresh
+horse and inquire the road, he would ride all night to get back to Marthy and
+the kid.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So, I have hinted, Sam was seized by remorse. There was a big lump in his
+throat as he thought of the cross words he had spoken to his wife. Surely it
+was hard enough for her to live in that horrible country without having to bear
+the burden of his abuse. He cursed himself grimly, and felt a sudden flush of
+shame that over-glowed the summer heat as he remembered the many times he had
+flouted and railed at her because she had a liking for reading fiction.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ther only so&rsquo;ce ov amusement ther po&rsquo; gal&rsquo;s
+got,&rdquo; said Sam aloud, with a sob, which unaccustomed sound caused Mexico
+to shy a bit. &ldquo;A-livin&rsquo; with a sore-headed kiote like me&mdash;a
+low-down skunk that ought to be licked to death with a saddle
+cinch&mdash;a-cookin&rsquo; and a-washin&rsquo; and a-livin&rsquo; on mutton
+and beans and me abusin&rsquo; her fur takin&rsquo; a squint or two in a little
+book!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He thought of Marthy as she had been when he first met her in
+Dogtown&mdash;smart, pretty, and saucy&mdash;before the sun had turned the
+roses in her cheeks brown and the silence of the chaparral had tamed her
+ambitions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ef I ever speaks another hard word to ther little gal,&rdquo; muttered
+Sam, &ldquo;or fails in the love and affection that&rsquo;s coming to her in
+the deal, I hopes a wildcat&rsquo;ll t&rsquo;ar me to pieces.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He knew what he would do. He would write to Garcia &amp; Jones, his San Antonio
+merchants where he bought his supplies and sold his wool, and have them send
+down a big box of novels and reading matter for Marthy. Things were going to be
+different. He wondered whether a little piano could be placed in one of the
+rooms of the ranch house without the family having to move out of doors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In nowise calculated to allay his self-reproach was the thought that Marthy and
+Randy would have to pass the night alone. In spite of their bickerings, when
+night came Marthy was wont to dismiss her fears of the country, and rest her
+head upon Sam&rsquo;s strong arm with a sigh of peaceful content and
+dependence. And were her fears so groundless? Sam thought of roving, marauding
+Mexicans, of stealthy cougars that sometimes invaded the ranches, of
+rattlesnakes, centipedes, and a dozen possible dangers. Marthy would be frantic
+with fear. Randy would cry, and call for dada to come.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still the interminable succession of stretches of brush, cactus, and mesquite.
+Hollow after hollow, slope after slope&mdash;all exactly alike&mdash;all
+familiar by constant repetition, and yet all strange and new. If he could only
+arrive <i>somewhere</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The straight line is Art. Nature moves in circles. A straightforward man is
+more an artificial product than a diplomatist is. Men lost in the snow travel
+in exact circles until they sink, exhausted, as their footprints have attested.
+Also, travellers in philosophy and other mental processes frequently wind up at
+their starting-point.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was when Sam Webber was fullest of contrition and good resolves that Mexico,
+with a heavy sigh, subsided from his regular, brisk trot into a slow complacent
+walk. They were winding up an easy slope covered with brush ten or twelve feet
+high.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I say now, Mex,&rdquo; demurred Sam, &ldquo;this here won&rsquo;t do. I
+know you&rsquo;re plumb tired out, but we got ter git along. Oh, Lordy,
+ain&rsquo;t there no mo&rsquo; houses in the world!&rdquo; He gave Mexico a
+smart kick with his heels.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mexico gave a protesting grunt as if to say: &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the use of
+that, now we&rsquo;re so near?&rdquo; He quickened his gait into a languid
+trot. Rounding a great clump of black chaparral he stopped short. Sam dropped
+the bridle reins and sat, looking into the back door of his own house, not ten
+yards away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Marthy, serene and comfortable, sat in her rocking-chair before the door in the
+shade of the house, with her feet resting luxuriously upon the steps. Randy,
+who was playing with a pair of spurs on the ground, looked up for a moment at
+his father and went on spinning the rowels and singing a little song. Marthy
+turned her head lazily against the back of the chair and considered the
+arrivals with emotionless eyes. She held a book in her lap with her finger
+holding the place.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam shook himself queerly, like a man coming out of a dream, and slowly
+dismounted. He moistened his dry lips.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I see you are still a-settin&rsquo;,&rdquo; he said,
+&ldquo;a-readin&rsquo; of them billy-by-dam yaller-back novils.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sam had traveled round the circle and was himself again.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap03"></a>THE RUBBER PLANT&rsquo;S STORY</h2>
+
+<p>
+We rubber plants form the connecting link between the vegetable kingdom and the
+decorations of a Waldorf-Astoria scene in a Third Avenue theatre. I
+haven&rsquo;t looked up our family tree, but I believe we were raised by
+grafting a gum overshoe on to a 30-cent table d&rsquo;hôte stalk of asparagus.
+You take a white bulldog with a Bourke Cockran air of independence about him
+and a rubber plant and there you have the fauna and flora of a flat. What the
+shamrock is to Ireland the rubber plant is to the dweller in flats and
+furnished rooms. We get moved from one place to another so quickly that the
+only way we can get our picture taken is with a kinetoscope. We are the vagrant
+vine and the flitting fig tree. You know the proverb: &ldquo;Where the rubber
+plant sits in the window the moving van draws up to the door.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We are the city equivalent to the woodbine and the honeysuckle. No other
+vegetable except the Pittsburg stogie can withstand as much handling as we can.
+When the family to which we belong moves into a flat they set us in the front
+window and we become lares and penates, fly-paper and the peripatetic emblem of
+&ldquo;Home Sweet Home.&rdquo; We aren&rsquo;t as green as we look. I guess we
+are about what you would call the soubrettes of the conservatory. You try
+sitting in the front window of a $40 flat in Manhattan and looking out into the
+street all day, and back into the flat at night, and see whether you get wise
+or not&mdash;hey? Talk about the tree of knowledge of good and evil in the
+garden of Eden&mdash;say! suppose there had been a rubber plant there when
+Eve&mdash;but I was going to tell you a story.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The first thing I can remember I had only three leaves and belonged to a member
+of the pony ballet. I was kept in a sunny window, and was generally watered
+with seltzer and lemon. I had plenty of fun in those days. I got cross-eyed
+trying to watch the numbers of the automobiles in the street and the dates on
+the labels inside at the same time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Well, then the angel that was molting for the musical comedy lost his last
+feather and the company broke up. The ponies trotted away and I was left in the
+window ownerless. The janitor gave me to a refined comedy team on the eighth
+floor, and in six weeks I had been set in the window of five different flats. I
+took on experience and put out two more leaves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Carruthers, of the refined comedy team&mdash;did you ever see her cross
+both feet back of her neck?&mdash;gave me to a friend of hers who had made an
+unfortunate marriage with a man in a store. Consequently I was placed in the
+window of a furnished room, rent in advance, water two flights up, gas extra
+after ten o&rsquo;clock at night. Two of my leaves withered off here. Also, I
+was moved from one room to another so many times that I got to liking the odor
+of the pipes the expressmen smoked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I don&rsquo;t think I ever had so dull a time as I did with this lady. There
+was never anything amusing going on inside&mdash;she was devoted to her
+husband, and, besides leaning out the window and flirting with the iceman, she
+never did a thing toward breaking the monotony.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the couple broke up they left me with the rest of their goods at a
+second-hand store. I was put out in front for sale along with the jobbiest lot
+you ever heard of being lumped into one bargain. Think of this little
+cornucopia of wonders, all for $1.89: Henry James&rsquo;s works, six talking
+machine records, one pair of tennis shoes, two bottles of horse radish, and a
+rubber plant&mdash;that was me!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One afternoon a girl came along and stopped to look at me. She had dark hair
+and eyes, and she looked slim, and sad around the mouth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, oh!&rdquo; she says to herself. &ldquo;I never thought to see one up
+here.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She pulls out a little purse about as thick as one of my leaves and fingers
+over some small silver in it. Old Koen, always on the lockout, is ready,
+rubbing his hands. This girl proceeds to turn down Mr. James and the other
+commodities. Rubber plants or nothing is the burden of her song. And at last
+Koen and she come together at 39 cents, and away she goes with me in her arms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was a nice girl, but not my style. Too quiet and sober looking. Thinks I to
+myself: &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll just about land on the fire-escape of a tenement, six
+stories up. And I&rsquo;ll spend the next six months looking at clothes on the
+line.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But she carried me to a nice little room only three flights up in quite a
+decent street. And she put me in the window, of course. And then she went to
+work and cooked dinner for herself. And what do you suppose she had? Bread and
+tea and a little dab of jam! Nothing else. Not a single lobster, nor so much as
+one bottle of champagne. The Carruthers comedy team had both every evening,
+except now and then when they took a notion for pig&rsquo;s knuckle and kraut.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After she had finished her dinner my new owner came to the window and leaned
+down close to my leaves and cried softly to herself for a while. It made me
+feel funny. I never knew anybody to cry that way over a rubber plant before. Of
+course, I&rsquo;ve seen a few of &rsquo;em turn on the tears for what they
+could get out of it, but she seemed to be crying just for the pure enjoyment of
+it. She touched my leaves like she loved &rsquo;em, and she bent down her head
+and kissed each one of &rsquo;em. I guess I&rsquo;m about the toughest specimen
+of a peripatetic orchid on earth, but I tell you it made me feel sort of queer.
+Home never was like that to me before. Generally I used to get chewed by
+poodles and have shirt-waists hung on me to dry, and get watered with coffee
+grounds and peroxide of hydrogen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This girl had a piano in the room, and she used to disturb it with both hands
+while she made noises with her mouth for hours at a time. I suppose she was
+practising vocal music.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day she seemed very much excited and kept looking at the clock. At eleven
+somebody knocked and she let in a stout, dark man with tousled black hair. He
+sat down at once at the piano and played while she sang for him. When she
+finished she laid one hand on her bosom and looked at him. He shook his head,
+and she leaned against the piano. &ldquo;Two years already,&rdquo; she said,
+speaking slowly&mdash;&ldquo;do you think in two more&mdash;or even
+longer?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man shook his head again. &ldquo;You waste your time,&rdquo; he said,
+roughly I thought. &ldquo;The voice is not there.&rdquo; And then he looked at
+her in a peculiar way. &ldquo;But the voice is not everything,&rdquo; he went
+on. &ldquo;You have looks. I can place you, as I told you if&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl pointed to the door without saying anything, and the dark man left the
+room. And then she came over and cried around me again. It&rsquo;s a good thing
+I had enough rubber in me to be water-proof.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+About that time somebody else knocked at the door. &ldquo;Thank
+goodness,&rdquo; I said to myself. &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a chance to get the
+water-works turned off. I hope it&rsquo;s somebody that&rsquo;s game enough to
+stand a bird and a bottle to liven things up a little.&rdquo; Tell you the
+truth, this little girl made me tired. A rubber plant likes to see a little
+sport now and then. I don&rsquo;t suppose there&rsquo;s another green thing in
+New York that sees as much of gay life unless it&rsquo;s the chartreuse or the
+sprigs of parsley around the dish.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the girl opens the door in steps a young chap in a traveling cap and picks
+her up in his arms, and she sings out &ldquo;Oh, Dick!&rdquo; and stays there
+long enough to&mdash;well, you&rsquo;ve been a rubber plant too, sometimes, I
+suppose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Good thing!&rdquo; says I to myself. &ldquo;This is livelier than scales
+and weeping. Now there&rsquo;ll be something doing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to go back with me,&rdquo; says the young man.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come two thousand miles for you. Aren&rsquo;t you tired of it
+yet. Bess? You&rsquo;ve kept all of us waiting so long. Haven&rsquo;t you found
+out yet what is best?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The bubble burst only to-day,&rdquo; says the girl. &ldquo;Come here,
+Dick, and see what I found the other day on the sidewalk for sale.&rdquo; She
+brings him by the hand and exhibits yours truly. &ldquo;How one ever got away
+up here who can tell? I bought it with almost the last money I had.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at me, but he couldn&rsquo;t keep his eyes off her for more than a
+second. &ldquo;Do you remember the night, Bess,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;when we
+stood under one of those on the bank of the bayou and what you told me
+then?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Geewillikins!&rdquo; I said to myself. &ldquo;Both of them stand under a
+rubber plant! Seems to me they are stretching matters somewhat!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do I not,&rdquo; says she, looking up at him and sneaking close to his
+vest, &ldquo;and now I say it again, and it is to last forever. Look, Dick, at
+its leaves, how wet they are. Those are my tears, and it was thinking of you
+that made them fall.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The dear old magnolias!&rdquo; says the young man, pinching one of my
+leaves. &ldquo;I love them all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Magnolia! Well, wouldn&rsquo;t that&mdash;say! those innocents thought I was a
+magnolia! What the&mdash;well, wasn&rsquo;t that tough on a genuine little old
+New York rubber plant?
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap04"></a>OUT OF NAZARETH</h2>
+
+<p>
+Okochee, in Georgia, had a boom, and J. Pinkney Bloom came out of it with a
+&ldquo;wad.&rdquo; Okochee came out of it with a half-million-dollar debt, a
+two and a half per cent. city property tax, and a city council that showed a
+propensity for traveling the back streets of the town. These things came about
+through a fatal resemblance of the river Cooloosa to the Hudson, as set forth
+and expounded by a Northern tourist. Okochee felt that New York should not be
+allowed to consider itself the only alligator in the swamp, so to speak. And
+then that harmless, but persistent, individual so numerous in the
+South&mdash;the man who is always clamoring for more cotton mills, and is ready
+to take a dollar&rsquo;s worth of stock, provided he can borrow the
+dollar&mdash;that man added his deadly work to the tourist&rsquo;s innocent
+praise, and Okochee fell.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Cooloosa River winds through a range of small mountains, passes Okochee and
+then blends its waters trippingly, as fall the mellifluous Indian syllables,
+with the Chattahoochee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Okochee rose, as it were, from its sunny seat on the post-office stoop, hitched
+up its suspender, and threw a granite dam two hundred and forty feet long and
+sixty feet high across the Cooloosa one mile above the town. Thereupon, a
+dimpling, sparkling lake backed up twenty miles among the little mountains.
+Thus in the great game of municipal rivalry did Okochee match that famous
+drawing card, the Hudson. It was conceded that nowhere could the Palisades be
+judged superior in the way of scenery and grandeur. Following the picture card
+was played the ace of commercial importance. Fourteen thousand horsepower would
+this dam furnish. Cotton mills, factories, and manufacturing plants would rise
+up as the green corn after a shower. The spindle and the flywheel and turbine
+would sing the shrewd glory of Okochee. Along the picturesque heights above the
+lake would rise in beauty the costly villas and the splendid summer residences
+of capital. The naphtha launch of the millionaire would spit among the romantic
+coves; the verdured hills would take formal shapes of terrace, lawn, and park.
+Money would be spent like water in Okochee, and water would be turned into
+money.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The fate of the good town is quickly told. Capital decided not to invest. Of
+all the great things promised, the scenery alone came to fulfilment. The wooded
+peaks, the impressive promontories of solemn granite, the beautiful green
+slants of bank and ravine did all they could to reconcile Okochee to the
+delinquency of miserly gold. The sunsets gilded the dreamy draws and coves with
+a minting that should charm away heart-burning. Okochee, true to the instinct
+of its blood and clime, was lulled by the spell. It climbed out of the arena,
+loosed its suspender, sat down again on the post-office stoop, and took a chew.
+It consoled itself by drawling sarcasms at the city council which was not to
+blame, causing the fathers, as has been said, to seek back streets and figure
+perspiringly on the sinking fund and the appropriation for interest due.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The youth of Okochee&mdash;they who were to carry into the rosy future the
+burden of the debt&mdash;accepted failure with youth&rsquo;s uncalculating joy.
+For, here was sport, aquatic and nautical, added to the meagre round of
+life&rsquo;s pleasures. In yachting caps and flowing neckties they pervaded the
+lake to its limits. Girls wore silk waists embroidered with anchors in blue and
+pink. The trousers of the young men widened at the bottom, and their hands were
+proudly calloused by the oft-plied oar. Fishermen were under the spell of a
+deep and tolerant joy. Sailboats and rowboats furrowed the lenient waves,
+popcorn and ice-cream booths sprang up about the little wooden pier. Two small
+excursion steamboats were built, and plied the delectable waters. Okochee
+philosophically gave up the hope of eating turtle soup with a gold spoon, and
+settled back, not ill content, to its regular diet of lotus and fried hominy.
+And out of this slow wreck of great expectations rose up J. Pinkney Bloom with
+his &ldquo;wad&rdquo; and his prosperous, cheery smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Needless to say J. Pinkney was no product of Georgia soil. He came out of that
+flushed and capable region known as the &ldquo;North.&rdquo; He called himself
+a &ldquo;promoter&rdquo;; his enemies had spoken of him as a
+&ldquo;grafter&rdquo;; Okochee took a middle course, and held him to be no
+better nor no worse than a &ldquo;Yank.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Far up the lake&mdash;eighteen miles above the town&mdash;the eye of this
+cheerful camp-follower of booms had spied out a graft. He purchased there a
+precipitous tract of five hundred acres at forty-five cents per acre; and this
+he laid out and subdivided as the city of Skyland&mdash;the Queen City of the
+Switzerland of the South. Streets and avenues were surveyed; parks designed;
+corners of central squares reserved for the &ldquo;proposed&rdquo; opera house,
+board of trade, lyceum, market, public schools, and &ldquo;Exposition
+Hall.&rdquo; The price of lots ranged from five to five hundred dollars.
+Positively, no lot would be priced higher than five hundred dollars.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While the boom was growing in Okochee, J. Pinkney&rsquo;s circulars, maps, and
+prospectuses were flying through the mails to every part of the country.
+Investors sent in their money by post, and the Skyland Real Estate Company (J.
+Pinkney Bloom) returned to each a deed, duly placed on record, to the best lot,
+at the price, on hand that day. All this time the catamount screeched upon the
+reserved lot of the Skyland Board of Trade, the opossum swung by his tail over
+the site of the exposition hall, and the owl hooted a melancholy recitative to
+his audience of young squirrels in opera house square. Later, when the money
+was coming in fast, J. Pinkney caused to be erected in the coming city half a
+dozen cheap box houses, and persuaded a contingent of indigent natives to
+occupy them, thereby assuming the role of &ldquo;population&rdquo; in
+subsequent prospectuses, which became, accordingly, more seductive and
+remunerative.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So, when the dream faded and Okochee dropped back to digging bait and nursing
+its two and a half per cent. tax, J. Pinkney Bloom (unloving of checks and
+drafts and the cold interrogatories of bankers) strapped about his
+fifty-two-inch waist a soft leather belt containing eight thousand dollars in
+big bills, and said that all was very good.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One last trip he was making to Skyland before departing to other salad fields.
+Skyland was a regular post-office, and the steamboat, <i>Dixie Belle</i>, under
+contract, delivered the mail bag (generally empty) twice a week. There was a
+little business there to be settled&mdash;the postmaster was to be paid off for
+his light but lonely services, and the &ldquo;inhabitants&rdquo; had to be
+furnished with another month&rsquo;s homely rations, as per agreement. And then
+Skyland would know J. Pinkney Bloom no more. The owners of these precipitous,
+barren, useless lots might come and view the scene of their invested credulity,
+or they might leave them to their fit tenants, the wild hog and the browsing
+deer. The work of the Skyland Real Estate Company was finished.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The little steamboat <i>Dixie Belle</i> was about to shove off on her regular
+up-the-lake trip, when a rickety hired carriage rattled up to the pier, and a
+tall, elderly gentleman, in black, stepped out, signaling courteously but
+vivaciously for the boat to wait. Time was of the least importance in the
+schedule of the <i>Dixie Belle</i>; Captain MacFarland gave the order, and the
+boat received its ultimate two passengers. For, upon the arm of the tall,
+elderly gentleman, as he crossed the gangway, was a little elderly lady, with a
+gray curl depending quaintly forward of her left ear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Captain MacFarland was at the wheel; therefore it seemed to J. Pinkney Bloom,
+who was the only other passenger, that it should be his to play the part of
+host to the boat&rsquo;s new guests, who were, doubtless, on a scenery-viewing
+expedition. He stepped forward, with that translucent, child-candid smile upon
+his fresh, pink countenance, with that air of unaffected sincerity that was
+redeemed from bluffness only by its exquisite calculation, with that
+promptitude and masterly decision of manner that so well suited his
+calling&mdash;with all his stock in trade well to the front; he stepped forward
+to receive Colonel and Mrs. Peyton Blaylock. With the grace of a grand marshal
+or a wedding usher, he escorted the two passengers to a side of the upper deck,
+from which the scenery was supposed to present itself to the observer in
+increased quantity and quality. There, in comfortable steamer chairs, they sat
+and began to piece together the random lines that were to form an intelligent
+paragraph in the big history of little events.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Our home, sir,&rdquo; said Colonel Blaylock, removing his wide-brimmed,
+rather shapeless black felt hat, &ldquo;is in Holly Springs&mdash;Holly
+Springs, Georgia. I am very proud to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bloom. Mrs.
+Blaylock and myself have just arrived in Okochee this morning, sir, on
+business&mdash;business of importance in connection with the recent rapid march
+of progress in this section of our state.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Colonel smoothed back, with a sweeping gesture, his long, smooth, locks.
+His dark eyes, still fiery under the heavy black brows, seemed inappropriate to
+the face of a business man. He looked rather to be an old courtier handed down
+from the reign of Charles, and re-attired in a modern suit of fine, but
+raveling and seam-worn, broadcloth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom, in his heartiest prospectus voice,
+&ldquo;things have been whizzing around Okochee. Biggest industrial revival and
+waking up to natural resources Georgia ever had. Did you happen to squeeze in
+on the ground floor in any of the gilt-edged grafts, Colonel?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said the Colonel, hesitating in courteous doubt,
+&ldquo;if I understand your question, I may say that I took the opportunity to
+make an investment that I believe will prove quite advantageous&mdash;yes, sir,
+I believe it will result in both pecuniary profit and agreeable
+occupation.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Colonel Blaylock,&rdquo; said the little elderly lady, shaking her gray
+curl and smiling indulgent explanation at J. Pinkney Bloom, &ldquo;is so
+devoted to businesss. He has such a talent for financiering and markets and
+investments and those kind of things. I think myself extremely fortunate in
+having secured him for a partner on life&rsquo;s journey&mdash;I am so unversed
+in those formidable but very useful branches of learning.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Colonel Blaylock rose and made a bow&mdash;a bow that belonged with silk
+stockings and lace ruffles and velvet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Practical affairs,&rdquo; he said, with a wave of his hand toward the
+promoter, &ldquo;are, if I may use the comparison, the garden walks upon which
+we tread through life, viewing upon either side of us the flowers which
+brighten that journey. It is my pleasure to be able to lay out a walk or two.
+Mrs. Blaylock, sir, is one of those fortunate higher spirits whose mission it
+is to make the flowers grow. Perhaps, Mr. Bloom, you have perused the lines of
+Lorella, the Southern poetess. That is the name above which Mrs. Blaylock has
+contributed to the press of the South for many years.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Unfortunately,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom, with a sense of the loss clearly
+written upon his frank face, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m like the Colonel&mdash;in the
+walk-making business myself&mdash;and I haven&rsquo;t had time to even take a
+sniff at the flowers. Poetry is a line I never dealt in. It must be nice,
+though&mdash;quite nice.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is the region,&rdquo; smiled Mrs. Blaylock, &ldquo;in which my soul
+dwells. My shawl, Peyton, if you please&mdash;the breeze comes a little chilly
+from yon verdured hills.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Colonel drew from the tail pocket of his coat a small shawl of knitted silk
+and laid it solicitously about the shoulders of the lady. Mrs. Blaylock sighed
+contentedly, and turned her expressive eyes&mdash;still as clear and unworldly
+as a child&rsquo;s&mdash;upon the steep slopes that were slowly slipping past.
+Very fair and stately they looked in the clear morning air. They seemed to
+speak in familiar terms to the responsive spirit of Lorella. &ldquo;My native
+hills!&rdquo; she murmured, dreamily. &ldquo;See how the foliage drinks the
+sunlight from the hollows and dells.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mrs. Blaylock&rsquo;s maiden days,&rdquo; said the Colonel, interpreting
+her mood to J. Pinkney Bloom, &ldquo;were spent among the mountains of northern
+Georgia. Mountain air and mountain scenery recall to her those days. Holly
+Springs, where we have lived for twenty years, is low and flat. I fear that she
+may have suffered in health and spirits by so long a residence there. That is
+one portent reason for the change we are making. My dear, can you not recall
+those lines you wrote&mdash;entitled, I think, &lsquo;The Georgia
+Hills&rsquo;&mdash;the poem that was so extensively copied by the Southern
+press and praised so highly by the Atlanta critics?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Blaylock turned a glance of speaking tenderness upon the Colonel, fingered
+for a moment the silvery curl that drooped upon her bosom, then looked again
+toward the mountains. Without preliminary or affectation or demurral she began,
+in rather thrilling and more deeply pitched tones to recite these lines:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+&ldquo;The Georgia hills, the Georgia hills!&mdash;<br/>
+    Oh, heart, why dost thou pine?<br/>
+Are not these sheltered lowlands fair<br/>
+    With mead and bloom and vine?<br/>
+Ah! as the slow-paced river here<br/>
+    Broods on its natal rills<br/>
+My spirit drifts, in longing sweet,<br/>
+    Back to the Georgia hills.<br/>
+<br/>
+&ldquo;And through the close-drawn, curtained night<br/>
+    I steal on sleep&rsquo;s slow wings<br/>
+Back to my heart&rsquo;s ease&mdash;slopes of pine&mdash;<br/>
+    Where end my wanderings.<br/>
+Oh, heaven seems nearer from their tops&mdash;<br/>
+    And farther earthly ills&mdash;<br/>
+Even in dreams, if I may but<br/>
+    Dream of my Georgia hills.<br/>
+<br/>
+The grass upon their orchard sides<br/>
+    Is a fine couch to me;<br/>
+The common note of each small bird<br/>
+    Passes all minstrelsy.<br/>
+It would not seem so dread a thing<br/>
+    If, when the Reaper wills,<br/>
+He might come there and take my hand<br/>
+    Up in the Georgia hills.&rdquo;<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s great stuff, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said J. Pinkney Bloom,
+enthusiastically, when the poetess had concluded. &ldquo;I wish I had looked up
+poetry more than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The mountains ever call to their children,&rdquo; murmured Mrs.
+Blaylock. &ldquo;I feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in
+among these beautiful hills. Peyton&mdash;a little taste of the currant wine,
+if you will be so good. The journey, though delightful in the extreme, slightly
+fatigues me.&rdquo; Colonel Blaylock again visited the depths of his prolific
+coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough, black bottle. Mr. Bloom was on his
+feet in an instant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Let me bring a glass, ma&rsquo;am. You come along,
+Colonel&mdash;there&rsquo;s a little table we can bring, too. Maybe we can
+scare up some fruit or a cup of tea on board. I&rsquo;ll ask Mac.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal
+prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The Colonel,
+with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his courtship, and J.
+Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half professional and half directed by
+some resurrected, unnamed, long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but
+attentive court. The currant wine&mdash;wine home made from the Holly Springs
+fruit&mdash;went round, and then J. Pinkney began to hear something of Holly
+Springs life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs was
+decadent. A third of the population had moved away. Business&mdash;and the
+Colonel was an authority on business&mdash;had dwindled to nothing. After
+carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had sold his
+little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested it in one of the
+enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Might I inquire, sir,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom, &ldquo;in what particular
+line of business you inserted your coin? I know that town as well as I know the
+regulations for illegal use of the mails. I might give you a hunch as to
+whether you can make the game go or not.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+J. Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated
+representatives of by-gone days. They were so simple, impractical, and
+unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block
+of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have
+disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are
+some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; said Colonel Blaylock, pausing to arrange the
+queen&rsquo;s wrap. &ldquo;I did not invest in Okochee. I have made an
+exhaustive study of business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as
+unfavorable fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount. Some
+months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands a map
+and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built upon the lake.
+The description was so pleasing, the future of the town set forth in such
+convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity portrayed in such an
+attractive style that I decided to take advantage of the opportunity it
+offered. I carefully selected a lot in the centre of the business district,
+although its price was the highest in the schedule&mdash;five hundred
+dollars&mdash;and made the purchase at once.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Are you the man&mdash;I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot
+in Skyland&rdquo; asked J. Pinkney Bloom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I did, sir,&rdquo; answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest
+millionaire explaining his success; &ldquo;a lot most excellently situated on
+the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the board of
+trade. I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one. It is my intention to
+erect a small building upon it at once, and open a modest book and stationery
+store. During past years I have met with many pecuniary reverses, and I now
+find it necessary to engage in some commercial occupation that will furnish me
+with a livelihood. The book and stationery business, though an humble one,
+seems to me not inapt nor altogether uncongenial. I am a graduate of the
+University of Virginia; and Mrs. Blaylock&rsquo;s really wonderful acquaintance
+with belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring
+success. Of course, Mrs. Blaylock would not personally serve behind the
+counter. With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I can manage
+the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot. I have an old friend in
+Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store, and he has agreed to furnish me
+with a stock of goods on credit, on extremely easy terms. I am pleased to hope,
+sir, that Mrs. Blaylock&rsquo;s health and happiness will be increased by the
+change of locality. Already I fancy I can perceive the return of those roses
+that were once the hope and despair of Georgia cavaliers.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the pale
+cheek of the poetess. Mrs. Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook her curl and
+gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap. Secret of eternal youth&mdash;where
+art thou? Every second the answer comes&mdash;&ldquo;Here, here, here.&rdquo;
+Listen to thine own heartbeats, O weary seeker after external miracles.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Those years,&rdquo; said Mrs. Blaylock, &ldquo;in Holly Springs were
+long, long, long. But now is the promised land in sight. Skyland!&mdash;a
+lovely name.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Doubtless,&rdquo; said the Colonel, &ldquo;we shall be able to secure
+comfortable accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates. Our trunks
+are in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent
+arrangements.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+J. Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the captain at the
+wheel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mac,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;do you remember my telling you once that I
+sold one of those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Seems I do,&rdquo; grinned Captain MacFarland.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not a coward, as a general rule,&rdquo; went on the promoter,
+&ldquo;but I always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot
+I&rsquo;d run like a turkey. Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there?
+Well, he&rsquo;s the boy that drew the prize. That was the only
+five-hundred-dollar lot that went. The rest ranged from ten dollars to two
+hundred. His wife writes poetry. She&rsquo;s invented one about the high
+grounds of Georgia, that&rsquo;s way up in G. They&rsquo;re going to Skyland to
+open a book store.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said MacFarland, with another grin, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a
+good thing you are along, J. P.; you can show &rsquo;em around town until they
+begin to feel at home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store
+with,&rdquo; went on J. Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. &ldquo;And
+he thinks there&rsquo;s an open house up there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg a roguish
+slap.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You old fat rascal!&rdquo; he chuckled, with a wink.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mac, you&rsquo;re a fool,&rdquo; said J. Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went
+back and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight
+furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being shaped
+within.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a good many swindles connected with these booms,&rdquo; he
+said presently. &ldquo;What if this Skyland should turn out to be
+one&mdash;that is, suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no
+special sale for books?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear sir,&rdquo; said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the
+back of his wife&rsquo;s chair, &ldquo;three times I have been reduced to
+almost penury by the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in
+humanity. If I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content,
+if not worldly profit. I am aware that there are dishonest schemers in the
+world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not altogether bad. My
+dear, can you recall those verses entitled &lsquo;He Giveth the
+Increase,&rsquo; that you composed for the choir of our church in Holly
+Springs?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That was four years ago,&rdquo; said Mrs. Blaylock; &ldquo;perhaps I can
+repeat a verse or two.
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+&ldquo;The lily springs from the rotting mould;<br/>
+    Pearls from the deep sea slime;<br/>
+Good will come out of Nazareth<br/>
+    All in God&rsquo;s own time.<br/>
+<br/>
+&ldquo;To the hardest heart the softening grace<br/>
+    Cometh, at last, to bless;<br/>
+Guiding it right to help and cheer<br/>
+    And succor in distress.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I cannot remember the rest. The lines were not ambitious. They were
+written to the music composed by a dear friend.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fine rhyme, just the same,&rdquo; declared Mr. Bloom.
+&ldquo;It seems to ring the bell, all right. I guess I gather the sense of it.
+It means that the rankest kind of a phony will give you the best end of it once
+in a while.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Bloom strayed thoughtfully back to the captain, and stood meditating.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now in a
+few minutes,&rdquo; chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Go to the devil,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom, still pensive.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village, high up
+on the hills, smothered among green trees. That was Cold Branch&mdash;no boom
+town, but the slow growth of many years. Cold Branch lay on the edge of the
+grape and corn lands. The big country road ran just back of the heights. Cold
+Branch had nothing in common with the frisky ambition of Okochee with its
+impertinent lake.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mac,&rdquo; said J. Pinkney suddenly, &ldquo;I want you to stop at Cold
+Branch. There&rsquo;s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the
+river was up.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Can&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said the captain, grinning more broadly.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got the United States mails on board. Right to-day this
+boat&rsquo;s in the government service. Do you want to have the poor old
+captain keelhauled by Uncle Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all
+disconsolate, waiting for its mail? I&rsquo;m ashamed of your extravagance, J.
+P.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mac,&rdquo; almost whispered J. Pinkney, in his danger-line voice,
+&ldquo;I looked into the engine room of the <i>Dixie Belle</i> a while ago.
+Don&rsquo;t you know of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black
+Japan can&rsquo;t hide flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and
+loan that you traded for repairs&mdash;they were all yours, of course. I hate
+to mention these things, but&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, come now, J. P.,&rdquo; said the captain. &ldquo;You know I was just
+fooling. I&rsquo;ll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The other passengers get off there, too,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the <i>Dixie Belle</i> turned
+her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank, and the captain,
+relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the passenger deck and made
+the remarkable announcement: &ldquo;All out for Skyland.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Blaylocks and J. Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the <i>Dixie Belle</i>
+proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter, they
+slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and admire the view.
+Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch. Warmly both the Colonel and
+his wife praised it for its homelike and peaceful beauty. Mr. Bloom conducted
+them to a two-story building on a shady street that bore the legend,
+&ldquo;Pine-top Inn.&rdquo; Here he took his leave, receiving the cordial
+thanks of the two for his attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought
+they would spend the remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his
+purchase on the morrow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+J. Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch&rsquo;s main street. He did not know
+this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter. Presently he saw a
+sign over a door: &ldquo;Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary
+Public.&rdquo; A young man was Mr. Cooly, and awaiting business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Get your hat, son,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom, in his breezy way, &ldquo;and
+a blank deed, and come along. It&rsquo;s a job for you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; he continued, when Mr. Cooly had responded with alacrity,
+&ldquo;is there a bookstore in town?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;One,&rdquo; said the lawyer. &ldquo;Henry Williams&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Get there,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom. &ldquo;We&rsquo;re going to buy
+it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Henry Williams was behind his counter. His store was a small one, containing a
+mixture of books, stationery, and fancy rubbish. Adjoining it was Henry&rsquo;s
+home&mdash;a decent cottage, vine-embowered and cosy. Henry was lank and
+soporific, and not inclined to rush his business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I want to buy your house and store,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom. &ldquo;I
+haven&rsquo;t got time to dicker&mdash;name your price.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s worth eight hundred,&rdquo; said Henry, too much dazed to ask
+more than its value.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Shut that door,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom to the lawyer. Then he tore off
+his coat and vest, and began to unbutton his shirt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wanter fight about it, do yer?&rdquo; said Henry Williams, jumping up
+and cracking his heels together twice. &ldquo;All right, hunky&mdash;sail in
+and cut yer capers.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Keep your clothes on,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m only going
+down to the bank.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He drew eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his money belt and planked them
+down on the counter. Mr. Cooly showed signs of future promise, for he already
+had the deed spread out, and was reaching across the counter for the ink
+bottle. Never before or since was such quick action had in Cold Branch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your name, please?&rdquo; asked the lawyer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Make it out to Peyton Blaylock,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom. &ldquo;God knows
+how to spell it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and Mr. Bloom stood
+on the brick sidewalk with Mr. Cooly, who held in his hand the signed and
+attested deed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,&rdquo; said J. Pinkney
+Bloom. &ldquo;Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He&rsquo;ll
+ask you a hell&rsquo;s mint of questions; so here&rsquo;s ten dollars for the
+trouble you&rsquo;ll have in not being able to answer &rsquo;em. Never run much
+to poetry, did you, young man?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his
+right mind, &ldquo;now and then.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dig into it,&rdquo; said Mr. Bloom, &ldquo;it&rsquo;ll pay you. Never
+heard a poem, now, that run something like this, did you?&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+A good thing out of Nazareth<br/>
+    Comes up sometimes, I guess,<br/>
+On hand, all right, to help and cheer<br/>
+    A sucker in distress.&rdquo;<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I believe not,&rdquo; said Mr. Cooly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a hymn,&rdquo; said J. Pinkney Bloom. &ldquo;Now, show me the
+way to a livery stable, son, for I&rsquo;m going to hit the dirt road back to
+Okochee.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CONFESSIONS OF A HUMORIST</h2>
+
+<p>
+There was a painless stage of incubation that lasted twenty-five years, and
+then it broke out on me, and people said I was It.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But they called it humor instead of measles.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The employees in the store bought a silver inkstand for the senior partner on
+his fiftieth birthday. We crowded into his private office to present it. I had
+been selected for spokesman, and I made a little speech that I had been
+preparing for a week.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It made a hit. It was full of puns and epigrams and funny twists that brought
+down the house&mdash;which was a very solid one in the wholesale hardware line.
+Old Marlowe himself actually grinned, and the employees took their cue and
+roared.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My reputation as a humorist dates from half-past nine o&rsquo;clock on that
+morning. For weeks afterward my fellow clerks fanned the flame of my
+self-esteem. One by one they came to me, saying what an awfully clever speech
+that was, old man, and carefully explained to me the point of each one of my
+jokes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gradually I found that I was expected to keep it up. Others might speak sanely
+on business matters and the day&rsquo;s topics, but from me something gamesome
+and airy was required.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was expected to crack jokes about the crockery and lighten up the granite
+ware with persiflage. I was second bookkeeper, and if I failed to show up a
+balance sheet without something comic about the footings or could find no cause
+for laughter in an invoice of plows, the other clerks were disappointed. By
+degrees my fame spread, and I became a local &ldquo;character.&rdquo; Our town
+was small enough to make this possible. The daily newspaper quoted me. At
+social gatherings I was indispensable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I believe I did possess considerable wit and a facility for quick and
+spontaneous repartee. This gift I cultivated and improved by practice. And the
+nature of it was kindly and genial, not running to sarcasm or offending others.
+People began to smile when they saw me coming, and by the time we had met I
+generally had the word ready to broaden the smile into a laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had married early. We had a charming boy of three and a girl of five.
+Naturally, we lived in a vine-covered cottage, and were happy. My salary as
+bookkeeper in the hardware concern kept at a distance those ills attendant upon
+superfluous wealth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At sundry times I had written out a few jokes and conceits that I considered
+peculiarly happy, and had sent them to certain periodicals that print such
+things. All of them had been instantly accepted. Several of the editors had
+written to request further contributions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day I received a letter from the editor of a famous weekly publication. He
+suggested that I submit to him a humorous composition to fill a column of
+space; hinting that he would make it a regular feature of each issue if the
+work proved satisfactory. I did so, and at the end of two weeks he offered to
+make a contract with me for a year at a figure that was considerably higher
+than the amount paid me by the hardware firm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was filled with delight. My wife already crowned me in her mind with the
+imperishable evergreens of literary success. We had lobster croquettes and a
+bottle of blackberry wine for supper that night. Here was the chance to
+liberate myself from drudgery. I talked over the matter very seriously with
+Louisa. We agreed that I must resign my place at the store and devote myself to
+humor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I resigned. My fellow clerks gave me a farewell banquet. The speech I made
+there coruscated. It was printed in full by the <i>Gazette</i>. The next
+morning I awoke and looked at the clock.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Late, by George!&rdquo; I exclaimed, and grabbed for my clothes. Louisa
+reminded me that I was no longer a slave to hardware and contractors&rsquo;
+supplies. I was now a professional humorist.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After breakfast she proudly led me to the little room off the kitchen. Dear
+girl! There was my table and chair, writing pad, ink, and pipe tray. And all
+the author&rsquo;s trappings&mdash;the celery stand full of fresh roses and
+honeysuckle, last year&rsquo;s calendar on the wall, the dictionary, and a
+little bag of chocolates to nibble between inspirations. Dear girl!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I sat me to work. The wall paper is patterned with arabesques or odalisks
+or&mdash;perhaps&mdash;it is trapezoids. Upon one of the figures I fixed my
+eyes. I bethought me of humor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A voice startled me&mdash;Louisa&rsquo;s voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you aren&rsquo;t too busy, dear,&rdquo; it said, &ldquo;come to
+dinner.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I looked at my watch. Yes, five hours had been gathered in by the grim
+scytheman. I went to dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You mustn&rsquo;t work too hard at first,&rdquo; said Louisa.
+&ldquo;Goethe&mdash;or was it Napoleon?&mdash;said five hours a day is enough
+for mental labor. Couldn&rsquo;t you take me and the children to the woods this
+afternoon?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I <i>am</i> a little tired,&rdquo; I admitted. So we went to the woods.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But I soon got the swing of it. Within a month I was turning out copy as
+regular as shipments of hardware.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And I had success. My column in the weekly made some stir, and I was referred
+to in a gossipy way by the critics as something fresh in the line of humorists.
+I augmented my income considerably by contributing to other publications.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I picked up the tricks of the trade. I could take a funny idea and make a
+two-line joke of it, earning a dollar. With false whiskers on, it would serve
+up cold as a quatrain, doubling its producing value. By turning the skirt and
+adding a ruffle of rhyme you would hardly recognize it as <i>vers de
+societe</i> with neatly shod feet and a fashion-plate illustration.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I began to save up money, and we had new carpets, and a parlor organ. My
+townspeople began to look upon me as a citizen of some consequence instead of
+the merry trifler I had been when I clerked in the hardware store.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After five or six months the spontaniety seemed to depart from my humor. Quips
+and droll sayings no longer fell carelessly from my lips. I was sometimes hard
+run for material. I found myself listening to catch available ideas from the
+conversation of my friends. Sometimes I chewed my pencil and gazed at the wall
+paper for hours trying to build up some gay little bubble of unstudied fun.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then I became a harpy, a Moloch, a Jonah, a vampire, to my acquaintances.
+Anxious, haggard, greedy, I stood among them like a veritable killjoy. Let a
+bright saying, a witty comparison, a piquant phrase fall from their lips and I
+was after it like a hound springing upon a bone. I dared not trust my memory;
+but, turning aside guiltily and meanly, I would make a note of it in my
+ever-present memorandum book or upon my cuff for my own future use.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My friends regarded me in sorrow and wonder. I was not the same man. Where once
+I had furnished them entertainment and jollity, I now preyed upon them. No
+jests from me ever bid for their smiles now. They were too precious. I could
+not afford to dispense gratuitously the means of my livelihood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was a lugubrious fox praising the singing of my friends, the crow&rsquo;s,
+that they might drop from their beaks the morsels of wit that I coveted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nearly every one began to avoid me. I even forgot how to smile, not even paying
+that much for the sayings I appropriated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+No persons, places, times, or subjects were exempt from my plundering in search
+of material. Even in church my demoralized fancy went hunting among the solemn
+aisles and pillars for spoil.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Did the minister give out the long-meter doxology, at once I began:
+&ldquo;Doxology&mdash;sockdology&mdash;sockdolager&mdash;meter&mdash;meet
+her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sermon ran through my mental sieve, its precepts filtering unheeded, could
+I but glean a suggestion of a pun or a <i>bon mot</i>. The solemnest anthems of
+the choir were but an accompaniment to my thoughts as I conceived new changes
+to ring upon the ancient comicalities concerning the jealousies of soprano,
+tenor, and basso.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My own home became a hunting ground. My wife is a singularly feminine creature,
+candid, sympathetic, and impulsive. Once her conversation was my delight, and
+her ideas a source of unfailing pleasure. Now I worked her. She was a gold mine
+of those amusing but lovable inconsistencies that distinguish the female mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I began to market those pearls of unwisdom and humor that should have enriched
+only the sacred precincts of home. With devilish cunning I encouraged her to
+talk. Unsuspecting, she laid her heart bare. Upon the cold, conspicuous,
+common, printed page I offered it to the public gaze.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A literary Judas, I kissed her and betrayed her. For pieces of silver I dressed
+her sweet confidences in the pantalettes and frills of folly and made them
+dance in the market place.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dear Louisa! Of nights I have bent over her cruel as a wolf above a tender
+lamb, hearkening even to her soft words murmured in sleep, hoping to catch an
+idea for my next day&rsquo;s grind. There is worse to come.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+God help me! Next my fangs were buried deep in the neck of the fugitive sayings
+of my little children.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Guy and Viola were two bright fountains of childish, quaint thoughts and
+speeches. I found a ready sale for this kind of humor, and was furnishing a
+regular department in a magazine with &ldquo;Funny Fancies of Childhood.&rdquo;
+I began to stalk them as an Indian stalks the antelope. I would hide behind
+sofas and doors, or crawl on my hands and knees among the bushes in the yard to
+eavesdrop while they were at play. I had all the qualities of a harpy except
+remorse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Once, when I was barren of ideas, and my copy must leave in the next mail, I
+covered myself in a pile of autumn leaves in the yard, where I knew they
+intended to come to play. I cannot bring myself to believe that Guy was aware
+of my hiding place, but even if he was, I would be loath to blame him for his
+setting fire to the leaves, causing the destruction of my new suit of clothes,
+and nearly cremating a parent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Soon my own children began to shun me as a pest. Often, when I was creeping
+upon them like a melancholy ghoul, I would hear them say to each other:
+&ldquo;Here comes papa,&rdquo; and they would gather their toys and scurry away
+to some safer hiding place. Miserable wretch that I was!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And yet I was doing well financially. Before the first year had passed I had
+saved a thousand dollars, and we had lived in comfort.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But at what a cost! I am not quite clear as to what a pariah is, but I was
+everything that it sounds like. I had no friends, no amusements, no enjoyment
+of life. The happiness of my family had been sacrificed. I was a bee, sucking
+sordid honey from life&rsquo;s fairest flowers, dreaded and shunned on account
+of my sting.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day a man spoke to me, with a pleasant and friendly smile. Not in months
+had the thing happened. I was passing the undertaking establishment of Peter
+Heffelbower. Peter stood in the door and saluted me. I stopped, strangely wrung
+in my heart by his greeting. He asked me inside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The day was chill and rainy. We went into the back room, where a fire burned,
+in a little stove. A customer came, and Peter left me alone for a while.
+Presently I felt a new feeling stealing over me&mdash;a sense of beautiful calm
+and content, I looked around the place. There were rows of shining rosewood
+caskets, black palls, trestles, hearse plumes, mourning streamers, and all the
+paraphernalia of the solemn trade. Here was peace, order, silence, the abode of
+grave and dignified reflections. Here, on the brink of life, was a little niche
+pervaded by the spirit of eternal rest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I entered it, the follies of the world abandoned me at the door. I felt no
+inclination to wrest a humorous idea from those sombre and stately trappings.
+My mind seemed to stretch itself to grateful repose upon a couch draped with
+gentle thoughts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A quarter of an hour ago I was an abandoned humorist. Now I was a philosopher,
+full of serenity and ease. I had found a refuge from humor, from the hot chase
+of the shy quip, from the degrading pursuit of the panting joke, from the
+restless reach after the nimble repartee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had not known Heffelbower well. When he came back, I let him talk, fearful
+that he might prove to be a jarring note in the sweet, dirgelike harmony of his
+establishment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But, no. He chimed truly. I gave a long sigh of happiness. Never have I known a
+man&rsquo;s talk to be as magnificently dull as Peter&rsquo;s was. Compared
+with it the Dead Sea is a geyser. Never a sparkle or a glimmer of wit marred
+his words. Commonplaces as trite and as plentiful as blackberries flowed from
+his lips no more stirring in quality than a last week&rsquo;s tape running from
+a ticker. Quaking a little, I tried upon him one of my best pointed jokes. It
+fell back ineffectual, with the point broken. I loved that man from then on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two or three evenings each week I would steal down to Heffelbower&rsquo;s and
+revel in his back room. That was my only joy. I began to rise early and hurry
+through my work, that I might spend more time in my haven. In no other place
+could I throw off my habit of extracting humorous ideas from my surroundings.
+Peter&rsquo;s talk left me no opening had I besieged it ever so hard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Under this influence I began to improve in spirits. It was the recreation from
+one&rsquo;s labor which every man needs. I surprised one or two of my former
+friends by throwing them a smile and a cheery word as I passed them on the
+streets. Several times I dumfounded my family by relaxing long enough to make a
+jocose remark in their presence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had so long been ridden by the incubus of humor that I seized my hours of
+holiday with a schoolboy&rsquo;s zest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mv work began to suffer. It was not the pain and burden to me that it had been.
+I often whistled at my desk, and wrote with far more fluency than before. I
+accomplished my tasks impatiently, as anxious to be off to my helpful retreat
+as a drunkard is to get to his tavern.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My wife had some anxious hours in conjecturing where I spent my afternoons. I
+thought it best not to tell her; women do not understand these things. Poor
+girl!&mdash;she had one shock out of it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day I brought home a silver coffin handle for a paper weight and a fine,
+fluffy hearse plume to dust my papers with.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I loved to see them on my desk, and think of the beloved back room down at
+Heffelbower&rsquo;s. But Louisa found them, and she shrieked with horror. I had
+to console her with some lame excuse for having them, but I saw in her eyes
+that the prejudice was not removed. I had to remove the articles, though, at
+double-quick time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day Peter Heffelbower laid before me a temptation that swept me off my
+feet. In his sensible, uninspired way he showed me his books, and explained
+that his profits and his business were increasing rapidly. He had thought of
+taking in a partner with some cash. He would rather have me than any one he
+knew. When I left his place that afternoon Peter had my check for the thousand
+dollars I had in the bank, and I was a partner in his undertaking business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went home with feelings of delirious joy, mingled with a certain amount of
+doubt. I was dreading to tell my wife about it. But I walked on air. To give up
+the writing of humorous stuff, once more to enjoy the apples of life, instead
+of squeezing them to a pulp for a few drops of hard cider to make the pubic
+feel funny&mdash;what a boon that would be!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the supper table Louisa handed me some letters that had come during my
+absence. Several of them contained rejected manuscript. Ever since I first
+began going to Heffelbower&rsquo;s my stuff had been coming back with alarming
+frequency. Lately I had been dashing off my jokes and articles with the
+greatest fluency. Previously I had labored like a bricklayer, slowly and with
+agony.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently I opened a letter from the editor of the weekly with which I had a
+regular contract. The checks for that weekly article were still our main
+dependence. The letter ran thus:
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+DEAR SIR:
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+As you are aware, our contract for the year expires with the present month.
+While regretting the necessity for so doing, we must say that we do not care to
+renew same for the coming year. We were quite pleased with your style of humor,
+which seems to have delighted quite a large proportion of our readers. But for
+the past two months we have noticed a decided falling off in its quality. Your
+earlier work showed a spontaneous, easy, natural flow of fun and wit. Of late
+it is labored, studied, and unconvincing, giving painful evidence of hard toil
+and drudging mechanism.
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+Again regretting that we do not consider your contributions available any
+longer, we are, yours sincerely,
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+THE EDITOR.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I handed this letter to my wife. After she had read it her face grew extremely
+long, and there were tears in her eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The mean old thing!&rdquo; she exclaimed indignantly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
+sure your pieces are just as good as they ever were. And it doesn&rsquo;t take
+you half as long to write them as it did.&rdquo; And then, I suppose, Louisa
+thought of the checks that would cease coming. &ldquo;Oh, John,&rdquo; she
+wailed, &ldquo;what will you do now?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For an answer I got up and began to do a polka step around the supper table. I
+am sure Louisa thought the trouble had driven me mad; and I think the children
+hoped it had, for they tore after me, yelling with glee and emulating my steps.
+I was now something like their old playmate as of yore.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The theatre for us to-night!&rdquo; I shouted; &ldquo;nothing less. And
+a late, wild, disreputable supper for all of us at the Palace Restaurant.
+Lumpty-diddle-de-dee-de-dum!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then I explained my glee by declaring that I was now a partner in a
+prosperous undertaking establishment, and that written jokes might go hide
+their heads in sackcloth and ashes for all me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With the editor&rsquo;s letter in her hand to justify the deed I had done, my
+wife could advance no objections save a few mild ones based on the feminine
+inability to appreciate a good thing such as the little back room of Peter
+Hef&mdash;no, of Heffelbower &amp; Co&rsquo;s. undertaking establishment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In conclusion, I will say that to-day you will find no man in our town as well
+liked, as jovial, and full of merry sayings as I. My jokes are again noised
+about and quoted; once more I take pleasure in my wife&rsquo;s confidential
+chatter without a mercenary thought, while Guy and Viola play at my feet
+distributing gems of childish humor without fear of the ghastly tormentor who
+used to dog their steps, notebook in hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Our business has prospered finely. I keep the books and look after the shop,
+while Peter attends to outside matters. He says that my levity and high spirits
+would simply turn any funeral into a regular Irish wake.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap06"></a>THE SPARROWS IN MADISON SQUARE</h2>
+
+<p>
+The young man in straitened circumstances who comes to New York City to enter
+literature has but one thing to do, provided he has studied carefully his field
+in advance. He must go straight to Madison Square, write an article about the
+sparrows there, and sell it to the <i>Sun</i> for $15.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I cannot recall either a novel or a story dealing with the popular theme of the
+young writer from the provinces who comes to the metropolis to win fame and
+fortune with his pen in which the hero does not get his start that way. It does
+seem strange that some author, in casting about for startlingly original plots,
+has not hit upon the idea of having his hero write about the bluebirds in Union
+Square and sell it to the <i>Herald</i>. But a search through the files of
+metropolitan fiction counts up overwhelmingly for the sparrows and the old
+Garden Square, and the <i>Sun</i> always writes the check.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of course it is easy to understand why this first city venture of the budding
+author is always successful. He is primed by necessity to a superlative effort;
+mid the iron and stone and marble of the roaring city he has found this spot of
+singing birds and green grass and trees; every tender sentiment in his nature
+is battling with the sweet pain of homesickness; his genius is aroused as it
+never may be again; the birds chirp, the tree branches sway, the noise of
+wheels is forgotten; he writes with his soul in his pen&mdash;and he sells it
+to the <i>Sun</i> for $15.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had read of this custom during many years before I came to New York. When my
+friends were using their strongest arguments to dissuade me from coming, I only
+smiled serenely. They did not know of that sparrow graft I had up my sleeve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I arrived in New York, and the car took me straight from the ferry up
+Twenty-third Street to Madison Square, I could hear that $15 check rustling in
+my inside pocket.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I obtained lodging at an unhyphenated hostelry, and the next morning I was on a
+bench in Madison Square almost by the time the sparrows were awake. Their
+melodious chirping, the benignant spring foliage of the noble trees and the
+clean, fragrant grass reminded me so potently of the old farm I had left that
+tears almost came into my eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then, all in a moment, I felt my inspiration. The brave, piercing notes of
+those cheerful small birds formed a keynote to a wonderful, light, fanciful
+song of hope and joy and altruism. Like myself, they were creatures with hearts
+pitched to the tune of woods and fields; as I was, so were they captives by
+circumstance in the discordant, dull city&mdash;yet with how much grace and
+glee they bore the restraint!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then the early morning people began to pass through the square to their
+work&mdash;sullen people, with sidelong glances and glum faces, hurrying,
+hurrying, hurrying. And I got my theme cut out clear from the bird notes, and
+wrought it into a lesson, and a poem, and a carnival dance, and a lullaby; and
+then translated it all into prose and began to write.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For two hours my pencil traveled over my pad with scarcely a rest. Then I went
+to the little room I had rented for two days, and there I cut it to half, and
+then mailed it, white-hot, to the <i>Sun</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The next morning I was up by daylight and spent two cents of my capital for a
+paper. If the word &ldquo;sparrow&rdquo; was in it I was unable to find it. I
+took it up to my room and spread it out on the bed and went over it, column by
+column. Something was wrong.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Three hours afterward the postman brought me a large envelope containing my MS.
+and a piece of inexpensive paper, about 3 inches by 4&mdash;I suppose some of
+you have seen them&mdash;upon which was written in violet ink, &ldquo;With the
+<i>Sun&rsquo;s</i> thanks.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I went over to the square and sat upon a bench. No; I did not think it
+necessary to eat any breakfast that morning. The confounded pests of sparrows
+were making the square hideous with their idiotic &ldquo;cheep, cheep.&rdquo; I
+never saw birds so persistently noisy, impudent, and disagreeable in all my
+life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+By this time, according to all traditions, I should have been standing in the
+office of the editor of the <i>Sun</i>. That personage&mdash;a tall, grave,
+white-haired man&mdash;would strike a silver bell as he grasped my hand and
+wiped a suspicious moisture from his glasses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. McChesney,&rdquo; he would be saying when a subordinate appeared,
+&ldquo;this is Mr. Henry, the young man who sent in that exquisite gem about
+the sparrows in Madison Square. You may give him a desk at once. Your salary,
+sir, will be $80 a week, to begin with.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This was what I had been led to expect by all writers who have evolved romances
+of literary New York.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Something was decidedly wrong with tradition. I could not assume the blame, so
+I fixed it upon the sparrows. I began to hate them with intensity and heat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At that moment an individual wearing an excess of whiskers, two hats, and a
+pestilential air slid into the seat beside me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, Willie,&rdquo; he muttered cajolingly, &ldquo;could you cough up a
+dime out of your coffers for a cup of coffee this morning?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m lung-weary, my friend,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;The best I can do
+is three cents.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And you look like a gentleman, too,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;What brung
+you down?&mdash;boozer?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Birds,&rdquo; I said fiercely. &ldquo;The brown-throated songsters
+carolling songs of hope and cheer to weary man toiling amid the city&rsquo;s
+dust and din. The little feathered couriers from the meadows and woods chirping
+sweetly to us of blue skies and flowering fields. The confounded little
+squint-eyed nuisances yawping like a flock of steam pianos, and stuffing
+themselves like aldermen with grass seeds and bugs, while a man sits on a bench
+and goes without his breakfast. Yes, sir, birds! look at them!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I spoke I picked up a dead tree branch that lay by the bench, and hurled it
+with all my force into a close congregation of the sparrows on the grass. The
+flock flew to the trees with a babel of shrill cries; but two of them remained
+prostrate upon the turf.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a moment my unsavory friend had leaped over the row of benches and secured
+the fluttering victims, which he thrust hurriedly into his pockets. Then he
+beckoned me with a dirty forefinger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come on, cully,&rdquo; he said hoarsely. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re in on the
+feed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thank you very much!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Weakly I followed my dingy acquaintance. He led me away from the park down a
+side street and through a crack in a fence into a vacant lot where some
+excavating had been going on. Behind a pile of old stones and lumber he paused,
+and took out his birds.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I got matches,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You got any paper to start a fire
+with?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I drew forth my manuscript story of the sparrows, and offered it for burnt
+sacrifice. There were old planks, splinters, and chips for our fire. My frowsy
+friend produced from some interior of his frayed clothing half a loaf of bread,
+pepper, and salt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In ten minutes each of us was holding a sparrow spitted upon a stick over the
+leaping flames.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say,&rdquo; said my fellow bivouacker, &ldquo;this ain&rsquo;t so bad
+when a fellow&rsquo;s hungry. It reminds me of when I struck New York
+first&mdash;about fifteen years ago. I come in from the West to see if I could
+get a job on a newspaper. I hit the Madison Square Park the first mornin&rsquo;
+after, and was sitting around on the benches. I noticed the sparrows
+chirpin&rsquo;, and the grass and trees so nice and green that I thought I was
+back in the country again. Then I got some papers out of my pocket,
+and&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know,&rdquo; I interrupted. &ldquo;You sent it to the <i>Sun</i> and
+got $15.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say,&rdquo; said my friend, suspiciously, &ldquo;you seem to know a good
+deal. Where was you? I went to sleep on the bench there, in the sun, and
+somebody touched me for every cent I had&mdash;$15.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap07"></a>HEARTS AND HANDS</h2>
+
+<p>
+At Denver there was an influx of passengers into the coaches on the eastbound
+B. &amp; M. express. In one coach there sat a very pretty young woman dressed
+in elegant taste and surrounded by all the luxurious comforts of an experienced
+traveler. Among the newcomers were two young men, one of handsome presence with
+a bold, frank countenance and manner; the other a ruffled, glum-faced person,
+heavily built and roughly dressed. The two were handcuffed together.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As they passed down the aisle of the coach the only vacant seat offered was a
+reversed one facing the attractive young woman. Here the linked couple seated
+themselves. The young woman&rsquo;s glance fell upon them with a distant, swift
+disinterest; then with a lovely smile brightening her countenance and a tender
+pink tingeing her rounded cheeks, she held out a little gray-gloved hand. When
+she spoke her voice, full, sweet, and deliberate, proclaimed that its owner was
+accustomed to speak and be heard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, Mr. Easton, if you <i>will</i> make me speak first, I suppose I
+must. Don&rsquo;t you ever recognize old friends when you meet them in the
+West?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The younger man roused himself sharply at the sound of her voice, seemed to
+struggle with a slight embarrassment which he threw off instantly, and then
+clasped her fingers with his left hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s Miss Fairchild,&rdquo; he said, with a smile.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll ask you to excuse the other hand; it&rsquo;s otherwise
+engaged just at present.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He slightly raised his right hand, bound at the wrist by the shining
+&ldquo;bracelet&rdquo; to the left one of his companion. The glad look in the
+girl&rsquo;s eyes slowly changed to a bewildered horror. The glow faded from
+her cheeks. Her lips parted in a vague, relaxing distress. Easton, with a
+little laugh, as if amused, was about to speak again when the other forestalled
+him. The glum-faced man had been watching the girl&rsquo;s countenance with
+veiled glances from his keen, shrewd eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll excuse me for speaking, miss, but, I see you&rsquo;re
+acquainted with the marshall here. If you&rsquo;ll ask him to speak a word for
+me when we get to the pen he&rsquo;ll do it, and it&rsquo;ll make things easier
+for me there. He&rsquo;s taking me to Leavenworth prison. It&rsquo;s seven
+years for counterfeiting.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said the girl, with a deep breath and returning color.
+&ldquo;So that is what you are doing out here? A marshal!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear Miss Fairchild,&rdquo; said Easton, calmly, &ldquo;I had to do
+something. Money has a way of taking wings unto itself, and you know it takes
+money to keep step with our crowd in Washington. I saw this opening in the
+West, and&mdash;well, a marshalship isn&rsquo;t quite as high a position as
+that of ambassador, but&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The ambassador,&rdquo; said the girl, warmly, &ldquo;doesn&rsquo;t call
+any more. He needn&rsquo;t ever have done so. You ought to know that. And so
+now you are one of these dashing Western heroes, and you ride and shoot and go
+into all kinds of dangers. That&rsquo;s different from the Washington life. You
+have been missed from the old crowd.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl&rsquo;s eyes, fascinated, went back, widening a little, to rest upon
+the glittering handcuffs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you worry about them, miss,&rdquo; said the other man.
+&ldquo;All marshals handcuff themselves to their prisoners to keep them from
+getting away. Mr. Easton knows his business.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Will we see you again soon in Washington?&rdquo; asked the girl.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not soon, I think,&rdquo; said Easton. &ldquo;My butterfly days are
+over, I fear.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I love the West,&rdquo; said the girl irrelevantly. Her eyes were
+shining softly. She looked away out the car window. She began to speak truly
+and simply without the gloss of style and manner: &ldquo;Mamma and I spent the
+summer in Denver. She went home a week ago because father was slightly ill. I
+could live and be happy in the West. I think the air here agrees with me. Money
+isn&rsquo;t everything. But people always misunderstand things and remain
+stupid&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Say, Mr. Marshal,&rdquo; growled the glum-faced man. &ldquo;This
+isn&rsquo;t quite fair. I&rsquo;m needing a drink, and haven&rsquo;t had a
+smoke all day. Haven&rsquo;t you talked long enough? Take me in the smoker now,
+won&rsquo;t you? I&rsquo;m half dead for a pipe.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The bound travelers rose to their feet, Easton with the same slow smile on his
+face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t deny a petition for tobacco,&rdquo; he said, lightly.
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the one friend of the unfortunate. Good-bye, Miss Fairchild.
+Duty calls, you know.&rdquo; He held out his hand for a farewell.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s too bad you are not going East,&rdquo; she said, reclothing
+herself with manner and style. &ldquo;But you must go on to Leavenworth, I
+suppose?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Easton, &ldquo;I must go on to Leavenworth.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two men sidled down the aisle into the smoker.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two passengers in a seat near by had heard most of the conversation. Said
+one of them: &ldquo;That marshal&rsquo;s a good sort of chap. Some of these
+Western fellows are all right.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pretty young to hold an office like that, isn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo; asked
+the other.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Young!&rdquo; exclaimed the first speaker, &ldquo;why&mdash;Oh!
+didn&rsquo;t you catch on? Say&mdash;did you ever know an officer to handcuff a
+prisoner to his <i>right</i> hand?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap08"></a>THE CACTUS</h2>
+
+<p>
+The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large
+amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and
+it is not past belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing
+one&rsquo;s gloves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor
+apartments. On the table stood a singular-looking green plant in a red earthen
+jar. The plant was one of the species of cacti, and was provided with long,
+tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed with the slightest breeze with a
+peculiar beckoning motion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Trysdale&rsquo;s friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard
+complaining at being allowed to drink alone. Both men were in evening dress.
+White favors like stars upon their coats shone through the gloom of the
+apartment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdale&rsquo;s mind
+a swift, scarifying retrospect of the last few hours. It seemed that in his
+nostrils was still the scent of the flowers that had been banked in odorous
+masses about the church, and in his ears the lowpitched hum of a thousand
+well-bred voices, the rustle of crisp garments, and, most insistently
+recurring, the drawling words of the minister irrevocably binding her to
+another.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, as if it had become a
+habit of his mind, to reach some conjecture as to why and how he had lost her.
+Shaken rudely by the uncompromising fact, he had suddenly found himself
+confronted by a thing he had never before faced&mdash;his own innermost,
+unmitigated, arid unbedecked self. He saw all the garbs of pretence and egoism
+that he had worn now turn to rags of folly. He shuddered at the thought that to
+others, before now, the garments of his soul must have appeared sorry and
+threadbare. Vanity and conceit? These were the joints in his armor. And how
+free from either she had always been&mdash;But why&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As she had slowly moved up the aisle toward the altar he had felt an unworthy,
+sullen exultation that had served to support him. He had told himself that her
+paleness was from thoughts of another than the man to whom she was about to
+give herself. But even that poor consolation had been wrenched from him. For,
+when he saw that swift, limpid, upward look that she gave the man when he took
+her hand, he knew himself to be forgotten. Once that same look had been raised
+to him, and he had gauged its meaning. Indeed, his conceit had crumbled; its
+last prop was gone. Why had it ended thus? There had been no quarrel between
+them, nothing&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of those last
+few days before the tide had so suddenly turned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had always insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had accepted
+her homage with royal grandeur. It had been a very sweet incense that she had
+burned before him; so modest (he told himself); so childlike and worshipful,
+and (he would once have sworn) so sincere. She had invested him with an almost
+supernatural number of high attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had
+absorbed the oblation as a desert drinks the rain that can coax from it no
+promise of blossom or fruit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the crowning
+instance of his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came vividly back to him.
+The scene was the night when he had asked her to come up on his pedestal with
+him and share his greatness. He could not, now, for the pain of it, allow his
+mind to dwell upon the memory of her convincing beauty that night&mdash;the
+careless wave of her hair, the tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and
+words. But they had been enough, and they had brought him to speak. During
+their conversation she had said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And Captain Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language like
+a native. Why have you hidden this accomplishment from me? Is there anything
+you do not know?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now, Carruthers was an idiot. No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty (he
+sometimes did such things) of airing at the club some old, canting Castilian
+proverb dug from the hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries. Carruthers, who
+was one of his incontinent admirers, was the very man to have magnified this
+exhibition of doubtful erudition.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and flattering. He
+allowed the imputation to pass without denial. Without protest, he allowed her
+to twine about his brow this spurious bay of Spanish scholarship. He let it
+grace his conquering head, and, among its soft convolutions, he did not feel
+the prick of the thorn that was to pierce him later.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was! How she fluttered like a snared bird
+when he laid his mightiness at her feet! He could have sworn, and he could
+swear now, that unmistakable consent was in her eyes, but, coyly, she would
+give him no direct answer. &ldquo;I will send you my answer to-morrow,&rdquo;
+she said; and he, the indulgent, confident victor, smilingly granted the delay.
+The next day he waited, impatient, in his rooms for the word. At noon her groom
+came to the door and left the strange cactus in the red earthen jar. There was
+no note, no message, merely a tag upon the plant bearing a barbarous foreign or
+botanical name. He waited until night, but her answer did not come. His large
+pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her. Two evenings later they met at
+a dinner. Their greetings were conventional, but she looked at him, breathless,
+wondering, eager. He was courteous, adamant, waiting her explanation. With
+womanly swiftness she took her cue from his manner, and turned to snow and ice.
+Thus, and wider from this on, they had drifted apart. Where was his fault? Who
+had been to blame? Humbled now, he sought the answer amid the ruins of his
+self-conceit. If&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon his
+thoughts, aroused him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you? You look unhappy
+as if you yourself had been married instead of having acted merely as an
+accomplice. Look at me, another accessory, come two thousand miles on a
+garlicky, cockroachy banana steamer all the way from South America to connive
+at the sacrifice&mdash;please to observe how lightly my guilt rests upon my
+shoulders. Only little sister I had, too, and now she&rsquo;s gone. Come now!
+take something to ease your conscience.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t drink just now, thanks,&rdquo; said Trysdale.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your brandy,&rdquo; resumed the other, coming over and joining him,
+&ldquo;is abominable. Run down to see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try
+some of our stuff that old Garcia smuggles in. It&rsquo;s worth the trip.
+Hallo! here&rsquo;s an old acquaintance. Wherever did you rake up this cactus,
+Trysdale?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A present,&rdquo; said Trysdale, &ldquo;from a friend. Know the
+species?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Very well. It&rsquo;s a tropical concern. See hundreds of &rsquo;em
+around Punta every day. Here&rsquo;s the name on this tag tied to it. Know any
+Spanish, Trysdale?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a
+smile&mdash;&ldquo;Is it Spanish?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes. The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to
+you. They call it by this name&mdash;Ventomarme. Name means in English,
+&lsquo;Come and take me.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap09"></a>THE DETECTIVE DETECTOR</h2>
+
+<p>
+I was walking in Central Park with Avery Knight, the great New York burglar,
+highwayman, and murderer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But, my dear Knight,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;it sounds incredible. You
+have undoubtedly performed some of the most wonderful feats in your profession
+known to modern crime. You have committed some marvellous deeds under the very
+noses of the police&mdash;you have boldly entered the homes of millionaires and
+held them up with an empty gun while you made free with their silver and
+jewels; you have sandbagged citizens in the glare of Broadway&rsquo;s electric
+lights; you have killed and robbed with superb openness and absolute
+impunity&mdash;but when you boast that within forty-eight hours after
+committing a murder you can run down and actually bring me face to face with
+the detective assigned to apprehend you, I must beg leave to express my
+doubts&mdash;remember, you are in New York.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Avery Knight smiled indulgently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You pique my professional pride, doctor,&rdquo; he said in a nettled
+tone. &ldquo;I will convince you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+About twelve yards in advance of us a prosperous-looking citizen was rounding a
+clump of bushes where the walk curved. Knight suddenly drew a revolver and shot
+the man in the back. His victim fell and lay without moving.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The great murderer went up to him leisurely and took from his clothes his
+money, watch, and a valuable ring and cravat pin. He then rejoined me smiling
+calmly, and we continued our walk.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ten steps and we met a policeman running toward the spot where the shot had
+been fired. Avery Knight stopped him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have just killed a man,&rdquo; he announced, seriously, &ldquo;and
+robbed him of his possessions.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;G&rsquo;wan,&rdquo; said the policeman, angrily, &ldquo;or I&rsquo;ll
+run yez in! Want yer name in the papers, don&rsquo;t yez? I never knew the
+cranks to come around so quick after a shootin&rsquo; before. Out of th&rsquo;
+park, now, for yours, or I&rsquo;ll fan yez.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What you have done,&rdquo; I said, argumentatively, as Knight and I
+walked on, &ldquo;was easy. But when you come to the task of hunting down the
+detective that they send upon your trail you will find that you have undertaken
+a difficult feat.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Perhaps so,&rdquo; said Knight, lightly. &ldquo;I will admit that my
+success depends in a degree upon the sort of man they start after me. If it
+should be an ordinary plain-clothes man I might fail to gain a sight of him. If
+they honor me by giving the case to some one of their celebrated sleuths I do
+not fear to match my cunning and powers of induction against his.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the next afternoon Knight entered my office with a satisfied look on his
+keen countenance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How goes the mysterious murder?&rdquo; I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;As usual,&rdquo; said Knight, smilingly. &ldquo;I have put in the
+morning at the police station and at the inquest. It seems that a card case of
+mine containing cards with my name and address was found near the body. They
+have three witnesses who saw the shooting and gave a description of me. The
+case has been placed in the hands of Shamrock Jolnes, the famous detective. He
+left Headquarters at 11:30 on the assignment. I waited at my address until two,
+thinking he might call there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I laughed, tauntingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You will never see Jolnes,&rdquo; I continued, &ldquo;until this murder
+has been forgotten, two or three weeks from now. I had a better opinion of your
+shrewdness, Knight. During the three hours and a half that you waited he has
+got out of your ken. He is after you on true induction theories now, and no
+wrongdoer has yet been known to come upon him while thus engaged. I advise you
+to give it up.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Doctor,&rdquo; said Knight, with a sudden glint in his keen gray eye and
+a squaring of his chin, &ldquo;in spite of the record your city holds of
+something like a dozen homicides without a subsequent meeting of the
+perpetrator, and the sleuth in charge of the case, I will undertake to break
+that record. To-morrow I will take you to Shamrock Jolnes&mdash;I will unmask
+him before you and prove to you that it is not an impossibility for an officer
+of the law and a manslayer to stand face to face in your city.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do it,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and you&rsquo;ll have the sincere thanks of
+the Police Department.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the next day Knight called for me in a cab.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been on one or two false scents, doctor,&rdquo; he admitted.
+&ldquo;I know something of detectives&rsquo; methods, and I followed out a few
+of them, expecting to find Jolnes at the other end. The pistol being a
+.45-caliber, I thought surely I would find him at work on the clue in
+Forty-fifth Street. Then, again, I looked for the detective at the Columbia
+University, as the man&rsquo;s being shot in the back naturally suggested
+hazing. But I could not find a trace of him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&mdash;Nor will you,&rdquo; I said, emphatically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not by ordinary methods,&rdquo; said Knight. &ldquo;I might walk up and
+down Broadway for a month without success. But you have aroused my pride,
+doctor; and if I fail to show you Shamrock Jolnes this day, I promise you I
+will never kill or rob in your city again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nonsense, man,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;When our burglars walk into our
+houses and politely demand, thousands of dollars&rsquo; worth of jewels, and
+then dine and bang the piano an hour or two before leaving, how do you, a mere
+murderer, expect to come in contact with the detective that is looking for
+you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Avery Knight, sat lost in thought for a while. At length he looked up brightly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Doc,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I have it. Put on your hat, and come with
+me. In half an hour I guarantee that you shall stand in the presence of
+Shamrock Jolnes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I entered a cab with Avery Knight. I did not hear his instructions to the
+driver, but the vehicle set out at a smart pace up Broadway, turning presently
+into Fifth Avenue, and proceeding northward again. It was with a rapidly
+beating heart that I accompanied this wonderful and gifted assassin, whose
+analytical genius and superb self-confidence had prompted him to make me the
+tremendous promise of bringing me into the presence of a murderer and the New
+York detective in pursuit of him simultaneously. Even yet I could not believe
+it possible.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Are you sure that you are not being led into some trap?&rdquo; I asked.
+&ldquo;Suppose that your clue, whatever it is, should bring us only into the
+presence of the Commissioner of Police and a couple of dozen cops!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear doctor,&rdquo; said Knight, a little stiffly. &ldquo;I would
+remind you that I am no gambler.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;But I do not think you will
+find Jolnes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cab stopped before one of the handsomest residences on the avenue. Walking
+up and down in front of the house was a man with long red whiskers, with a
+detective&rsquo;s badge showing on the lapel of his coat. Now and then the man
+would remove his whiskers to wipe his face, and then I would recognize at once
+the well-known features of the great New York detective. Jolnes was keeping a
+sharp watch upon the doors and windows of the house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, doctor,&rdquo; said Knight, unable to repress a note of triumph in
+his voice, &ldquo;have you seen?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is wonderful&mdash;wonderful!&rdquo; I could not help exclaiming as
+our cab started on its return trip. &ldquo;But how did you do it? By what
+process of induction&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear doctor,&rdquo; interrupted the great murderer, &ldquo;the
+inductive theory is what the detectives use. My process is more modern. I call
+it the saltatorial theory. Without bothering with the tedious mental phenomena
+necessary to the solution of a mystery from slight clues, I jump at once to a
+conclusion. I will explain to you the method I employed in this case.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In the first place, I argued that as the crime was committed in New York
+City in broad daylight, in a public place and under peculiarly atrocious
+circumstances, and that as the most skilful sleuth available was let loose upon
+the case, the perpetrator would never be discovered. Do you not think my
+postulation justified by precedent?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Perhaps so,&rdquo; I replied, doggedly. &ldquo;But if Big Bill
+Dev&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Stop that,&rdquo; interrupted Knight, with a smile, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve
+heard that several times. It&rsquo;s too late now. I will proceed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If homicides in New York went undiscovered, I reasoned, although the
+best detective talent was employed to ferret them out, it must be true that the
+detectives went about their work in the wrong way. And not only in the wrong
+way, but exactly opposite from the right way. That was my clue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I slew the man in Central Park. Now, let me describe myself to you.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am tall, with a black beard, and I hate publicity. I have no money to
+speak of; I do not like oatmeal, and it is the one ambition of my life to die
+rich. I am of a cold and heartless disposition. I do not care for my fellowmen
+and I never give a cent to beggars or charity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now, my dear doctor, that is the true description of myself, the man
+whom that shrewd detective was to hunt down. You who are familiar with the
+history of crime in New York of late should be able to foretell the result.
+When I promised you to exhibit to your incredulous gaze the sleuth who was set
+upon me, you laughed at me because you said that detectives and murderers never
+met in New York. I have demonstrated to you that the theory is possible.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But how did you do it?&rdquo; I asked again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It was very simple,&rdquo; replied the distinguished murderer. &ldquo;I
+assumed that the detective would go exactly opposite to the clues he had. I
+have given you a description of myself. Therefore, he must necessarily set to
+work and trail a short man with a white beard who likes to be in the papers,
+who is very wealthy, is fond &lsquo;of oatmeal, wants to die poor, and is of an
+extremely generous and philanthropic disposition. When thus far is reached the
+mind hesitates no longer. I conveyed you at once to the spot where Shamrock
+Jolnes was piping off Andrew Carnegie&rsquo;s residence.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Knight,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re a wonder. If there was no
+danger of your reforming, what a rounds man you&rsquo;d make for the Nineteenth
+Precinct!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap10"></a>THE DOG AND THE PLAYLET</h2>
+
+<p class="letter">
+[This story has been rewritten and published in &ldquo;Strictly Business&rdquo;
+under the title, The Proof of the Pudding.]
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Usually it is a cold day in July when you can stroll up Broadway in that month
+and get a story out of the drama. I found one a few breathless, parboiling days
+ago, and it seems to decide a serious question in art.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me&mdash;and two or
+three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters. The elect had
+fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already begun to draw for
+additional funds. Every evening Hollis and I prowled about the deserted town
+searching for coolness in empty cafes, dining-rooms, and roofgardens. We knew
+to the tenth part of a revolution the speed of every electric fan in Gotham,
+and we followed the swiftest as they varied. Hollis&rsquo;s fiancee. Miss Loris
+Sherman, had been in the Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month. In
+another week he would join her party there. In the meantime, he cursed the city
+cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society because I suffered him to
+show me her photograph during the black coffee every time we dined together.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My revenge was to read to him my one-act play.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was one insufferable evening when the overplus of the day&rsquo;s heat was
+being hurled quiveringly back to the heavens by every surcharged brick and
+stone and inch of iron in the panting town. But with the cunning of the
+two-legged beasts we had found an oasis where the hoofs of Apollo&rsquo;s steed
+had not been allowed to strike. Our seats were on an ocean of cool, polished
+oak; the white linen of fifty deserted tables flapped like seagulls in the
+artificial breeze; a mile away a waiter lingered for a heliographic
+signal&mdash;we might have roared songs there or fought a duel without
+molestation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Out came Miss Loris&rsquo;s photo with the coffee, and I once more praised the
+elegant poise of the neck, the extremely low-coiled mass of heavy hair, and the
+eyes that followed one, like those in an oil painting.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She&rsquo;s the greatest ever,&rdquo; said Hollis, with enthusiasm.
+&ldquo;Good as Great Northern Preferred, and a disposition built like a watch.
+One week more and I&rsquo;ll be happy Jonny-on-the-spot. Old Tom Tolliver, my
+best college chum, went up there two weeks ago. He writes me that Loris
+doesn&rsquo;t talk about anything but me. Oh, I guess Rip Van Winkle
+didn&rsquo;t have all the good luck!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; said I, hurriedly, pulling out my typewritten play.
+&ldquo;She&rsquo;s no doubt a charming girl. Now, here&rsquo;s that little
+curtain-raiser you promised to listen to.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ever been tried on the stage?&rdquo; asked Hollis.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not exactly,&rdquo; I answered. &ldquo;I read half of it the other day
+to a fellow whose brother knows Robert Edeson; but he had to catch a train
+before I finished.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; said Hollis, sliding back in his chair like a good fellow.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m no stage carpenter, but I&rsquo;ll tell you what I think of it
+from a first-row balcony standpoint. I&rsquo;m a theatre bug during the season,
+and I can size up a fake play almost as quick as the gallery can. Flag the
+waiter once more, and then go ahead as hard as you like with it. I&rsquo;ll be
+the dog.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I read my little play lovingly, and, I fear, not without some elocution. There
+was one scene in it that I believed in greatly. The comedy swiftly rises into
+thrilling and unexpectedly developed drama. Capt. Marchmont suddenly becomes
+cognizant that his wife is an unscrupulous adventuress, who has deceived him
+from the day of their first meeting. The rapid and mortal duel between them
+from that moment&mdash;she with her magnificent lies and siren charm, winding
+about him like a serpent, trying to recover her lost ground; he with his
+man&rsquo;s agony and scorn and lost faith, trying to tear her from his heart.
+That scene I always thought was a crackerjack. When Capt. Marchmont discovers
+her duplicity by reading on a blotter in a mirror the impression of a note that
+she has written to the Count, he raises his hand to heaven and exclaims:
+&ldquo;O God, who created woman while Adam slept, and gave her to him for a
+companion, take back Thy gift and return instead the sleep, though it last
+forever!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Rot,&rdquo; said Hollis, rudely, when I had given those lines with
+proper emphasis.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I beg your pardon!&rdquo; I said, as sweetly as I could.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come now,&rdquo; went on Hollis, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t be an idiot. You
+know very well that nobody spouts any stuff like that these days. That sketch
+went along all right until you rang in the skyrockets. Cut out that right-arm
+exercise and the Adam and Eve stunt, and make your captain talk as you or I or
+Bill Jones would.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll admit,&rdquo; said I, earnestly (for my theory was being
+touched upon), &ldquo;that on all ordinary occasions all of us use commonplace
+language to convey our thoughts. You will remember that up to the moment when
+the captain makes his terrible discovery all the characters on the stage talk
+pretty much as they would, in real life. But I believe that I am right in
+allowing him lines suitable to the strong and tragic situation into which he
+falls.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tragic, my eye!&rdquo; said my friend, irreverently. &ldquo;In
+Shakespeare&rsquo;s day he might have sputtered out some high-cockalorum
+nonsense of that sort, because in those days they ordered ham and eggs in blank
+verse and discharged the cook with an epic. But not for B&rsquo;way in the
+summer of 1905!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is my opinion,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;that great human emotions shake
+up our vocabulary and leave the words best suited to express them on top. A
+sudden violent grief or loss or disappointment will bring expressions out of an
+ordinary man as strong and solemn and dramatic as those used in fiction or on
+the stage to portray those emotions.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s where you fellows are wrong,&rdquo; said Hollis.
+&ldquo;Plain, every-day talk is what goes. Your captain would very likely have
+kicked the cat, lit a cigar, stirred up a highball, and telephoned for a
+lawyer, instead of getting off those Robert Mantell pyrotechnics.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Possibly, a little later,&rdquo; I continued. &ldquo;But just at the
+time&mdash;just as the blow is delivered, if something Scriptural or theatrical
+and deep-tongued isn&rsquo;t wrung from a man in spite of his modern and
+practical way of speaking, then I&rsquo;m wrong.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said Hollis, kindly, &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve got to whoop
+her up some degrees for the stage. The audience expects it. When the villain
+kidnaps little Effie you have to make her mother claw some chunks out of the
+atmosphere, and scream: &ldquo;Me chee-ild, me chee-ild!&rdquo; What she would
+actually do would be to call up the police by &rsquo;phone, ring for some
+strong tea, and get the little darling&rsquo;s photo out, ready for the
+reporters. When you get your villain in a corner&mdash;a stage
+corner&mdash;it&rsquo;s all right for him to clap his hand to his forehead and
+hiss: &ldquo;All is lost!&rdquo; Off the stage he would remark: &ldquo;This is
+a conspiracy against me&mdash;I refer you to my lawyers.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I get no consolation,&rdquo; said I, gloomily, &ldquo;from your
+concession of an accentuated stage treatment. In my play I fondly hoped that I
+was following life. If people in real life meet great crises in a commonplace
+way, they should do the same on the stage.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then we drifted, like two trout, out of our cool pool in the great hotel
+and began to nibble languidly at the gay flies in the swift current of
+Broadway. And our question of dramatic art was unsettled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We nibbled at the flies, and avoided the hooks, as wise trout do; but soon the
+weariness of Manhattan in summer overcame us. Nine stories up, facing the
+south, was Hollis&rsquo;s apartment, and we soon stepped into an elevator bound
+for that cooler haven.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was familiar in those quarters, and quickly my play was forgotten, and I
+stood at a sideboard mixing things, with cracked ice and glasses all about me.
+A breeze from the bay came in the windows not altogether blighted by the
+asphalt furnace over which it had passed. Hollis, whistling softly, turned over
+a late-arrived letter or two on his table, and drew around the coolest wicker
+armchairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was just measuring the Vermouth carefully when I heard a sound. Some
+man&rsquo;s voice groaned hoarsely: &ldquo;False, oh, God!&mdash;false, and
+Love is a lie and friendship but the byword of devils!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I looked around quickly. Hollis lay across the table with his head down upon
+his outstretched arms. And then he looked up at me and laughed in his ordinary
+manner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I knew him&mdash;he was poking fun at me about my theory. And it did seem so
+unnatural, those swelling words during our quiet gossip, that I half began to
+believe I had been mistaken&mdash;that my theory was wrong.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Hollis raised himself slowly from the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You were right about that theatrical business, old man,&rdquo; he said,
+quietly, as he tossed a note to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I read it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Loris had run away with Tom Tolliver.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap11"></a>A LITTLE TALK ABOUT MOBS</h2>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I see,&rdquo; remarked the tall gentleman in the frock coat and black
+slouch hat, &ldquo;that another street car motorman in your city has narrowly
+excaped lynching at the hands of an infuriated mob by lighting a cigar and
+walking a couple of blocks down the street.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you think they would have lynched him?&rdquo; asked the New Yorker,
+in the next seat of the ferry station, who was also waiting for the boat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not until after the election,&rdquo; said the tall man, cutting a corner
+off his plug of tobacco. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been in your city long enough to
+know something about your mobs. The motorman&rsquo;s mob is about the least
+dangerous of them all, except the National Guard and the Dressmakers&rsquo;
+Convention.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You see, when little Willie Goldstein is sent by his mother for
+pigs&rsquo; knuckles, with a nickel tightly grasped in his chubby fist, he
+always crosses the street car track safely twenty feet ahead of the car; and
+then suddenly turns back to ask his mother whether it was pale ale or a spool
+of 80 white cotton that she wanted. The motorman yells and throws himself on
+the brakes like a football player. There is a horrible grinding and then a
+ripping sound, and a piercing shriek, and Willie is sitting, with part of his
+trousers torn away by the fender, screaming for his lost nickel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In ten seconds the car is surrounded by 600 infuriated citizens, crying,
+&lsquo;Lynch the motorman! Lynch the motorman!&rsquo; at the top of their
+voices. Some of them run to the nearest cigar store to get a rope; but they
+find the last one has just been cut up and labelled. Hundreds of the excited
+mob press close to the cowering motorman, whose hand is observed to tremble
+perceptibly as he transfers a stick of pepsin gum from his pocket to his mouth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;When the bloodthirsty mob of maddened citizens has closed in on the
+motorman, some bringing camp stools and sitting quite close to him, and all
+shouting, &lsquo;Lynch him!&rsquo; Policeman Fogarty forces his way through
+them to the side of their prospective victim.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Hello, Mike,&rsquo; says the motorman in a low voice, &lsquo;nice
+day. Shall I sneak off a block or so, or would you like to rescue me?&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, Jerry, if you don&rsquo;t mind,&rsquo; says the policeman,
+&lsquo;I&rsquo;d like to disperse the infuriated mob singlehanded. I
+haven&rsquo;t defeated a lynching mob since last Tuesday; and that was a small
+one of only 300, that wanted to string up a Dago boy for selling wormy pears.
+It would boost me some down at the station.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;All right, Mike,&rsquo; says the motorman, &lsquo;anything to
+oblige. I&rsquo;ll turn pale and tremble.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And he does so; and Policeman Fogarty draws his club and says,
+&lsquo;G&rsquo;wan wid yez!&rsquo; and in eight seconds the desperate mob has
+scattered and gone about its business, except about a hundred who remain to
+search for Willie&rsquo;s nickel.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I never heard of a mob in our city doing violence to a motorman because
+of an accident,&rdquo; said the New Yorker.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are not liable to,&rdquo; said the tall man. &ldquo;They know the
+motorman&rsquo;s all right, and that he wouldn&rsquo;t even run over a stray
+dog if he could help it. And they know that not a man among &rsquo;em would tie
+the knot to hang even a Thomas cat that had been tried and condemned and
+sentenced according to law.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then why do they become infuriated and make threats of lynching?&rdquo;
+asked the New Yorker.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;To assure the motorman,&rdquo; answered the tall man, &ldquo;that he is
+safe. If they really wanted to do him up they would go into the houses and drop
+bricks on him from the third-story windows.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;New Yorkers are not cowards,&rdquo; said the other man, a little
+stiffly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not one at a time,&rdquo; agreed the tall man, promptly.
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got a fine lot of single-handed scrappers in your town.
+I&rsquo;d rather fight three of you than one; and I&rsquo;d go up against all
+the Gas Trust&rsquo;s victims in a bunch before I&rsquo;d pass two citizens on
+a dark corner, with my watch chain showing. When you get rounded up in a bunch
+you lose your nerve. Get you in crowds and you&rsquo;re easy. Ask the
+&lsquo;L&rsquo; road guards and George B. Cortelyou and the tintype booths at
+Coney Island. Divided you stand, united you fall. <i>E pluribus nihil</i>.
+Whenever one of your mobs surrounds a man and begins to holler, &lsquo;Lynch
+him!&rsquo; he says to himself, &ldquo;Oh, dear, I suppose I must look pale to
+please the boys, but I will, forsooth, let my life insurance premium lapse
+to-morrow. This is a sure tip for me to play Methuselah straight across the
+board in the next handicap.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can imagine the tortured feelings of a prisoner in the hands of New
+York policemen when an infuriated mob demands that he be turned over to them
+for lynching. &lsquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, officers,&rsquo; cries the
+distracted wretch, &lsquo;have ye hearts of stone, that ye will not let them
+wrest me from ye?&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Sorry, Jimmy,&rsquo; says one of the policemen, &lsquo;but it
+won&rsquo;t do. There&rsquo;s three of us&mdash;me and Darrel and the
+plain-clothes man; and there&rsquo;s only sivin thousand of the mob.
+How&rsquo;d we explain it at the office if they took ye? Jist chase the
+infuriated aggregation around the corner, Darrel, and we&rsquo;ll be
+movin&rsquo; along to the station.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Some of our gatherings of excited citizens have not been so
+harmless,&rdquo; said the New Yorker, with a faint note of civic pride.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll admit that,&rdquo; said the tall man. &ldquo;A cousin of mine
+who was on a visit here once had an arm broken and lost an ear in one of
+them.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That must have been during the Cooper Union riots,&rdquo; remarked the
+New Yorker.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not the Cooper Union,&rdquo; explained the tall man&mdash;&ldquo;but it
+was a union riot&mdash;at the Vanastor wedding.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You seem to be in favor of lynch law,&rdquo; said the New Yorker,
+severely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, sir, I am not. No intelligent man is. But, sir, there are certain
+cases when people rise in their just majesty and take a righteous vengeance for
+crimes that the law is slow in punishing. I am an advocate of law and order,
+but I will say to you that less than six months ago I myself assisted at the
+lynching of one of that race that is creating a wide chasm between your section
+of country and mine, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is a deplorable condition,&rdquo; said the New Yorker, &ldquo;that
+exists in the South, but&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am from Indiana, sir,&rdquo; said the tall man, taking another chew;
+&ldquo;and I don&rsquo;t think you will condemn my course when I tell you that
+the colored man in question had stolen $9.60 in cash, sir, from my own
+brother.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap12"></a>THE SNOW MAN</h2>
+
+<p class="letter">
+EDITORIAL NOTE.&mdash;<i>Before the fatal illness of William Sydney Porter
+(known through his literary work as &ldquo;O. Henry&rdquo;) this American
+master of short-story writing had begun for Hampton&rsquo;s Magazine the story
+printed below. Illness crept upon him rapidly and he was compelled to give up
+writing about at the point where the girl enters the story.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<i>When he realized that he could do no more (it was his lifelong habit to
+write with a pencil, never dictating to a stenographer), O. Henry told in
+detail the remainder of The Snow Man to Harris Merton Lyon, whom he had often
+spoken of as one of the most effective short-story writers of the present time.
+Mr. Porter had delineated all of the characters, leaving only the rounding out
+of the plot in the final pages to Mr. Lyon.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Housed and windowpaned from it, the greatest wonder to little children is the
+snow. To men, it is something like a crucible in which their world melts into a
+white star ten million miles away. The man who can stand the test is a Snow
+Man; and this is his reading by Fahrenheit, Réaumur, or Moses&rsquo;s carven
+tablets of stone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Night had fluttered a sable pinion above the cañon of Big Lost River, and I
+urged my horse toward the Bay Horse Ranch because the snow was deepening. The
+flakes were as large as an hour&rsquo;s circular tatting by Miss
+Wilkins&rsquo;s ablest spinster, betokening a heavy snowfall and less
+entertainment and more adventure than the completion of the tatting could
+promise. I knew Ross Curtis of the Bay Horse, and that I would be welcome as a
+snow-bound pilgrim, both for hospitality&rsquo;s sake and because Ross had few
+chances to confide in living creatures who did not neigh, bellow, bleat, yelp,
+or howl during his discourse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The ranch house was just within the jaws of the cañon where its builder may
+have fatuously fancied that the timbered and rocky walls on both sides would
+have protected it from the wintry Colorado winds; but I feared the drift. Even
+now through the endless, bottomless rift in the hills&mdash;the speaking tube
+of the four winds&mdash;came roaring the voice of the proprietor to the little
+room on the top floor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At my &ldquo;hello,&rdquo; a ranch hand came from an outer building and
+received my thankful horse. In another minute, Ross and I sat by a stove in the
+dining-room of the four-room ranch house, while the big, simple welcome of the
+household lay at my disposal. Fanned by the whizzing norther, the fine, dry
+snow was sifted and bolted through the cracks and knotholes of the logs. The
+cook room, without a separating door, appended.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In there I could see a short, sturdy, leisurely and weather-beaten man moving
+with professional sureness about his red-hot stove. His face was stolid and
+unreadable&mdash;something like that of a great thinker, or of one who had no
+thoughts to conceal. I thought his eye seemed unwarrantably superior to the
+elements and to the man, but quickly attributed that to the characteristic
+self-importance of a petty chef. &ldquo;Camp cook&rdquo; was the niche that I
+gave him in the Hall of Types; and he fitted it as an apple fits a dumpling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Cold it was in spite of the glowing stove; and Ross and I sat and talked,
+shuddering frequently, half from nerves and half from the freezing draughts. So
+he brought the bottle and the cook brought boiling water, and we made
+prodigious hot toddies against the attacks of Boreas. We clinked glasses often.
+They sounded like icicles dropping from the eaves, or like the tinkle of a
+thousand prisms on a Louis XIV chandelier that I once heard at a
+boarder&rsquo;s dance in the parlor of a ten-a-week boarding-house in Gramercy
+Square. <i>Sic transit</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Silence in the terrible beauty of the snow and of the Sphinx and of the stars;
+but they who believe that all things, from a without-wine table d&rsquo;hôte to
+the crucifixion, may be interpreted through music, might have found a nocturne
+or a symphony to express the isolation of that blotted-out world. The clink of
+glass and bottle, the aeolian chorus of the wind in the house crannies, its
+deeper trombone through the cañon below, and the Wagnerian crash of the
+cook&rsquo;s pots and pans, united in a fit, discordant melody, I thought. No
+less welcome an accompaniment was the sizzling of broiling ham and venison
+cutlet indorsed by the solvent fumes of true Java, bringing rich promises of
+comfort to our yearning souls.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cook brought the smoking supper to the table. He nodded to me
+democratically as he cast the heavy plates around as though he were pitching
+quoits or hurling the discus. I looked at him with some appraisement and
+curiosity and much conciliation. There was no prophet to tell us when that
+drifting evil outside might cease to fall; and it is well, when snow-bound, to
+stand somewhere within the radius of the cook&rsquo;s favorable consideration.
+But I could read neither favor nor disapproval in the face and manner of our
+pot-wrestler.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was about five feet nine inches, and two hundred pounds of commonplace,
+bull-necked, pink-faced, callous calm. He wore brown duck trousers too tight
+and too short, and a blue flannel shirt with sleeves rolled above his elbows.
+There was a sort of grim, steady scowl on his features that looked to me as
+though he had fixed it there purposely as a protection against the weakness of
+an inherent amiability that, he fancied, were better concealed. And then I let
+supper usurp his brief occupancy of my thoughts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Draw up, George,&rdquo; said Ross. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s all eat while the
+grub&rsquo;s hot.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You fellows go on and chew,&rdquo; answered the cook. &ldquo;I ate mine
+in the kitchen before sun-down.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Think it&rsquo;ll be a big snow, George?&rdquo; asked the ranchman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George had turned to reenter the cook room. He moved slowly around and, looking
+at his face, it seemed to me that he was turning over the wisdom and knowledge
+of centuries in his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It might,&rdquo; was his delayed reply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the door of the kitchen he stopped and looked back at us. Both Ross and I
+held our knives and forks poised and gave him our regard. Some men have the
+power of drawing the attention of others without speaking a word. Their
+attitude is more effective than a shout.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And again it mightn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said George, and went back to his
+stove.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After we had eaten, he came in and gathered the emptied dishes. He stood for a
+moment, while his spurious frown deepened.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It might stop any minute,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;or it might keep up for
+days.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the farther end of the cook room I saw George pour hot water into his
+dishpan, light his pipe, and put the tableware through its required lavation.
+He then carefully unwrapped from a piece of old saddle blanket a paperback
+book, and settled himself to read by his dim oil lamp.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then the ranchman threw tobacco on the cleared table and set forth again
+the bottles and glasses; and I saw that I stood in a deep channel through which
+the long dammed flood of his discourse would soon be booming. But I was half
+content, comparing my fate with that of the late Thomas Tucker, who had to sing
+for his supper, thus doubling the burdens of both himself and his host.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Snow is a hell of a thing,&rdquo; said Ross, by way of a foreword.
+&ldquo;It ain&rsquo;t, somehow, it seems to me, salubrious. I can stand water
+and mud and two inches below zero and a hundred and ten in the shade and
+medium-sized cyclones, but this here fuzzy white stuff naturally gets me all
+locoed. I reckon the reason it rattles you is because it changes the look of
+things so much. It&rsquo;s like you had a wife and left her in the morning with
+the same old blue cotton wrapper on, and rides in of a night and runs across
+her all outfitted in a white silk evening frock, waving an ostrich-feather fan,
+and monkeying with a posy of lily flowers. Wouldn&rsquo;t it make you look for
+your pocket compass? You&rsquo;d be liable to kiss her before you collected
+your presence of mind.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+By and by, the flood of Ross&rsquo;s talk was drawn up into the clouds (so it
+pleased me to fancy) and there condensed into the finer snowflakes of thought;
+and we sat silent about the stove, as good friends and bitter enemies will do.
+I thought of Ross&rsquo;s preamble about the mysterious influence upon man
+exerted by that ermine-lined monster that now covered our little world, and
+knew he was right.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of all the curious knickknacks, mysteries, puzzles, Indian gifts, rat-traps,
+and well-disguised blessings that the gods chuck down to us from the Olympian
+peaks, the most disquieting and evil-bringing is the snow. By scientific
+analysis it is absolute beauty and purity&mdash;so, at the beginning we look
+doubtfully at chemistry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It falls upon the world, and lo! we live in another. It hides in a night the
+old scars and familiar places with which we have grown heart-sick or enamored.
+So, as quietly as we can, we hustle on our embroidered robes and hie us on
+Prince Camaralzaman&rsquo;s horse or in the reindeer sleigh into the white
+country where the seven colors converge. This is when our fancy can overcome
+the bane of it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But in certain spots of the earth comes the snow-madness, made known by people
+turned wild and distracted by the bewildering veil that has obscured the only
+world they know. In the cities, the white fairy who sets the brains of her
+dupes whirling by a wave of her wand is cast for the comedy role. Her diamond
+shoe buckles glitter like frost; with a pirouette she invites the spotless
+carnival.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But in the waste places the snow is sardonic. Sponging out the world of the
+outliers, it gives no foothold on another sphere in return. It makes of the
+earth a firmament under foot; it leaves us clawing and stumbling in space in an
+inimical fifth element whose evil outdoes its strangeness and beauty, There
+Nature, low comedienne, plays her tricks on man. Though she has put him forth
+as her highest product, it appears that she has fashioned him with what seems
+almost incredible carelessness and indexterity. One-sided and without balance,
+with his two halves unequally fashioned and joined, must he ever jog his
+eccentric way. The snow falls, the darkness caps it, and the ridiculous
+man-biped strays in accurate circles until he succumbs in the ruins of his
+defective architecture.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the throat of the thirsty the snow is vitriol. In appearance as plausible as
+the breakfast food of the angels, it is as hot in the mouth as ginger,
+increasing the pangs of the water-famished. It is a derivative from water, air,
+and some cold, uncanny fire from which the caloric has been extracted. Good has
+been said of it; even the poets, crazed by its spell and shivering in their
+attics under its touch, have indited permanent melodies commemorative of its
+beauty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still, to the saddest overcoated optimist it is a plague&mdash;a corroding
+plague that Pharaoh successfully side-stepped. It beneficently covers the wheat
+fields, swelling the crop&mdash;and the Flour Trust gets us by the throat like
+a sudden quinsy. It spreads the tail of its white kirtle over the red seams of
+the rugged north&mdash;and the Alaskan short story is born. Etiolated perfidy,
+it shelters the mountain traveler burrowing from the icy air&mdash;and, melting
+to-morrow, drowns his brother in the valley below.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At its worst it is lock and key and crucible, and the wand of Circe. When it
+corrals man in lonely ranches, mountain cabins, and forest huts, the snow makes
+apes and tigers of the hardiest. It turns the bosoms of weaker ones to glass,
+their tongues to infants&rsquo; rattles, their hearts to lawlessness and
+spleen. It is not all from the isolation; the snow is not merely a blockader;
+it is a Chemical Test. It is a good man who can show a reaction that is not
+chiefly composed of a drachm or two of potash and magnesia, with traces of
+Adam, Ananias, Nebuchadnezzar, and the fretful porcupine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This is no story, you say; well, let it begin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a knock at the door (is the opening not full of context and
+reminiscence oh, best buyers of best sellers?).
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We drew the latch, and in stumbled Etienne Girod (as he afterward named
+himself). But just then he was no more than a worm struggling for life,
+enveloped in a killing white chrysalis.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We dug down through snow, overcoats, mufflers, and waterproofs, and dragged
+forth a living thing with a Van Dyck beard and marvellous diamond rings. We put
+it through the approved curriculum of snow-rubbing, hot milk, and teaspoonful
+doses of whiskey, working him up to a graduating class entitled to a diploma of
+three fingers of rye in half a glassful of hot water. One of the ranch boys had
+already come from the quarters at Ross&rsquo;s bugle-like yell and kicked the
+stranger&rsquo;s staggering pony to some sheltered corral where beasts were
+entertained.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Let a paragraphic biography of Girod intervene.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Etienne was an opera singer originally, we gathered; but adversity and the snow
+had made him <i>non compos vocis</i>. The adversity consisted of the stranded
+San Salvador Opera Company, a period of hotel second-story work, and then a
+career as a professional palmist, jumping from town to town. For, like other
+professional palmists, every time he worked the Heart Line too strongly he
+immediately moved along the Line of Least Resistance. Though Etienne did not
+confide this to us, we surmised that he had moved out into the dusk about
+twenty minutes ahead of a constable, and had thus encountered the snow. In his
+most sacred blue language he dilated upon the subject of snow; for Etienne was
+Paris-born and loved the snow with the same passion that an orchid does.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mee-ser-rhable!&rdquo; commented Etienne, and took another three
+fingers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Complete, cast-iron, pussy-footed, blank... blank!&rdquo; said Ross, and
+followed suit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Rotten,&rdquo; said I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cook said nothing. He stood in the door weighing our outburst; and
+insistently from behind that frozen visage I got two messages (via the M. A. M
+wireless). One was that George considered our vituperation against the snow
+childish; the other was that George did not love Dagoes. Inasmuch as Etienne
+was a Frenchman, I concluded I had the message wrong. So I queried the other:
+&ldquo;Bright eyes, you don&rsquo;t really mean Dagoes, do you?&rdquo; and over
+the wireless came three deathly, psychic taps: &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; Then I
+reflected that to George all foreigners were probably &ldquo;Dagoes.&rdquo; I
+had once known another camp cook who had thought Mons., Sig., and Millie
+(Trans-Mississippi for Mlle.) were Italian given names; this cook used to
+marvel therefore at the paucity of Neo-Roman precognomens, and therefore why
+not&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I have said that snow is a test of men. For one day, two days, Etienne stood at
+the window, Fletcherizing his finger nails and shrieking and moaning at the
+monotony. To me, Etienne was just about as unbearable as the snow; and so,
+seeking relief, I went out on the second day to look at my horse, slipped on a
+stone, broke my collarbone, and thereafter underwent not the snow test, but the
+test of flat-on-the-back. A test that comes once too often for any man to
+stand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+However, I bore up cheerfully. I was now merely a spectator, and from my couch
+in the big room I could lie and watch the human interplay with that detached,
+impassive, impersonal feeling which French writers tell us is so valuable to
+the litterateur, and American writers to the faro-dealer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I shall go crazy in this abominable, mee-ser-rhable place!&rdquo; was
+Etienne&rsquo;s constant prediction.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Never knew Mark Twain to bore me before,&rdquo; said Ross, over and
+over. He sat by the other window, hour after hour, a box of Pittsburg stogies
+of the length, strength, and odor of a Pittsburg graft scandal deposited on one
+side of him, and &ldquo;Roughing It,&rdquo; &ldquo;The Jumping Frog,&rdquo; and
+&ldquo;Life on the Mississippi&rdquo; on the other. For every chapter he lit a
+new stogy, puffing furiously. This in time, gave him a recurrent premonition of
+cramps, gastritis, smoker&rsquo;s colic or whatever it is they have in
+Pittsburg after a too deep indulgence in graft scandals. To fend off the colic,
+Ross resorted time and again to Old Doctor Still&rsquo;s Amber-Colored U. S. A.
+Colic Cure. Result, after forty-eight hours&mdash;nerves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Positive fact I never knew Mark Twain to make me tired before. Positive
+fact.&rdquo; Ross slammed &ldquo;Roughing It&rdquo; on the floor. &ldquo;When
+you&rsquo;re snowbound this-away you want tragedy, I guess. Humor just seems to
+bring out all your cussedness. You read a man&rsquo;s poor, pitiful attempts to
+be funny and it makes you so nervous you want to tear the book up, get out your
+bandana, and have a good, long cry.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the other end of the room, the Frenchman took his finger nails out of his
+mouth long enough to exclaim: &ldquo;Humor! Humor at such a time as thees! My
+God, I shall go crazy in thees abominable&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Supper,&rdquo; announced George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These meals were not the meals of Rabelais who said, &ldquo;the great God makes
+the planets and we make the platters neat.&rdquo; By that time, the ranch-house
+meals were not affairs of gusto; they were mental distraction, not bodily
+provender. What they were to be later shall never be forgotten by Ross or me or
+Etienne.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After supper, the stogies and finger nails began again. My shoulder ached
+wretchedly, and with half-closed eyes I tried to forget it by watching the deft
+movements of the stolid cook.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly I saw him cock his ear, like a dog. Then, with a swift step, he moved
+to the door, threw it open, and stood there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The rest of us had heard nothing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What is it, George?&rdquo; asked Ross.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cook reached out his hand into the darkness alongside the jamb. With
+careful precision he prodded something. Then he made one careful step into the
+snow. His back muscles bulged a little under the arms as he stooped and lightly
+lifted a burden. Another step inside the door, which he shut methodically
+behind him, and he dumped the burden at a safe distance from the fire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stood up and fixed us with a solemn eye. None of us moved under that Orphic
+suspense until,
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A woman,&rdquo; remarked George.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Miss Willie Adams was her name. Vocation, school-teacher. Present avocation,
+getting lost in the snow. Age, yum-yum (the Persian for twenty). Take to the
+woods if you would describe Miss Adams. A willow for grace; a hickory for
+fibre; a birch for the clear whiteness of her skin; for eyes, the blue sky seen
+through treetops; the silk in cocoons for her hair; her voice, the murmur of
+the evening June wind in the leaves; her mouth, the berries of the wintergreen;
+fingers as light as ferns; her toe as small as a deer track. General impression
+upon the dazed beholder&mdash;you could not see the forest for the trees.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Psychology, with a capital P and the foot of a lynx, at this juncture stalks
+into the ranch house. Three men, a cook, a pretty young woman&mdash;all
+snowbound. Count me out of it, as I did not count, anyway. I never did, with
+women. Count the cook out, if you like. But note the effect upon Ross and
+Etienne Girod.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ross dumped Mark Twain in a trunk and locked the trunk. Also, he discarded the
+Pittsburg scandals. Also, he shaved off a three days&rsquo; beard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Etienne, being French, began on the beard first. He pomaded it, from a little
+tube of grease Hongroise in his vest pocket. He combed it with a little
+aluminum comb from the same vest pocket. He trimmed it with manicure scissors
+from the same vest pocket. His light and Gallic spirits underwent a sudden,
+miraculous change. He hummed a blithe San Salvador Opera Company tune; he
+grinned, smirked, bowed, pirouetted, twiddled, twaddled, twisted, and
+tooralooed. Gayly, the notorious troubadour, could not have equalled Etienne.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ross&rsquo;s method of advance was brusque, domineering. &ldquo;Little
+woman,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re welcome here!&rdquo;&mdash;and with
+what he thought subtle double meaning&mdash;&ldquo;welcome to stay here as long
+as you like, snow or no snow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Adams thanked him a little wildly, some of the wintergreen berries
+creeping into the birch bark. She looked around hurriedly as if seeking escape.
+But there was none, save the kitchen and the room allotted her. She made an
+excuse and disappeared into her own room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Later I, feigning sleep, heard the following:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mees Adams, I was almost to perish-die-of monotony w&rsquo;en your fair
+and beautiful face appear in thees mee-ser-rhable house.&rdquo; I opened my
+starboard eye. The beard was being curled furiously around a finger, the
+Svengali eye was rolling, the chair was being hunched closer to the
+school-teacher&rsquo;s. &ldquo;I am French&mdash;you
+see&mdash;temperamental&mdash;nervous! I cannot endure thees dull hours in
+thees ranch house; but&mdash;a woman comes! Ah!&rdquo; The shoulders gave nine
+&rsquo;rahs and a tiger. &ldquo;What a difference! All is light and gay;
+ever&rsquo;ting smile w&rsquo;en you smile. You have &rsquo;eart, beauty,
+grace. My &rsquo;eart comes back to me w&rsquo;en I feel your &rsquo;eart.
+So!&rdquo; He laid his hand upon his vest pocket. From this vantage point he
+suddenly snatched at the school-teacher&rsquo;s own hand, &ldquo;Ah! Mees
+Adams, if I could only tell you how I ad&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dinner,&rdquo; remarked George. He was standing just behind the
+Frenchman&rsquo;s ear. His eyes looked straight into the school-teacher&rsquo;s
+eyes. After thirty seconds of survey, his lips moved, deep in the flinty,
+frozen maelstrom of his face: &ldquo;Dinner,&rdquo; he concluded, &ldquo;will
+be ready in two minutes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Adams jumped to her feet, relieved. &ldquo;I must get ready for
+dinner,&rdquo; she said brightly, and went into her room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ross came in fifteen minutes late. After the dishes had been cleaned away, I
+waited until a propitious time when the room was temporarily ours alone, and
+told him what had happened.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He became so excited that he lit a stogy without thinking. &ldquo;Yeller-hided,
+unwashed, palm-readin&rsquo; skunk,&rdquo; he said under his breath.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll shoot him full o&rsquo; holes if he don&rsquo;t watch
+out&mdash;talkin&rsquo; that way to my wife!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I gave a jump that set my collarbone back another week. &ldquo;Your
+wife!&rdquo; I gasped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, I mean to make her that,&rdquo; he announced.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The air in the ranch house the rest of that day was tense with pent-up
+emotions, oh, best buyers of best sellers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ross watched Miss Adams as a hawk does a hen; he watched Etienne as a hawk does
+a scarecrow, Etienne watched Miss Adams as a weasel does a henhouse. He paid no
+attention to Ross.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The condition of Miss Adams, in the role of sought-after, was feverish. Lately
+escaped from the agony and long torture of the white cold, where for hours
+Nature had kept the little school-teacher&rsquo;s vision locked in and turned
+upon herself, nobody knows through what profound feminine introspections she
+had gone. Now, suddenly cast among men, instead of finding relief and security,
+she beheld herself plunged anew into other discomforts. Even in her own room
+she could hear the loud voices of her imposed suitors. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll blow
+you full o&rsquo; holes!&rdquo; shouted Ross. &ldquo;Witnesses,&rdquo; shrieked
+Etienne, waving his hand at the cook and me. She could not have known the
+previous harassed condition of the men, fretting under indoor conditions. All
+she knew was, that where she had expected the frank freemasonry of the West,
+she found the subtle tangle of two men&rsquo;s minds, bent upon exacting
+whatever romance there might be in her situation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She tried to dodge Ross and the Frenchman by spells of nursing me. They also
+came over to help nurse. This combination aroused such a natural state of
+invalid cussedness on my part that they were all forced to retire. Once she did
+manage to whisper: &ldquo;I am so worried here. I don&rsquo;t know what to
+do.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To which I replied, gently, hitching up my shoulder, that I was a hunch-savant
+and that the Eighth House under this sign, the Moon being in Virgo, showed that
+everything would turn out all right.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But twenty minutes later I saw Etienne reading her palm and felt that perhaps I
+might have to recast her horoscope, and try for a dark man coming with a
+bundle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Toward sunset, Etienne left the house for a few moments and Ross, who had been
+sitting taciturn and morose, having unlocked Mark Twain, made another dash. It
+was typical Ross talk.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stood in front of her and looked down majestically at that cool and perfect
+spot where Miss Adams&rsquo; forehead met the neat part in her fragrant hair.
+First, however, he cast a desperate glance at me. I was in a profound slumber.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Little woman,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s certainly tough for a
+man like me to see you bothered this way.
+You&rdquo;&mdash;gulp&mdash;&ldquo;you have been alone in this world too long.
+You need a protector. I might say that at a time like this you need a protector
+the worst kind&mdash;a protector who would take a three-ring delight in
+smashing the saffron-colored kisser off of any yeller-skinned skunk that made
+himself obnoxious to you. Hem. Hem. I am a lonely man, Miss Adams. I have so
+far had to carry on my life without the&rdquo;&mdash;gulp&mdash;&ldquo;sweet
+radiance&rdquo;&mdash;gulp&mdash;&ldquo;of a woman around the house. I feel
+especially doggoned lonely at a time like this, when I am pretty near locoed
+from havin&rsquo; to stall indoors, and hence it was with delight I welcomed
+your first appearance in this here shack. Since then I have been packed jam
+full of more different kinds of feelings, ornery, mean, dizzy, and superb, than
+has fallen my way in years.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Adams made a useless movement toward escape. The Ross chin stuck firm.
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to annoy you, Miss Adams, but, by heck, if it comes
+to that you&rsquo;ll have to be annoyed. And I&rsquo;ll have to have my say.
+This palm-ticklin&rsquo; slob of a Frenchman ought to be kicked off the place
+and if you&rsquo;ll say the word, off he goes. But I don&rsquo;t want to do the
+wrong thing. You&rsquo;ve got to show a preference. I&rsquo;m gettin&rsquo;
+around to the point, Miss&mdash;Miss Willie, in my own brick fashion.
+I&rsquo;ve stood about all I can stand these last two days and somethin&rsquo;s
+got to happen. The suspense hereabouts is enough to hang a sheepherder. Miss
+Willie&rdquo;&mdash;he lassooed her hand by main force&mdash;&ldquo;just say
+the word. You need somebody to take your part all your life long. Will you
+mar&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Supper,&rdquo; remarked George, tersely, from the kitchen door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Adams hurried away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ross turned angrily. &ldquo;You&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have been revolving it in my head,&rdquo; said George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He brought the coffee pot forward heavily. Then bravely the big platter of pork
+and beans. Then somberly the potatoes. Then profoundly the biscuits. &ldquo;I
+have been revolving it in my mind. There ain&rsquo;t no use waitin&rsquo; any
+longer for Swengalley. Might as well eat now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From my excellent vantage-point on the couch I watched the progress of that
+meal. Ross, muddled, glowering, disappointed; Etienne, eternally blandishing,
+attentive, ogling; Miss Adams, nervous, picking at her food, hesitant about
+answering questions, almost hysterical; now and then the solid, flitting shadow
+of the cook, passing behind their backs like a Dreadnaught in a fog.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I used to own a clock which gurgled in its throat three minutes before it
+struck the hour. I know, therefore, the slow freight of Anticipation. For I
+have awakened at three in the morning, heard the clock gurgle, and waited those
+three minutes for the three strokes I knew were to come. <i>Alors</i>. In
+Ross&rsquo;s ranch house that night the slow freight of Climax whistled in the
+distance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Etienne began it after supper. Miss Adams had suddenly displayed a lively
+interest in the kitchen layout and I could see her in there, chatting brightly
+at George&mdash;not with him&mdash;the while he ducked his head and rattled his
+pans.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My fren&rsquo;,&rdquo; said Etienne, exhaling a large cloud from his
+cigarette and patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand
+which, hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, &ldquo;I see I mus&rsquo; be
+frank with you. Firs&rsquo;, because we are rivals; second, because you take
+these matters so serious. I&mdash;I am Frenchman. I love the
+women&rdquo;&mdash;he threw back his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an
+unsavory kiss toward the kitchen. &ldquo;It is, I suppose, a trait of my
+nation. All Frenchmen love the women&mdash;pretty women. Now, look: Here I
+am!&rdquo; He spread out his arms. &ldquo;Cold outside! I detes&rsquo; the
+col-l-l! Snow! I abominate the mees-ser-rhable snow! Two men!
+This&mdash;&rdquo; pointing to me&mdash;&ldquo;an&rsquo; this!&rdquo; Pointing
+to&rsquo; Ross. &ldquo;I am distracted! For two whole days I stan&rsquo; at the
+window an&rsquo; tear my &rsquo;air! I am nervous, upset, pr-r-ro-foun&rsquo;ly
+distress inside my &rsquo;ead! An&rsquo; suddenly&mdash;be&rsquo;old! A woman,
+a nice, pretty, charming, innocen&rsquo; young woman! I, naturally, rejoice. I
+become myself again&mdash;gay, light-&rsquo;earted, &rsquo;appy. I address
+myself to mademoiselle; it passes the time. That, m&rsquo;sieu&rsquo;, is wot
+the women are for&mdash;pass the time! Entertainment&mdash;like the music, like
+the wine!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They appeal to the mood, the caprice, the temperamen&rsquo;. To play
+with thees woman, follow her through her humor, pursue her&mdash;ah! that is
+the mos&rsquo; delightful way to sen&rsquo; the hours about their
+business.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ross banged the table. &ldquo;Shut up, you miserable yeller pup!&rdquo; he
+roared. &ldquo;I object to your pursuin&rsquo; anything or anybody in my house.
+Now, you listen to me, you&mdash;&rdquo; He picked up the box of stogies and
+used it on the table as an emphasizer. The noise of it awoke the attention of
+the girl in the kitchen. Unheeded, she crept into the room. &ldquo;I
+don&rsquo;t know anything about your French ways of lovemakin&rsquo; an&rsquo;
+I don&rsquo;t care. In my section of the country, it&rsquo;s the best man wins.
+And I&rsquo;m the best man here, and don&rsquo;t you forget it! This
+girl&rsquo;s goin&rsquo; to be mine. There ain&rsquo;t going to be any playing,
+or philandering, or palm reading about it. I&rsquo;ve made up my mind
+I&rsquo;ll have this girl, and that settles it. My word is the law in this neck
+o&rsquo; the woods. She&rsquo;s mine, and as soon as she says she&rsquo;s mine,
+you pull out.&rdquo; The box made one final, tremendous punctuation point.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Etienne&rsquo;s bravado was unruffled. &ldquo;Ah! that is no way to win a
+woman,&rdquo; he smiled, easily. &ldquo;I make prophecy you will never win
+&rsquo;er that way. No. Not thees woman. She mus&rsquo; be played along
+an&rsquo; then keessed, this charming, delicious little creature. One kees!
+An&rsquo; then you &rsquo;ave her.&rdquo; Again he displayed his unpleasant
+teeth. &ldquo;I make you a bet I will kees her&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As a cheerful chronicler of deeds done well, it joys me to relate that the hand
+which fell upon Etienne&rsquo;s amorous lips was not his own. There was one
+sudden sound, as of a mule kicking a lath fence, and then&mdash;through the
+swinging doors of oblivion for Etienne.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had seen this blow delivered. It was an aloof, unstudied, almost
+absent-minded affair. I had thought the cook was rehearsing the proper method
+of turning a flapjack.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Silently, lost in thought, he stood there scratching his head. Then he began
+rolling down his sleeves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;d better get your things on, Miss, and we&rsquo;ll get out of
+here,&rdquo; he decided. &ldquo;Wrap up warm.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I heard her heave a little sigh of relief as she went to get her cloak,
+sweater, and hat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ross jumped to his feet, and said: &ldquo;George, what are you goin&rsquo; to
+do?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George, who had been headed in my direction, slowly swivelled around and faced
+his employer. &ldquo;Bein&rsquo; a camp cook, I ain&rsquo;t over-burdened with
+hosses,&rdquo; George enlightened us. &ldquo;Therefore, I am going to try to
+borrow this feller&rsquo;s here.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For the first time in four days my soul gave a genuine cheer. &ldquo;If
+it&rsquo;s for Lochinvar purposes, go as far as you like,&rdquo; I said,
+grandly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cook studied me a moment, as if trying to find an insult in my words.
+&ldquo;No,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s for mine and the young
+lady&rsquo;s purposes, and we&rsquo;ll go only three miles&mdash;to Hicksville.
+Now let me tell you somethin&rsquo;, Ross.&rdquo; Suddenly I was confronted
+with the cook&rsquo;s chunky back and I heard a low, curt, carrying voice shoot
+through the room at my host. George had wheeled just as Ross started to speak.
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re nutty. That&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s the matter with you. You
+can&rsquo;t stand the snow. You&rsquo;re getting nervouser, and nuttier every
+day. That and this Dago&rdquo;&mdash;he jerked a thumb at the half-dead
+Frenchman in the corner&mdash;&ldquo;has got you to the point where I thought I
+better horn in. I got to revolving it around in my mind and I seen if
+somethin&rsquo; wasn&rsquo;t done, and done soon, there&rsquo;d be murder
+around here and maybe&rdquo;&mdash;his head gave an imperceptible list toward
+the girl&rsquo;s room&mdash;&ldquo;worse.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stopped, but he held up a stubby finger to keep any one else from speaking.
+Then he plowed slowly through the drift of his ideas. &ldquo;About this here
+woman. I know you, Ross, and I know what you reely think about women. If she
+hadn&rsquo;t happened in here durin&rsquo; this here snow, you&rsquo;d never
+have given two thoughts to the whole woman question. Likewise, when the storm
+clears, and you and the boys go hustlin&rsquo; out, this here whole business
+&rsquo;ll clear out of your head and you won&rsquo;t think of a skirt again
+until Kingdom Come. Just because o&rsquo; this snow here, don&rsquo;t forget
+you&rsquo;re living in the selfsame world you was in four days ago. And
+you&rsquo;re the same man, too. Now, what&rsquo;s the use o&rsquo; getting all
+snarled up over four days of stickin&rsquo; in the house? That there&rsquo;s
+what I been revolvin&rsquo; in my mind and this here&rsquo;s the decision
+I&rsquo;ve come to.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He plodded to the door and shouted to one of the ranch hands to saddle my
+horse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ross lit a stogy and stood thoughtful in the middle of the room. Then he began:
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve a durn good notion, George, to knock your confounded head off
+and throw you into that snowbank, if&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re wrong, mister. That ain&rsquo;t a durned good notion
+you&rsquo;ve got. It&rsquo;s durned bad. Look here!&rdquo; He pointed steadily
+out of doors until we were both forced to follow his finger.
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re in here for more&rsquo;n a week yet.&rdquo; After allowing
+this fact to sink in, he barked out at Ross: &ldquo;Can you cook?&rdquo; Then
+at me: &ldquo;Can you cook?&rdquo; Then he looked at the wreck of Etienne and
+sniffed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was an embarrassing silence as Ross and I thought solemnly of a foodless
+week.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you just use hoss sense,&rdquo; concluded George, &ldquo;and
+don&rsquo;t go for to hurt my feelin&rsquo;s, all I want to do is to take this
+young gal down to Hicksville; and then I&rsquo;ll head back here and cook fer
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The horse and Miss Adams arrived simultaneously, both of them very serious and
+quiet. The horse because he knew what he had before him in that weather; the
+girl because of what she had left behind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then all at once I awoke to a realization of what the cook was doing. &ldquo;My
+God, man!&rdquo; I cried, &ldquo;aren&rsquo;t you afraid to go out in that
+snow?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Behind my back I heard Ross mutter, &ldquo;Not him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George lifted the girl daintily up behind the saddle, drew on his gloves, put
+his foot in the stirrup, and turned to inspect me leisurely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I passed slowly in his review, I saw in my mind&rsquo;s eye the algebraic
+equation of Snow, the equals sign, and the answer in the man before me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Snow is my last name,&rdquo; said George. He swung into the saddle and
+they started cautiously out into the darkening swirl of fresh new currency just
+issuing from the Snowdrop Mint. The girl, to keep her place, clung happily to
+the sturdy figure of the camp cook.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I brought three things away from Ross Curtis&rsquo;s ranch house&mdash;yes,
+four. One was the appreciation of snow, which I have so humbly tried here to
+render; (2) was a collarbone, of which I am extra careful; (3) was a memory of
+what it is to eat very extremely bad food for a week; and (4) was the cause of
+(3) a little note delivered at the end of the week and hand-painted in blue
+pencil on a sheet of meat paper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I cannot come back there to that there job. Mrs. Snow say no, George. I
+been revolvin&rsquo; it in my mind; considerin&rsquo; circumstances she&rsquo;s
+right.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
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+*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
+
+
+
+
+
+Prepared for Project Gutenberg by Earle C. Beach (e_beach@hotmail.com)
+
+
+
+
+
+Waifs and Strays
+
+by O Henry
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+TWELVE STORIES
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+The Red Roses of Tonia
+Round The Circle
+The Rubber Plant's Story
+Out of Nazareth
+Confessions of a Humorist
+The Sparrows in Madison Square
+Hearts and Hands
+The Cactus
+The Detective Detector
+The Dog and the Playlet
+A Little Talk About Mobs
+The Snow Man
+
+
+
+
+THE RED ROSES OF TONIA
+
+A trestle burned down on the International Railroad.  The south-
+bound from San Antonio was cut off for the next forty-eight hours.
+On that train was Tonia Weaver's Easter hat.
+
+Espirition, the Mexican, who had been sent forty miles in a
+buckboard from the Espinosa Ranch to fetch it, returned with a
+shrugging shoulder and hands empty except for a cigarette.  At
+the small station, Nopal, he had learned of the delayed train and,
+having no commands to wait, turned his ponies toward the ranch
+again.
+
+Now, if one supposes that Easter, the Goddess of Spring, cares any
+more for the after-church parade on Fifth Avenue than she does for
+her loyal outfit of subjects that assemble at the meeting-house at
+Cactus, Tex., a mistake has been made.  The wives and daughters of
+the ranchmen of the Frio country put forth Easter blossoms of new
+hats and gowns as faithfully as is done anywhere, and the Southwest
+is, for one day, a mingling of prickly pear, Paris, and paradise.
+And now it was Good Friday, and Tonia Weaver's Easter hat blushed
+unseen in the desert air of an impotent express car, beyond the
+burned trestle.  On Saturday noon the Rogers girls, from the
+Shoestring Ranch, and Ella Reeves, from the Anchor-O, and Mrs.
+Bennet and Ida, from Green Valley, would convene at the Espinosa
+and pick up Tonia.  With their Easter hats and frocks carefully
+wrapped and bundled against the dust, the fair aggregation would
+then merrily jog the ten miles to Cactus, where on the morrow they
+would array themselves, subjugate man, do homage to Easter, and
+cause jealous agitation among the lilies of the field.
+
+Tonia sat on the steps of the Espinosa ranch house flicking gloomily
+with a quirt at a tuft of curly mesquite.  She displayed a frown
+and a contumelious lip, and endeavored to radiate an aura of
+disagreeableness and tragedy.
+
+"I hate railroads," she announced positively.  "And men.  Men pretend
+to run them.  Can you give any excuse why a trestle should burn?  Ida
+Bennet's hat is to be trimmed with violets.  I shall not go one step
+toward Cactus without a new hat.  If I were a man I would get one."
+
+Two men listened uneasily to this disparagement of their kind. One
+was Wells Pearson, foreman of the Mucho Calor cattle ranch.  The
+other was Thompson Burrows, the prosperous sheepman from the Quintana
+Valley.  Both thought Tonia Weaver adorable, especially when she
+railed at railroads and menaced men.  Either would have given up his
+epidermis to make for her an Easter hat more cheerfully than the
+ostrich gives up his tip or the aigrette lays down its life.  Neither
+possessed the ingenuity to conceive a means of supplying the sad
+deficiency against the coming Sabbath.  Pearson's deep brown face and
+sunburned light hair gave him the appearance of a schoolboy seized by
+one of youth's profound and insolvable melancholies.  Tonia's plight
+grieved him through and through.  Thompson Burrows was the more
+skilled and pliable.  He hailed from somewhere in the East originally;
+and he wore neckties and shoes, and was made dumb by woman's presence.
+
+"The big water-hole on Sandy Creek," said Pearson, scarcely hoping to
+make a hit, "was filled up by that last rain."
+
+"Oh!  Was it?" said Tonia sharply.  "Thank you for the information.
+I suppose a new hat is nothing to you, Mr. Pearson.  I suppose you
+think a woman ought to wear an old Stetson five years without a
+change, as you do.  If your old water-hole could have put out the
+fire on that trestle you might have some reason to talk about it."
+
+"I am deeply sorry," said Burrows, warned by Pearson's fate, "that
+you failed to receive your hat, Miss Weaver--deeply sorry, indeed.
+If there was anything I could do--"
+
+"Don't bother," interrupted Tonia, with sweet sarcasm.  "If there was
+anything you could do, you'd be doing it, of course.  There isn't."
+
+Tonia paused.  A sudden sparkle of hope had come into her eye.  Her
+frown smoothed away.  She had an inspiration.
+
+"There's a store over at Lone Elm Crossing on the Nueces," she said,
+"that keeps hats.  Eva Rogers got hers there.  She said it was the
+latest style.  It might have some left.  But it's twenty-eight miles
+to Lone Elm."
+
+The spurs of two men who hastily arose jingled; and Tonia almost
+smiled.  The Knights, then, were not all turned to dust; nor were
+their rowels rust.
+
+"Of course," said Tonia, looking thoughtfully at a white gulf cloud
+sailing across the cerulean dome, "nobody could ride to Lone Elm and
+back by the time the girls call by for me to-morrow.  So, I reckon
+I'll have to stay at home this Easter Sunday."
+
+And then she smiled.
+
+"Well, Miss Tonia," said Pearson, reaching for his hat, as guileful
+as a sleeping babe.  "I reckon I'll be trotting along back to Mucho
+Calor.  There's some cutting out to be done on Dry Branch first thing
+in the morning; and me and Road Runner has got to be on hand.  It's
+too bad your hat got sidetracked.  Maybe they'll get that trestle
+mended yet in time for Easter."
+
+"I must be riding, too, Miss Tonia," announced Burrows, looking at
+his watch.  "I declare, it's nearly five o'clock!  I must be out at
+my lambing camp in time to help pen those crazy ewes."
+
+Tonia's suitors seemed to have been smitten with a need for haste.
+They bade her a ceremonious farewell, and then shook each other's
+hands with the elaborate and solemn courtesy of the Southwesterner.
+
+"Hope I'll see you again soon, Mr. Pearson," said Burrows.
+
+"Same here," said the cowman, with the serious face of one whose
+friend goes upon a whaling voyage.  "Be gratified to see you ride
+over to Mucho Calor any time you strike that section of the range."
+
+Pearson mounted Road Runner, the soundest cow-pony on the Frio, and
+let him pitch for a minute, as he always did on being mounted, even
+at the end of a day's travel.
+
+"What kind of a hat was that, Miss Tonia," he called, "that you
+ordered from San Antone?  I can't help but be sorry about that hat."
+
+"A straw," said Tonia; "the latest shape, of course; trimmed with red
+roses.  That's what I like--red roses."
+
+"There's no color more becoming to your complexion and hair," said
+Burrows, admiringly.
+
+"It's what I like," said Tonia.  "And of all the flowers, give me red
+roses.  Keep all the pinks and blues for yourself.  But what's the
+use, when trestles burn and leave you without anything?  It'll be a
+dry old Easter for me!"
+
+Pearson took off his hat and drove Road Bunner at a gallop into the
+chaparral east of the Espinosa ranch house.
+
+As his stirrups rattled against the brush Burrows's long-legged
+sorrel struck out down the narrow stretch of open prairie to the
+southwest.
+
+Tonia hung up her quirt and went into the sitting-room.
+
+"I'm mighty sorry, daughter, that you didn't get your hat," said her
+mother.
+
+"Oh, don't worry, mother," said Tonia, coolly.  "I'll have a new hat,
+all right, in time to-morrow."
+
+
+When Burrows reached the end of the strip of prairie he pulled his
+sorrel to the right and let him pick his way daintily across a
+sacuista flat through which ran the ragged, dry bed of an arroyo.
+Then up a gravelly hill, matted with bush, the hoarse scrambled, and
+at length emerged, with a snort of satisfaction into a stretch of
+high, level prairie, grassy and dotted with the lighter green of
+mesquites in their fresh spring foliage.  Always to the right Burrows
+bore, until in a little while he struck the old Indian trail that
+followed the Nueces southward, and that passed, twenty-eight miles
+to the southeast, through Lone Elm.
+
+Here Burrows urged the sorrel into a steady lope.  As he settled
+himself in the saddle for a long ride he heard the drumming of hoofs,
+the hollow "thwack" of chaparral against wooden stirrups, the whoop
+of a  Comanche; and Wells Pearson burst out of the brush at the right
+of the trail like a precocious yellow chick from a dark green Easter
+egg.
+
+Except in the presence of awing femininity melancholy found no place
+in Pearson's bosom.  In Tonia's presence his voice was as soft as a
+summer bullfrog's in his reedy nest.  Now, at his gleesome yawp,
+rabbits, a mile away, ducked their ears, and sensitive plants closed
+their fearful fronds.
+
+"Moved your lambing camp pretty far from the ranch, haven't you,
+neighbor?" asked Pearson, as Road Runner fell in at the sorrel's
+side.
+
+"Twenty-eight miles," said Burrows, looking a little grim.  Pearson's
+laugh woke an owl one hour too early in his water-elm on the river
+bank, half a mile away.
+
+"All right for you, sheepman.  I like an open game, myself.  We're
+two locoed he-milliners hat-hunting in the wilderness.  I notify you.
+Burr, to mind your corrals.  We've got an even start, and the one
+that gets the headgear will stand some higher at the Espinosa."
+
+"You've got a good pony," said Burrows, eyeing Road Runner's barrel-
+like body and tapering legs that moved as regularly as the pistonrod
+of an engine.  "It's a race, of course; but you're too much of a
+horseman to whoop it up this soon.  Say we travel together till we
+get to the home stretch."
+
+"I'm your company," agreed Pearson, "and I admire your sense.  If
+there's hats at Lone Elm, one of 'em shall set on Miss Tonia's brow
+to-morrow, and you won't be at the crowning.  I ain't bragging, Burr,
+but that sorrel of yours is weak in the fore-legs."
+
+"My horse against yours," offered Burrows, "that Miss Tonia wears
+the hat I take her to Cactus to-morrow."
+
+"I'll take you up," shouted Pearson.  "But oh, it's just like horse-
+stealing for me!  I can use that sorrel for a lady's animal when--
+when somebody comes over to Mucho Calor, and--"
+
+Burrows' dark face glowered so suddenly that the cowman broke off his
+sentence.  But Pearson could never feel any pressure for long.
+
+"What's all this Easter business about, Burr?" he asked, cheerfully.
+"Why do the women folks have to have new hats by the almanac or bust
+all cinches trying to get 'em?"
+
+"It's a seasonable statute out of the testaments," explained Burrows.
+"It's ordered by the Pope or somebody.  And it has something to do
+with the Zodiac I don't know exactly, but I think it was invented by
+the Egyptians."
+
+"It's an all-right jubilee if the heathens did put their brand on
+it," said Pearson; "or else Tonia wouldn't have anything to do with
+it.  And they pull it off at church, too.  Suppose there ain't but
+one hat in the Lone Elm store, Burr!"
+
+"Then," said Burrows, darkly, "the best man of us'll take it back to
+the Espinosa."
+
+"Oh, man!" cried Pearson, throwing his hat high and catching it
+again, "there's nothing like you come off the sheep ranges before.
+You talk good and collateral to the occasion.  And if there's more
+than one?"
+
+"Then," said Burrows, "we'll pick our choice and one of us'll get
+back first with his and the other won't."
+
+"There never was two souls," proclaimed Pearson to the stars, "that
+beat more like one heart than yourn and mine.  Me and you might be
+riding on a unicorn and thinking out of the same piece of mind."
+
+At a little past midnight the riders loped into Lone Elm. The half a
+hundred houses of the big village were dark.  On its only street the
+big wooden store stood barred and shuttered.
+
+In a few moments the horses were fastened and Pearson was pounding
+cheerfully on the door of old Sutton, the storekeeper.
+
+The barrel of a Winchester came through a cranny of a solid window
+shutter followed by a short inquiry.
+
+"Wells Pearson, of the Mucho Calor, and Burrows, of Green Valley,"
+was the response.  "We want to buy some goods in the store.  Sorry
+to wake you up but we must have 'em.  Come on out, Vncle Tommy, and
+get a move on you."
+
+Uncle Tommy was slow, but at length they got him behind his counter
+with a kerosene lamp lit, and told him of their dire need.
+
+"Easter hats?" said Uncle Tommy, sleepily.  "Why, yes, I believe I
+have got just a couple left.  I only ordered a dozen this spring.
+I'll show 'em to you."
+
+Now, Uncle Tommy Sutton was a merchant, half asleep or awake.  In
+dusty pasteboard boxes under the counter he had two left-over spring
+hats.  But, alas! for his commercial probity on that early Saturday
+morn--they were hats of two springs ago, and a woman's eye would
+have detected the fraud at half a glance.  But to the unintelligent
+gaze of the cowpuncher and the sheepman they seemed fresh from the
+mint of contemporaneous April.
+
+The hats were of a variety once known as "cart-wheels."  They were
+of stiff straw, colored red, and flat brimmed.  Both were exactly
+alike, and trimmed lavishly around their crowns with full blown,
+immaculate, artificial white roses.
+
+"That all you got, Uncle Tommy?" said Pearson.  "All right. Not much
+choice here, Burr.  Take your pick."
+
+"They're the latest styles" lied Uncle Tommy.  "You'd see 'em on
+Fifth Avenue, if you was in New York."
+
+Uncle Tommy wrapped and tied each hat in two yards of dark calico for
+a protection.  One Pearson tied carefully to his calfskin saddle-
+thongs; and the other became part of Road Runner's burden.  They
+shouted thanks and farewells to Uncle Tommy, and cantered back into
+the night on the home stretch.
+
+The horsemen jockeyed with all their skill.  They rode more slowly
+on their way back.  The few words they spoke were not unfriendly.
+Burrows had a Winchester under his left leg slung over his saddle
+horn.  Pearson had a six shooter belted around him.  Thus men rode
+in the Frio country.
+
+At half-past seven in the morning they rode to the top of a hill and
+saw the Espinosa Ranch, a white spot under a dark patch of live-oaks,
+five miles away.
+
+The sight roused Pearson from his drooping pose in the saddle.
+He knew what Road Runner could do.  The sorrel was lathered, and
+stumbling frequently; Road Runner was pegging away like a donkey
+engine.
+
+Pearson turned toward the sheepman and laughed.  "Good-bye, Burr," he
+cried, with a wave of his hand.  "It's a race now.  We're on the home
+stretch."
+
+He pressed Road Runner with his knees and leaned toward the Espinosa.
+Road Runner struck into a gallop, with tossing head and snorting
+nostrils, as if he were fresh from a month in pasture.
+
+Pearson rode twenty yards and heard the unmistakable sound of a
+Winchester lever throwing a cartridge into the barrel.  He dropped
+flat along his horse's back before the crack of the rifle reached
+his ears.
+
+It is possible that Burrows intended only to disable the horse--
+he was a good enough shot to do that without endangering his rider.
+But as Pearson stooped the ball went through his shoulder and then
+through Road Runner's neck.  The horse fell and the cowman pitched
+over his head into the hard road, and neither of them tried to move.
+
+Burrows rode on without stopping.
+
+In two hours Pearson opened his eyes and took inventory. He managed
+to get to his feet and staggered back to where Road Runner was
+lying.
+
+Road Runner was lying there, but he appeared to be comfortable.
+Pearson examined him and found that the bullet had "creased" him.
+He had been knocked out temporarily, but not seriously hurt.  But he
+was tired, and he lay there on Miss Tonia's hat and ate leaves from
+a mesquite branch that obligingly hung over the road.
+
+Pearson made the horse get up.  The Easter hat, loosed from the
+saddle-thongs, lay there in its calico wrappings, a shapeless thing
+from its sojourn beneath the solid carcass of Road Runner.  Then
+Pearson fainted and fell head long upon the poor hat again, crumpling
+it under his wounded shoulders.
+
+It is hard to kill a cowpuncher. In half an hour he revived--long
+enough for a woman to have fainted twice and tried ice-cream for a
+restorer. He got up carefully and found Road Runner who was busy
+with the near-by grass. He tied the unfortunate hat to the saddle
+again, and managed to get himself there, too, after many failures.
+
+At noon a gay and fluttering company waited in front of the Espinosa
+Ranch.  The Rogers girls were there in their new buckboard, and the
+Anchor-O outfit and the Green Valley folks--mostly women.  And each
+and every one wore her new Easter hat, even upon the lonely prairies,
+for they greatly desired to shine forth and do honor to the coming
+festival.
+
+At the gate stood Tonia. with undisguised tears upon her cheeks.
+In her hand she held Burrow's Lone Elm hat, and it was at its white
+roses, hated by her, that she wept.  For her friends were telling
+her, with the ecstatic joy of true friends, that cart-wheels could
+not be worn, being three seasons passed into oblivion.
+
+"Put on your old hat and come, Tonia," they urged.
+
+"For Easter Sunday?" she answered.  "I'll die first."  And wept
+again.
+
+The hats of the fortunate ones were curved and twisted into the style
+of spring's latest proclamation.
+
+A strange being rode out of the brush among them, and there sat his
+horse languidly.  He was stained and disfigured with the green of the
+grass and the limestone of rocky roads.
+
+"Hallo, Pearson," said Daddy Weaver.  "Look like you've been breaking
+a mustang.  What's that you've got tied to your saddle--a pig in a
+poke?"
+
+"Oh, come on, Tonia, if you're going," said Betty Rogers.  "We mustn't
+wait any longer.  We've saved a seat in the buckboard for you.  Never
+mind the hat.  That lovely muslin you've got on looks sweet enough
+with any old hat."
+
+Pearson was slowly untying the queer thing on his saddle.  Tonia
+looked at him with a sudden hope.  Pearson was a man who created
+hope.  He got the thing loose and handed it to her.  Her quick
+fingers tore at the strings.
+
+"Best I could do," said Pearson slowly.  "What Road Runner and me
+done to it will be about all it needs."
+
+"Oh, oh! it's just the right shape," shrieked Tonia.  "And red roses!
+Wait till I try it on!"
+
+She flew in to the glass, and out again, beaming, radiating,
+blossomed.
+
+"Oh, don't red become her?" chanted the girls in recitative.  "Hurry
+up, Tonia!"
+
+Tonia stopped for a moment by the side of Road Runner.
+
+"Thank you, thank you, Wells," she said, happily.  "It's just what
+I wanted.  Won't you come over to Cactus to-morrow and go to church
+with me?"
+
+"If I can," said Pearson.  He was looking curiously at her hat, and
+then he grinned weakly.
+
+Tonia flew into the buckboard like a bird.  The vehicles sped away
+for Cactus.
+
+"What have you been doing, Pearson?" asked Daddy Weaver.  "You ain't
+looking so well as common."
+
+"Me?" said Pearson.  "I've been painting flowers.  Them roses was
+white when I left Lone Elm.  Help me down, Daddy Weaver, for I
+haven't got any more paint to spare."
+
+
+
+
+
+ROUND THE CIRCLE
+
+[This story is especially interesting as an early treatment (1902)
+of the theme afterward developed with a surer hand in The Pendulum.]
+
+
+"Find yo' shirt all right, Sam?" asked Mrs. Webber, from her chair
+under the live-oak, where she was comfortably seated with a paper-
+back volume for company.
+
+"It balances perfeckly, Marthy," answered Sam, with a suspicious
+pleasantness in his tone.  "At first I was about ter be a little
+reckless and kick 'cause ther buttons was all off, but since I
+diskiver that the button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn't
+go so fur as to say the buttons is any loss to speak of."
+
+"Oh, well," said his wife, carelessly, "put on your necktie--that'll
+keep it together."
+
+Sam Webber's sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the
+country between the Nueces and the Frio.  The ranch house--a two-room
+box structure--was on the rise of a gently swelling hill in the midst
+of a wilderness of high chaparral.  In front of it was a small
+clearing where stood the sheep pens, shearing shed, and wool house.
+Only a few feet back of it began the thorny jungle.
+
+Sam was going to ride over to the Chapman ranch to see about buying
+some more improved merino rams.  At length he came out, ready for his
+ride.  This being a business trip of some importance, and the Chapman
+ranch being almost a small town in population and size, Sam had
+decided to "dress up" accordingly.  The result was that he had
+transformed himself from a graceful, picturesque frontiersman into
+something much less pleasing to the sight.  The tight white collar
+awkwardly constricted his muscular, mahogany-colored neck.  The
+buttonless shirt bulged in stiff waves beneath his unbuttoned vest.
+The suit of "ready-made" effectually concealed the fine lines of
+his straight, athletic figure.  His berry-brown face was set to the
+melancholy dignity befitting a prisoner of state.  He gave Randy,
+his three-year-old son, a pat on the head, and hurried out to where
+Mexico, his favorite saddle horse, was standing.
+
+Marthy, leisurely rocking in her chair, fixed her place in the book
+with her finger, and turned her head, smiling mischievously as she
+noted the havoc Sam had wrought with his appearance in trying to
+"fix up."
+
+~Well, ef I must say it, Sam," she drawled, "you look jest like one
+of them hayseeds in the picture papers, 'stead of a free and
+independent sheepman of the State o' Texas."
+
+Sam climbed awkwardly into the saddle.
+
+"You're the one ought to be 'shamed to say so," he replied hotly.
+"'Stead of 'tendin' to a man's clothes you're al'ays setting around
+a-readin' them billy-by-dam yaller-back novils."
+
+"Oh, shet up and ride along," said Mrs. Webber, with a little jerk at
+the handles of her chair; "you always fussin' 'bout my readin'.  I do
+a-plenty; and I'll read when I wanter.  I live in the bresh here like
+a varmint, never seein' nor hearin' nothin', and what other 'musement
+kin I have?  Not in listenin' to you talk, for it's complain,
+complain, one day after another.  Oh, go on, Sam, and leave me in
+peace."
+
+Sam gave his pony a squeeze with his knees and "shoved" down the
+wagon trail that connected his ranch with the old, open Government
+road.  It was eight o'clock, and already beginning to be very warm.
+He should have started three hours earlier.  Chapman ranch was only
+eighteen miles away, but there was a road for only three miles of the
+distance.  He had ridden over there once with one of the Half-Moon
+cowpunchers, and he had the direction well-defined in his mind.
+
+Sam turned off the old Government road at the split mesquite, and
+struck down the arroyo of the Quintanilla.  Here was a narrow stretch
+of smiling valley, upholstered with a rich mat of green, curly
+mesquite grass; and Mexico consumed those few miles quickly with his
+long, easy lope.  Again, upon reaching Wild Duck Waterhole, must he
+abandon well-defined ways.  He turned now to his right up a little
+hill, pebble-covered, upon which grew only the tenacious and thorny
+prickly pear and chaparral.  At the summit of this he paused to take
+his last general view of the landscape for, from now on, he must wind
+through brakes and thickets of chaparral, pear, and mesquite, for the
+most part seeing scarcely farther than twenty yards in any direction,
+choosing his way by the prairie-dweller's instinct, guided only by an
+occasional glimpse of a far distant hilltop, a peculiarly shaped knot
+of trees, or the position of the sun.
+
+Sam rode down the sloping hill and plunged into the great pear flat
+that lies between the Quintanilla and the Piedra.
+
+In about two hours he discovered that he was lost.  Then came the
+usual confusion of mind and the hurry to get somewhere.  Mexico was
+anxious to redeem the situation, twisting with alacrity along the
+tortuous labyrinths of the jungle.  At the moment his master's
+sureness of the route had failed his horse had divined the fact.
+There were no hills now that they could climb to obtain a view of
+the country.  They came upon a few, but so dense and interlaced was
+the brush that scarcely could a rabbit penetrate the mass.  They
+were in the great, lonely thicket of the Frio bottoms.
+
+It was a mere nothing for a cattleman or a sheepman to be lost for a
+day or a night.  The thing often happened.  It was merely a matter
+of missing a meal or two and sleeping comfortably on your saddle
+blankets on a soft mattress of mesquite grass.  But in Sam's case
+it was different.  He had never been away from his ranch at night.
+Marthy was afraid of the country--afraid of Mexicans, of snakes, of
+panthers, even of sheep.  So he had never left her alone.
+
+It must have been about four in the afternoon when Sam's conscience
+awoke.  He was limp and drenched, rather from anxiety than the heat
+or fatigue.  Until now he had been hoping to strike the trail that
+led to the Frio crossing and the Chapman ranch.  He must have
+crossed it at some dim part of it and ridden beyond.  If so he was
+now something like fifty miles from home.  If he could strike a
+ranch-- a camp--any place where he could get a fresh horse and
+inquire the road, he would ride all night to get back to Marthy and
+the kid.  
+
+So, I have hinted, Sam was seized bv remorse.  There was a big lump
+in his throat as he thought of the cross words he had spoken to his
+wife.  Surely it was hard enough for her to live in that horrible
+country witnout having to bear the burden of his abuse.  He cursed
+himself grimly, and felt a sudden flush of shame that over-glowed the
+summer heat as he remembered the many times he had flouted and railed
+at her because she had a liking for reading fiction.
+
+"Ther only so'ce ov amusement ther po' gal's got," said Sam aloud,
+with a sob, which unaccustomed sound caused Mexico to shy a bit.
+A-livin with a sore-headed kiote like me--a low-down skunk that ought
+to be licked to death with a saddle cinch--a-cookin' and a-washin'
+and a-livin' on mutton and beans and me abusin' her fur takin' a
+squint or two in a little book!"
+
+He thought of Marthy as she had been when he first met her in
+Dogtown--smart, pretty, and saucy--before the sun had turned the
+roses in her cheeks brown and the silence of the chaparral had
+tamed her ambitions.
+
+"Ef I ever speaks another hard word to ther little gal," muttered
+Sam, "or fails in the love and affection that's coming to her in
+the deal, I hopes a wildcat'll t'ar me to pieces."                                                                 
+
+He knew what he would do.  He would write to Garcia & Jones, his San
+Antonio merchants where he bought his supplies and sold his wool, and
+have them send down a big box of novels and reading matter for Marthy.
+Things were going to be different.  He wondered whether a little
+piano could be placed in one of the rooms of the ranch house without
+the family having to move out of doors.
+
+In nowise calculated to allay his self-reproach was the thought that
+Marthy and Randy would have to pass the night alone.  In spite of
+their bickerings, when night came Marthy was wont to dismiss her fears
+of the country, and rest her head upon Sam's strong arm with a sigh
+of peaceful content and dependence.  And were her fears so groundless?
+Sam thought of roving, marauding Mexicans, of stealthy cougars that
+sometimes invaded the ranches, of rattlesnakes, centipedes, and a
+dozen possible dangers.  Marthy would be frantic with fear.  Randy
+would cry, and call for dada to come.
+
+Still the interminable succession of stretches of brush, cactus, and
+mesquite.  Hollow after hollow, slope after slope--all exactly alike
+--all familiar by constant repetition, and yet all strange and new.
+If he could only arrive ~somewhere.~
+
+The straight line is Art.  Nature moves in circles.  A
+straightforward man is more an artificial product than a diplomatist
+is.  Men lost in the snow travel in exact circles until they sink,
+exhausted, as their footprints have attested.  Also, travellers in
+philosophy and other mental processes frequently wind up at their
+starting-point.
+
+It was when Sam Webber was fullest of contrition and good resolves
+that Mexico, with a heavy sigh, subsided from his regular, brisk trot
+into a slow complacent walk.  They were winding up an easy slope
+covered with brush ten or twelve feet high.
+
+"I say now, Mex," demurred Sam, "this here won't do.  I know you're
+plumb tired out, but we got ter git along.  Oh, Lordy, ain't there
+no mo' houses in the world!"  He gave Mexico a smart kick with his
+heels.
+
+Mexico gave a protesting grunt as if to say:  "What's the use of
+that, now we're so near?"  He quickened his gait into a languid trot.
+Rounding a great clump of black chaparral he stopped short.  Sam
+dropped the bridle reins and sat, looking into the back door of his
+own house, not ten yards away.
+
+Marthy, serene and comfortable, sat in her rocking-chair before the
+door in the shade of the house, with her feet resting luxuriously
+upon the steps.  Randy, who was playing with a pair of spurs on the
+ground, looked up for a moment at his father and went on spinning the
+rowels and singing a little song.  Marthy turned her head lazily
+against the back of the chair and considered the arrivals with
+emotionless eyes.  She held a book in her lap with her finger holding
+the place.
+
+Sam shook himself queerly, like a man coming out of a dream, and
+slowly dismounted.  He moistened his dry lips.
+
+"I see you are still a-settin'," he said, "a-readin' of them billy-
+by-dam yaller-back novils."
+
+Sam had traveled round the circle and was himself again.
+
+
+
+
+
+THE RUBBER PLANT'S STORY
+
+We rubber plants form the connecting link between the vegetable
+kingdom and the decorations of a Waldorf-Astoria scene in a Third
+Avenue theatre.  I haven't looked up our family tree, but I believe
+we were raised by grafting a gum overshoe on to a 30-cent table
+d'hote stalk of asparagus.  You take a white bulldog with a Bourke
+Cockran air of independence about him and a rubber plant and there
+you have the fauna and flora of a flat.  What the shamrock is to
+Ireland the rubber plant is to the dweller in flats and furnished
+rooms.  We get moved from one place to another so quickly that the
+only way we can get our picture taken is with a kinetoscope.  We are
+the vagrant vine and the flitting fig tree.  You know the proverb:
+"Where the rubber plant sits in the window the moving van draws up
+to the door."
+
+We are the city equivalent to the woodbine and the honeysuckle.  No
+other vegetable except the Pittsburg stogie can withstand as much
+handling as we can.  When the family to which we belong moves into
+a flat they set us in the front window and we become lares and
+penates, fly-paper and the peripatetic emblem of "Home Sweet Home."
+We aren't as green as we look.  I guess we are about what you would
+call the soubrettes of the conservatory.  You try sitting in the
+front window of a $40 flat in Manhattan and looking out into the
+street all day, and back into the flat at night, and see whether you
+get wise or not--hey?  Talk about the tree of knowledge of good and
+evil in the garden of Eden--say! suppose there had been a rubber
+plant there when Eve--but I was going to tell you a story.
+
+The first thing I can remember I had only three leaves and belonged
+to a member of the pony ballet.  I was kept in a sunny window, and
+was generally watered with seltzer and lemon.  I had plenty of fun
+in those days.  I got cross-eyed trying to watch the numbers of the
+automobiles in the street and the dates on the labels inside at the
+same time.
+
+Well, then the angel that was molting for the musical comedy lost his
+last feather and the company broke up.  The ponies trotted away and I
+was left in the window ownerless.  The janitor gave me to a refined
+comedy team on the eighth floor, and in six weeks I had been set in
+the window of five different flats I took on experience and put out
+two more leaves.
+
+Miss Carruthers, of the refined comedy team--did you ever see her
+cross both feet back of her neck?--gave me to a friend of hers who
+had made an unfortunate marriage with a man in a store.  Consequently
+I was placed in the window of a furnished room, rent in advance,
+water two flights up, gas extra after ten o'clock at night.  Two of
+my leaves withered off here.  Also, I was moved from one room to
+another so many times that I got to liking the odor of the pipes the
+expressmen smoked.
+
+I don't think I ever had so dull a time as I did with this lady.
+There was never anything amusing going on inside--she was devoted
+to her husband, and, besides leaning out the window and flirting with
+the iceman, she never did a thing toward breaking the monotony.
+
+When the couple broke up they left me with the rest of their goods at
+a second-hand store.  I was put out in front for sale along with the
+jobbiest lot you ever heard of being lumped into one bargain.  Think
+of this little cornucopia of wonders, all for $1.89:  Henry James's
+works, six talking machine records, one pair of tennis shoes, two
+bottles of horse radish, and a rubber plant--that was me!
+
+One afternoon a girl came along and stopped to look at me.  She had
+dark hair and eyes, and she looked slim, and sad around the mouth.
+
+"Oh, oh!" she says to herself.  "I never thought to see one up here."
+
+She pulls out a little purse about as thick as one of my leaves and
+fingers over some small silver in it.  Old Koen, always on the
+lockout, is ready, rubbing his hands.  This girl proceeds to turn
+down Mr. James and the other commodities.  Rubber plants or nothing
+is the burden of her song.  And at last Koen and she come together at
+39 cents, and away she goes with me in her arms.
+
+She was a nice girl, but not my style.  Too quiet and sober looking.
+Thinks I to myself:  "I'll just about land on the fire-escape of a
+tenement, six stories up.  And I'll spend the next six months looking
+at clothes on the line."
+
+But she carried me to a nice little room only three flights up in
+quite a decent street.  And she put me in the window, of course.  And
+then she went to work and cooked dinner for herself.  And what do you
+suppose she had?  Bread and tea and a little dab of jam!  Nothing
+else.  Not a single lobster, nor so much as one bottle of champagne.
+The Carruthers comedy team had both every evening, except now and
+then when they took a notion for pig's knuckle and kraut.
+
+After she had finished her dinner my new owner came to the window
+and leaned down close to my leaves and cried softly to herself for a
+while.  It made me feel funny.  I never knew anybody to cry that way
+over a rubber plant before.  Of course, I've seen a few of 'em turn
+on the tears for what they could get out of it, but she seemed to be
+crying just for the pure enjoyment of it.  She touched my leaves like
+she loved 'em, and she bent down her head and kissed each one of 'em.
+I guess I'm about the toughest specimen of a peripatetic orchid on
+earth, but I tell you it made me feel sort of queer.  Home never was
+like that to me before.  Generally I used to get chewed by poodles
+and have shirt-waists hung on me to dry, and get watered with coffee
+grounds and peroxide of hydrogen.
+
+This girl had a piano in the room, and she used to disturb it with
+both hands while she made noises with her mouth for hours at a time.
+I suppose she was practising vocal music.
+
+One day she seemed very much excited and kept looking at the clock.
+At eleven somebody knocked and she let in a stout, dark man with
+towsled black hair.  He sat down at once at the piano and played
+while she sang for him.  When she finished she laid one hand on her
+bosom and looked at him.  He shook his head, and she leaned against
+the piano.  "Two years already," she said, speaking slowly--"do you
+think in two more--or even longer?"
+
+The man shook his head again.  "You waste your time," he said,
+roughly I thought.  "The voice is not there."  And then he looked at
+her in a peculiar way.  "But the voice is not everything," he went
+on.  "You have looks.  I can place you, as I told you if--"
+
+The girl pointed to the door without saying anything, and the dark
+man left the room.  And then she came over and cried around me again.
+It's a good thing I had enough rubber in me to be water-proof.
+
+About that time somebody else knocked at the door.  "Thank goodness,"
+I said to myself.  "Here's a chance to get the water-works turned
+off.  I hope it's somebody that's game enough to stand a bird and a
+bottle to liven things up a little."  Tell you the truth, this little
+girl made me tired.  A rubber plant likes to see a little sport now
+and then.  I don't suppose there's another green thing in New York
+that sees as much of gay life unless it's the chartreuse or the
+sprigs of parsley around the dish.
+
+When the girl opens the door in steps a young chap in a traveling cap
+and picks her up in his arms, and she sings out "Oh, Dick!" and stays
+there long enough to--well, you've been a rubber plant too,
+sometimes, I suppose.
+
+"Good thing!" says I to myself.  "This is livelier than scales and
+weeping.  Now there'll be something doing."
+
+"You've got to go back with me," says the young man.  "I've come two
+thousand miles for you.  Aren't you tired of it yet. Bess?  You've
+kept all of us waiting so long.  Haven't you found out yet what is
+best?"
+
+"The bubble burst only to-day," says the girl.  "Come here, Dick, and
+see what I found the other day on the sidewalk for sale."  She brings
+him by the hand and exhibits yours truly.  "How one ever got away up
+here who can tell?  I bought it with almost the last money I had."
+
+He looked at me, but he couldn't keep his eyes off her for more than
+a second.  "Do you remember the night, Bess," he said, "when we stood
+under one of those on the bank of the bayou and what you told me
+then?"
+
+"Geewillikins!" I said to myself.  "Both of them stand under a rubber
+plant!  Seems to me they are stretching matters somewhat!"
+
+"Do I not," says she, looking up at him and sneaking close to his
+vest, "and now I say it again, and it is to last forever.  Look,
+Dick, at its leaves, how wet they are.  Those are my tears, and it
+was thinking of you that made them fall."
+
+"The dear old magnolias!" says the young man, pinching one of my
+leaves.  "I love them all."
+
+Magnolia!  Well, wouldn't that--say! those innocents thought I was a
+magnolia!  What the--well, wasn't that tough on a genuine little old
+New York rubber plant?
+
+
+
+
+
+OUT OF NAZARETH
+
+Okochee, in Georgia, had a boom, and J. Pinkney Bloom came out of
+it with a "wad."  Okochee came out of it with a half-million-dollar
+debt, a two and a half per cent. city property tax, and a city
+council that showed a propensity for traveling the back streets of
+the town.  These things came about through a fatal resemblance of the
+river Cooloosa to the Hudson, as set forth and expounded by a Northern
+tourist.  Okochee felt that New York should not be allowed to consider
+itself the only alligator in the swamp, so to speak.  And then that
+harmless, but persistent, individual so numerous in the South--the man
+who is always clamoring for more cotton mills, and is ready to take a
+dollar's worth of stock, provided he can borrow the dollar--that man
+added his deadly work to the tourist's innocent praise, and Okochee
+fell.
+
+The Cooloosa River winds through a range of small mountains, passes
+Okochee and then blends its waters trippingly, as fall the mellifluous
+Indian syllables, with the Chattahoochee.
+
+Okochee rose, as it were, from its sunny seat on the post-office
+stoop, hitched up its suspender, and threw a granite dam two hundred
+and forty feet long and sixty feet high across the Cooloosa one mile
+above the town.  Thereupon, a dimpling, sparkling lake backed up
+twenty miles among the little mountains.  Thus in the great game of
+municipal rivalry did Okochee match that famous drawing card, the
+Hudson.  It was conceded that nowhere could the Palisades be judged
+superior in the way of scenery and grandeur.  Following the picture
+card was played the ace of commercial importance.  Fourteen thousand
+horsepower would this dam furnish.  Cotton mills, factories, and
+manufacturing plants would rise up as the green corn after a shower.
+The spindle and the flywheel and turbine would sing the shrewd glory
+of Okochee.  Along the picturesque heights above the lake would rise
+in beauty the costly villas and the splendid summer residences of
+capital.  The naphtha launch of the millionaire would spit among
+the romantic coves; the verdured hills would take formal shapes of
+terrace, lawn, and park.  Money would be spent like water in Okochee,
+and water would be turned into money.
+
+The fate of the good town is quickly told.  Capital decided not to
+invest.  Of all the great things promised, the scenery alone came to
+fulfilment.  The wooded peaks, the impressive promontories of solemn
+granite, the beautiful green slants of bank and ravine did all they
+could to reconcile Okochee to the delinquency of miserly gold.  The
+sunsets gilded the dreamy draws and coves with a minting that should
+charm away heart-burning.  Okochee, true to the instinct of its blood
+and clime, was lulled by the spell.  It climbed out of the arena,
+loosed its suspender, sat down again on the post-office stoop, and
+took a chew.  It consoled itself by drawling sarcasms at the city
+council which was not to blame, causing the fathers, as has been
+said, to seek back streets and figure perspiringly on the sinking
+fund and the appropriation for interest due.
+
+The youth of Okochee--they who were to carry into the rosy future the
+burden of the debt--accepted failure with youth's uncalculating joy.
+For, here was sport, aquatic and nautical, added to the meagre round
+of life's pleasures.  In yachting caps and flowing neckties they
+pervaded the lake to its limits.  Girls wore silk waists embroidered
+with anchors in blue and pink.  The trousers of the young men widened
+at the bottom, and their hands were proudly calloused by the oft-
+plied oar.  Fishermen were under the spell of a deep and tolerant
+Jjoy.
+Sailboats and rowboats furrowed the lenient waves, popcorn and ice-
+cream booths sprang up about the little wooden pier.  Two small
+excursion steamboats were built, and plied the delectable waters.
+Okochee philosophically gave up the hope of eating turtle soup with
+a gold spoon, and settled back, not ill content, to its regular diet
+of lotus and fried hominy.  And out of this slow wreck of great
+expectations rose up J. Pinkney Bloom with his "wad" and his
+prosperous, cheery smile.
+
+Needless to say J. Pinkney was no product of Georgia soil.  He came
+out of that flushed and capable region known as the "North."  He
+called himself a "promoter"; his enemies had spoken of him as a
+"grafter"; Okochee took a middle course, and held him to be no better
+nor no worse than a "Yank."
+
+Far up the lake--eighteen miles above the town--the eye of this
+cheerful camp-follower of booms had spied out a graft.  He purchased
+there a precipitous tract of five hundred acres at forty-five cents
+per acre; and this he laid out and subdivided as the city of Skyland
+--the Queen City of the Switzerland of the South.  Streets and avenues
+were surveyed; parks designed; corners of central squares reserved for
+the "proposed" opera house, board of trade, lyceum, market, public
+schools, and "Exposition Hall."  The price of lots ranged from five
+to five hundred dollars.  Positively, no lot would be priced higher
+than five hundred dollars.
+
+While the boom was growing in Okochee, J. Pinkney's circulars, maps,
+and prospectuses were flying through the mails to every part of the
+country.  Investors sent in their money by post, and the Skyland Real
+Estate Company (J. Pinkney Bloom) returned to each a deed, duly
+placed on record, to the best lot, at the price, on hand that day.
+All this time the catamount screeched upon the reserved lot of the
+Skyland Board of Trade, the opossum swung by his tail over the site
+of the exposition hall, and the owl hooted a melancholy recitative to
+his audience of young squirrels in opera house square.  Later, when
+the money was coming in fast, J. Pinkney caused to be erected in the
+coming city half a dozen cheap box houses, and persuaded a contingent
+of indigent natives to occupy them, thereby assuming the role of
+"poulation" in subsequent prospectuses, which became, accordingly,
+more seductive and remunerative.
+
+So, when the dream faded and Okochee dropped back to digging bait and
+nursing its two and a half per cent. tax, J. Pinkney Bloom (unloving
+of checks and drafts and the cold interrogatories of bankers) strapped
+about his fifty-two-inch waist a soft leather belt containing eight
+thousand dollars in big bills, and said that all was very good.
+
+One last trip he was making to Skyland before departing to other
+salad fields.  Skyland was a regular post-office, and the steamboat,
+~Dixie Belle~, under contract, delivered the mail bag (generally
+empty) twice a week.  There was a little business there to be settled
+--the postmaster was to be paid off for his light but lonely services,
+and the "inhabitants" had to be furnished with another month's homely
+rations, as per agreement.  And then Skyland would know J. Pinkney
+Bloom no more.  The owners of these precipitous, barren, useless lots
+might come and view the scene of their invested credulity, or they
+might leave them to their fit tenants, the wild hog and the browsing
+deer.  The work of the Skyland Real Estate Company was finished.
+
+The little steamboat ~Dixie Belle~ was about to shove off on her
+regular up-the-lake trip, when a rickety hired carriage rattled up
+to the pier, and a tall, elderly gentleman, in black, stepped out,
+signaling courteously but vivaciously for the boat to wait.  Time was
+of the least importance in the schedule of the ~Dixie Belle~; Captain
+MacFarland gave the order, and the boat received its ultimate two
+passengers.  For, upon the arm of the tall, elderly gentleman, as
+he crossed the gangway, was a little elderly lady, with a gray curl
+depending quaintly forward of her left ear.
+
+Captain MacFarland was at the wheel; therefore it seemed to J. Pinkney
+Bloom, who was the only other passenger, that it should be his to play
+the part of host to the boat's new guests, who were, doubtless, on
+a scenery-viewing expedition.  He stepped forward, with that
+translucent, child-candid smile upon his fresh, pink countenance,
+with that air of unaffected sincerity that was redeemed from bluffness
+only by its exquisite calculation, with that promptitude and masterly
+decision of manner that so well suited his calling--with all his stock
+in trade well to the front; he stepped forward to receive Colonel and
+Mrs. Peyton Blaylock.  With the grace of a grand marshal or a wedding
+usher, he escorted the two passengers to a side of the upper deck,
+from which the scenery was supposed to present itself to the observer
+in increased quantity and quality.  There, in comfortable steamer
+chairs, they sat and began to piece together the random lines that
+were to form an intelligent paragraph in the big history of little
+events.
+
+"Our home, sir," said Colonel Blaylock, removing his wide-brimmed,
+rather shapeless black felt hat, "is in Holly Springs--Holly Springs,
+Georgia.  I am very proud to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bloom.
+Mrs. Blaylock and myself have just arrived in Okochee this morning,
+sir, on business--business of importance in connection with the
+recent rapid march of progress in this section of our state."
+
+The Colonel smoothed back, with a sweeping gesture, his long, smooth,
+locks.  His dark eyes, still fiery under the heavy black brows,
+seemed inappropriate to the face of a business man.  He looked rather
+to be an old courtier handed down from the reign of Charles, and
+re-attired in a modern suit of fine, but raveling and seam-worn,
+broadcloth.
+
+"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bloom, in his heartiest prospectus voice,
+"things have been whizzing around Okochee.  Biggest industrial
+revival and waking up to natural resources Georgia ever had.  Did
+you happen to squeeze in on the ground floor in any of the gilt-
+edged grafts, Colonel?"
+
+"Well, sir," said the Colonel, hesitating in courteous doubt, "if I
+understand your question, I may say that I took the opportunity to
+make an investment that I believe will prove quite advantageous--yes,
+sir, I believe it will result in both pecuniary profit and agreeable
+occupation."
+
+"Colonel Blaylock," said the little edlerly lady, shaking her gray
+curl and smiling indulgent explanation at J. Pinkney Bloom, "is so
+devoted to businesss.  He has such a talent for financiering and
+markets and investments and those kind of things.  I think myself
+extremely fortunate in having secured him for a partner on life's
+journey--I am so unversed in those formidable but very useful
+branches of learning."
+
+Colonel Blaylock rose and made a bow--a bow that belonged with silk
+stockings and lace ruffles and velvet.
+
+"Practical affairs," he said, with a wave of his hand toward the
+promoter, "are, if I may use the comparison, the garden walks upon
+which we tread through life, viewing upon either side of us the
+flowers which brighten that journey.   It is my pleasure to be able
+to lay out a walk or two.  Mrs. Blaylock, sir, is one of those
+fortunate higher spirits whose mission it is to make the flowers grow.
+Perhaps, Mr. Bloom, you have perused the lines of Lorella, the
+Southern poetess.  That is the name above which Mrs. Blaylock has
+contributed to the press of the South for many years."
+
+"Unfortunately," said Mr. Bloom, with a sense of the loss clearly
+written upon his frank face, "I'm like the Colonel--in the walk-making
+business myself--and I haven't had time to even take a sniff at the
+flowers.  Poetry is a line I never dealt in.  It must be nice, though
+--quite nice."
+
+"It is the region," smiled Mrs. Blaylock, "in which my soul dwells.
+My shawl, Peyton, if you please--the breeze comes a little chilly
+from yon verdured hills."
+
+The Colonel drew from the tail pocket of his coat a small shawl of
+knitted silk and laid it solicitously about the shoulders of the lady.
+Mrs. Blaylock sighed contentedly, and turned her expressive eyes--
+still as clear and unworldly as a child's--upon the steep slopes that
+were slowly slipping past.  Very fair and stately they looked in the
+clear morning air.  They seemed to speak in familiar terms to the
+responsive spirit of Lorella.  "My native hills!" she murmured,
+dreamily.  "See how the foliage drinks the sunlight from the hollows
+and dells."
+
+"Mrs. Blaylock's maiden days," said the Colonel, interpreting her
+mood to J. Pinkney Bloom, "were spent among the mountains of northern
+Georgia.  Mountain air and mountain scenery recall to her those days.
+Holly Springs, where we have lived for twenty years, is low and flat.
+I fear that she may have suffered in health and spirits by so long a
+residence there.  That is one portent reason for the change we are
+making.  My dear, can you not recall those lines you wrote--entitled,
+I think, 'The Georgia Hills'--the poem that was so extensively copied
+by the Southern press and praised so highly by the Atlanta critics?"
+
+Mrs. Blaylock turned a glance of speaking tenderness upon the
+Colonel, fingered for a moment the silvery curl that drooped upon her
+bosom, then looked again toward the mountains.  Without preliminary
+or affectation or demurral she began, in rather thrilling and more
+deeply pitched tones to recite these lines:
+
+  "The Georgia hills, the Georgia hills!--
+    Oh, heart, why dost thou pine?
+  Are not these sheltered lowlands fair
+    With mead and bloom and vine?
+  Ah! as the slow-paced river here
+    Broods on its natal rills
+  My spirit drifts, in longing sweet,
+    Back to the Georgia hills.
+
+  "And through the close-drawn, curtained night
+    I steal on sleep's slow wings
+  Back to my heart's ease--slopes of pine--
+    Where end my wanderings.
+  Oh, heaven seems nearer from their tops--
+    And farther earthly ills--
+  Even in dreams, if I may but
+    Dream of my Georgia hills.
+
+  The grass upon their orchard sides
+    Is a fine couch to me;
+  The common note of each small bird
+    Passes all minstrelsy.
+  It would not seem so dread a thing
+    If, when the Reaper wills,
+  He might come there and take my hand
+    Up in the Georgia hills."
+
+Thats great stuff, ma'am," said J. Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically,
+when the poetess had concluded.  "I wish I had looked up poetry more
+than I have.  I was raised in the pine hills myself."
+
+"The mountains ever call to their children," murmured Mrs. Blaylock.
+"I feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in among
+these beautiful hills.  Peyton--a little taste of the currant wine,
+if you will be so good.  The journey, though delightful in the
+extreme, slightly fatigues me."  Colonel Blaylock again visited the
+depths of his prolific coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough,
+black bottle.  Mr. Bloom was on his feet in an instant.
+
+"Let me bring a glass, ma'am.  You come along, Colonel--there's a
+little table we can bring, too.  Maybe we can scare up some fruit or
+a cup of tea on board.  I'll ask Mac."
+
+Mrs. Blaylock reclined at ease.  Few royal ladies have held their
+royal prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman.
+The Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of
+his courtship, and J. Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half
+professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed, long-
+forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court.  The
+currant wine--wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit--went round,
+and then J. Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.
+
+It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs
+was decadent.  A third of the population had moved away.  Business--
+and the Colonel was an authority on business--had dwindled to nothing.
+After carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital
+he had sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and
+invested it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in
+Okochee.
+
+"Might I inquire, sir," said Mr. Bloom, "in what particular line of
+business you inserted your coin?  I know that town as well as I know
+the regulations for illegal use of the mails.  I might give you a
+hunch as to whether you can make the game go or not."
+
+J. Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated
+representatives of by-gone days.  They were so simple, impractical,
+and unsuspecting.  He was glad that he happened not to have a gold
+brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with
+him.  He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as
+he did these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be
+resisted.
+
+"No, sir," said Colonel Blaylock. pausing to arrange the queen's wrap.
+"I did not invest in Okochee.  I have made an exhaustive study of
+business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable
+fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount.  Some
+months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my
+hands a map and description of this new town of Skyland that has
+been built upon the lake.  The description was so pleasing, the
+future of the town set forth in such convincing arguments, and its
+increasing prosperity portrayed in such an attractive style that
+I decided to take advantage of the opportunity it offered.  I
+carefully selected a lot in the centre of the business district,
+although its price was the highest in the schedule--five hundred
+dollars--and made the purchase at once."
+
+"Are you the man--I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a
+lot in Skyland" asked J. Pinkney Bloom.
+
+"I did, sir," answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest
+millionaire explaining his success; "a lot most excellently situated
+on the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from
+the board of trade.  I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one.
+It is my intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and
+open a modest book and stationery store.  During past years I have
+met with many pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to
+engage in some commercial occupation that will furnish me with a
+livelihood.  The book and stationery business, though an humble one,
+seems to me not inapt nor altogether uncongenial.  I am a graduate
+of the University of Virginia; and Mrs. Blaylock's really wonderful
+acquaintance with belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far
+toward insuring success.  Of course, Mrs. Blaylock would not
+personally serve behind the counter.  With the nearly three hundred
+dollars I have remaining I can manage the building of a house, by
+giving a lien on the lot.  I have an old friend in Atlanta who is a
+partner in a large book store, and he has agreed to furnish me with
+a stock of goods on credit, on extremely easy terms.  I am pleased
+to hope, sir, that Mrs. Blaylock's health and happiness will be
+increased by the change of locality.  Already I fancy I can perceive
+the return of those roses that were once the hope and despair of
+Georgia cavaliers."
+
+Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the
+pale cheek of the poetess.  Mrs. Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook
+her curl and gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap.  Secret of
+eternal youth--where art thou?  Every second the answer comes--"Here,
+here, here."  Listen to thine own heartbeats, 0 weary seeker after
+external miracles.
+
+"Those years," said Mrs. Blaylock, "in Holly Springs were long, long,
+long.  But now is the promised land in sight.  Skyland!--a lovely
+name."
+
+"Doubtless," said the Colonel, "we shall be able to secure comfortable
+accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates.  Our trunks
+are in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent
+arrangements."
+
+J. Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the
+captain at the wheel.
+
+"Mac," said he, "do you remember my telling you once that I sold one
+of those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?"
+
+"Seems I do," grinned Captain MacFarland.
+
+"I'm not a coward, as a general rule," went on the promoter, "but
+I always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot
+I'd run like a turkey.  Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over
+there?  Well, he's the boy that drew the prize.  That was the only
+five-hundred-dollar lot that went.  The rest ranged from ten dollars
+to two hundred.  His wife writes poetry.  She's invented one about
+the high grounds of Georgia, that's way up in G.  They're going to
+Skyland to open a book store."
+
+"Well," said MacFarland, with another grin, "it's a good thing you
+are along, J. P.; you can show 'em around town until they begin to
+feel at home." 
+
+"He's got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store
+with," went on J. Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself.  "And
+he thinks there's an open house up there."
+
+Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg
+a roguish slap.
+
+"You old fat rascal!" he chuckled, with a wink.
+
+"Mac, you're a fool," said J. Pinkney Bloom, coldly.  He went back
+and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that
+straight furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of
+schemes being shaped within.
+
+"There's a good many swindles connected with these booms," he said
+presently.  "What if this Skyland should turn out to be one--that is,
+suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no special sale
+for books?"
+
+"My dear sir," said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the back
+of his wife's chair, "three times I have been reduced to almost penury
+by the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in humanity.
+If I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content,
+if not worldly profit.  I am aware that there are dishonest schemers
+in the world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not
+altogether bad.  My dear, can you recall those verses entitled 'He
+Giveth the Increase,' that you composed for the choir of our church
+in Holly Springs?"
+
+"That was four years ago," said Mrs. Blaylock; "perhans I can repeat
+a verse or two.
+
+  "The lily springs from the rotting mould;
+    Pearls from the deep sea slime;
+  Good will come out of Nazareth
+    All in God's own time.
+
+  "To the hardest heart the softening grace
+    Cometh, at last, to bless;
+  Guiding it right to help and cheer
+    And succor in distress.
+
+"I cannot remember the rest.  The lines were not ambitious.  They
+were written to the music composed by a dear friend."
+
+"It's a fine rhyme, just the same," declared Mr. Bloom.  "It seems
+to ring the bell, all right.  I guess I gather the sense of it.  It
+means that the rankest kind of a phony will give you the best end
+of it once in a while."
+
+Mr. Bloom strayed thoughtfully back to the captain, and stood
+meditating.
+
+"Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now
+in a few minutes," chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.
+
+"Go to the devil," said Mr. Bloom, still pensive.
+
+And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village,
+high up on the hills, smothered among green trees.  That was Cold
+Branch--no boom town, but the slow growth of many years.  Cold Branch
+lay on the edge of the grape and corn lands.  The big country road ran
+just back of the heights.  Cold Branch had nothing in common with the
+frisky ambition of Okochee with its impertinent lake.
+
+"Mac," said J. Pinkney suddenly, "I want you to stop at Cold Branch.
+There's a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the
+river was up."
+
+"Can't," said the captain, grinning more broadly.  "I've got the
+United States mails on board.  Right to-day this boat's in the
+government service.  Do you want to have the poor old captain
+keelhauled by Uncle Sam?  And the great city of Skyland, all
+disconsolate, waiting for its mail?  I'm ashamed of your extravagance,
+J. P."
+
+"Mac," almost whispered J. Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, "I
+looked into the engine room of the ~Dixie Belle~ a while ago.  Don't
+you know of somebody that needs a new boiler?  Cement and black Japan
+can't hide flaws from me.  And then, those shares of building and loan
+that you traded for repairs--they were all yours, of course.  I hate
+to mention these things, but--"
+
+"Oh, come now, J. P.," said the captain.  "You know I was just
+fooling.  I'll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so."
+
+"The other passengers get off there, too," said Mr. Bloom.
+
+Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the ~Dixie Belle~
+turned her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank,
+and the captain, relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the
+passenger deck and made the remarkable announcement:  "All out for
+Skyland."
+
+The Blaylocks and J. Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the ~Dixie Belle~
+proceeded on her way up the lake.  Guided by the indefatigable
+promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to
+rest and admire the view.  Finally they entered the village of Cold
+Branch.  Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its
+homelike and peaceful beauty.  Mr. Bloom conducted them to a two-story
+building on a shady street that bore the legend, "Pine-top Inn."  Here
+he took his leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his
+attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the
+remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the
+morrow.
+
+J.Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch's main street.  He did not
+know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter.
+Presently he saw a sign over a door:  "Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law
+and Notary Public."  A young man was Mr. Cooly, and awaiting business.
+
+"Get your hat, son," said Mr. Bloom, in his breezy way, "and a blank
+deed, and come along.  It's a job for you."
+
+"Now," he continued, when Mr. Cooly had responded with alacrity, "is
+there a bookstore in town?"
+
+"One," said the lawyer.  "Henry Williams's."
+
+"Get there," said Mr. Bloom.  "We're going to buy it."
+
+Henry Williams was behind his counter.  His store was a small one,
+containing a mixture of books, stationery, and fancy rubbish.
+Adjoining it was Henry's home--a decent cottage, vine-embowered and
+cosy.  Henry was lank and soporific, and not inclined to rush his
+business.
+
+"I want to buy your house and store," said Mr. Bloom.  "I haven't
+got time to dicker--name your price."
+
+"It's worth eight hundred," said Henry, too much dazed to ask more
+than its value.
+
+"Shut that door," said Mr. Bloom to the lawyer.  Then he tore off
+his coat and vest, and began to unbutton his shirt.
+
+"Wanter fight about it, do yer?" said Henry Williams, jumping up and
+cracking his heels together twice.  "All right, hunky--sail in and
+cut yer capers."
+
+"Keep your clothes on," said Mr. Bloom.  "I'm only going down to
+the bank."
+
+He drew eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his money belt and
+planked them down on the counter.  Mr. Cooly showed signs of future
+promise, for he already had the deed spread out, and was reaching
+across the counter for the ink bottle.  Never before or since was
+such quick action had in Cold Branch.
+
+"Your name, please?" asked the lawyer.
+
+"Make it out to Peyton Blaylock," said Mr. Bloom.  "God knows how to
+spell it."
+
+Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and Mr.
+Bloom stood on the brick sidewalk with Mr. Cooly, who held in his
+hand the signed and attested deed.
+
+"You'll find the party at the Pinetop Inn," said J. Pinkney Bloom.
+"Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him.  He'll ask you
+a hell's mint of questions; so here's ten dollars for the trouble
+you'll have in not being able to answer 'em.  Never run much to
+poetry, did you, young man?"
+
+"Well," said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his
+right mind, "now and then."
+
+"Dig into it," said Mr. Bloom, "it'll pay you.  Never heard a poem,
+now, that run something like this, did you?--
+
+  A good thing out of Nazareth
+    Comes up sometimes, I guess,
+  On hand, all right, to help and cheer
+    A sucker in distress."
+
+"I believe not," said Mr. Cooly.
+
+"It's a hymn," said J. Pinkney Bloom.  "Now, show me the way to a
+livery stable, son, for I'm going to hit the dirt road back to
+Okochee."
+
+
+
+
+
+CONFESSIONS OF A HUMORIST
+
+There was a painless stage of incubation that lasted twenty-five
+years, and then it broke out on me, and people said I was It.
+
+But they called it humor instead of measles.
+
+The employees in the store bought a silver inkstand for the senior
+partner on his fiftieth birthday.  We crowded into his private office
+to present it.  I had been selected for spokesman, and I made a
+little speech that I had been preparing for a week.
+
+It made a hit.  It was full of puns and epigrams and funny twists
+that brought down the house--which was a very solid one in the
+wholesale hardware line.  Old Marlowe himself actually grinned, and
+the employees took their cue and roared.
+
+My reputation as a humorist dates from half-past nine o'clock on
+that morning.  For weeks afterward my fellow clerks fanned the flame
+of my self-esteem.  One by one they came to me, saying what an
+awfully clever speech that was, old man, and carefully explained to
+me the point of each one of my jokes.
+
+Gradually I found that I was expected to keep it up.  Others might
+speak sanely on business matters and the day's topics, but from me
+something gamesome and airy was required.
+
+I was expected to crack jokes about the crockery and lighten up the
+granite ware with persiflage.  I was second bookkeeper, and if I
+failed to show up a balance sheet without something comic about the
+footings or could find no cause for laughter in an invoice of plows,
+the other clerks were disappointed.  By degrees my fame spread, and
+I became a local "character."  Our town was small enough to make this
+possible.  The daily newspaper quoted me.  At social gatherings I was
+indispensable.
+
+I believe I did possess considerable wit and a facility for quick
+and spontaneous repartee.  This gift I cultivated and improved by
+practice.  And the nature of it was kindly and genial, not running to
+sarcasm or offending others.  People began to smile when they saw me
+coming, and by the time we had met I generally had the word ready to
+broaden the smile into a laugh.
+
+I had married early.  We had a charming boy of three and a girl of
+five.  Naturally, we lived in a vine-covered cottage, and were happy.
+My salary as bookkeeper in the hardware concern kept at a distance
+those ills attendant upon superfluous wealth.
+
+At sundry times I had written out a few jokes and conceits that I
+considered peculiarly happy, and had sent them to certain periodicals
+that print such things.  All of them had been instantly accepted.
+Several of the editors had written to request further contributions.
+
+One day I received a letter from the editor of a famous weekly
+publication.  He suggested that I submit to him a humorous composition
+to fill a column of space; hinting that he would make it a regular
+feature of each issue if the work proved satisfactory.  I did so, and
+at the end of two weeks he offered to make a contract with me for a
+year at a figure that was considerably higher than the amount paid me
+by the hardware firm.
+
+I was filled with delight.  My wife already crowned me in her mind
+with the imperishable evergreens of literary success.  We had lobster
+croquettes and a bottle of blackberry wine for supper that night.
+Here was the chance to liberate myself from drudgery.  I talked over
+the matter very seriously with Louisa.  We agreed that I must resign
+my place at the store and devote myself to humor.
+
+I resigned.  My fellow clerks gave me a farewell banquet.  The speech
+I made there coruscated.  It was printed in full by the Gazette.  The
+next morning I awoke and looked at the clock.
+
+"Late, by George!" I exclaimed, and grabbed for my clothes.  Louisa
+reminded me that I was no longer a slave to hardware and contractors'
+supplies.  I was now a professional humorist.
+
+After breakfast she proudly led me to the little room off the kitchen.
+Dear girl!   There was my table and chair, writing pad, ink, and pipe
+tray.  And all the author's trappings--the celery stand full of fresh
+roses and honeysuckle, last year's calendar on the wall, the
+dictionary, and a little bag of chocolates to nibble between
+inspirations.  Dear girl!
+
+I sat me to work.  The wall paper is patterned with arabesques or
+odalisks or--perhaps--it is trapezoids.  Upon one of the figures I
+fixed my eyes.  I bethought me of humor.
+
+A voice startled me--Louisa's voice.
+
+"If you aren't too busy, dear," it said, "come to dinner."
+
+I looked at my watch.  Yes, five hours had been gathered in by the
+grim scytheman.  I went to dinner.
+
+"You mustn't work too hard at first," said Louisa.  "Goethe--or was it
+Napoleon?--said five hours a day is enough for mental labor.  Couldn't
+you take me and the children to the woods this afternoon?"
+
+"I am a little tired," I admitted.  So we went to the woods.
+
+But I soon got the swing of it.  Within a month I was turning out
+copy as regular as shipments of hardware.
+
+And I had success.  My column in the weekly made some stir, and I was
+referred to in a gossipy way by the critics as something fresh in the
+line of humorists.  I augmented my income considerably by contributing
+to other publications.
+
+I picked up the tricks of the trade.  I could take a funny idea and
+make a two-line joke of it, earning a dollar.  With false whiskers
+on, it would serve up cold as a quatrain, doubling its producing
+value.  By turning the skirt and adding a ruffle of rhyme you would
+hardly recognize it as ~vers de societe~ with neatly shod feet and a
+fashion-plate illustration.
+
+I began to save up money, and we had new carpets, and a parlor organ.
+My townspeople began to look upon me as a citizen of some consequence
+instead of the merry trifier I had been when I clerked in the
+hardware store.
+
+After five or six months the spontaniety seemed to depart from my
+humor.  Quips and droll sayings no longer fell carelessly from my
+lips.  I was sometimes hard run for material.  I found myself
+listening to catch available ideas from the conversation of my
+friends.  Sometimes I chewed my pencil and gazed at the wall paper
+for hours trying to build up some gay little bubble of unstudied
+fun.
+
+And then I became a harpy, a Moloch, a Jonah, a vampire, to my
+acquaintances.  Anxious, haggard, greedy, I stood among them like a
+veritable killjoy.  Let a bright saying, a witty comparison, a piquant
+phrase fall from their lips and I was after it like a hound springing
+upon a bone.  I dared not trust my memory; but, turning aside guiltily
+and meanly, I would make a note of it in my ever-present memorandum
+book or upon my cuff for my own future use.
+
+My friends regarded me in sorrow and wonder. I was not the same man.
+Where once I had furnished them entertainment and jollity, I now
+preyed upon them.  No jests from me ever bid for their smiles now.
+They were too precious.  I could not afford to dispense gratuitously
+the means of my livelihood.
+
+I was a lugubrious fox praising the singing of my friends, the crow's,
+that they might drop from their beaks the morsels of wit that I
+coveted.
+
+Nearly every one began to avoid me.  I even forgot how to smile, not
+even paying that much for the sayings I appropriated.
+
+No persons, places, times, or subjects were exempt from my plundering
+in search of material.  Even in church my demoralized fancy went
+hunting among the solemn aisles and pillars for spoil.
+
+Did the minister give out the long-meter doxology, at once I began:
+"Doxology --sockdology--sockdolager--meter--meet her."
+
+The sermon ran through my mental sieve, its precepts filtering
+unheeded, could I but glean a suggestion of a pun or a ~bon mot~.
+The solemnest anthems of the choir were but an accompaniment to my
+thoughts as I conceived new changes to ring upon the ancient
+comicalities concerning the jealousies of soprano, tenor, and basso.
+
+My own home became a hunting ground.  My wife is a singularly feminine
+creature, candid, sympathetic, and impulsive.  Once her conversation
+was my delight, and her ideas a source of unfailing pleasure.  Now I
+worked her.  She was a gold mine of those amusing but lovable
+inconsistencies that distinguish the female mind.
+
+I began to market those pearls of unwisdom and humor that should have
+enriched only the sacred precincts of home.  With devilish cunning I
+encouraged her to talk.  Unsuspecting, she laid her heart bare.  Upon
+the cold, conspicuous, common, printed page I offered it to the
+public gaze.
+
+A literary Judas, I kissed her and betrayed her.  For pieces of silver
+I dressed her sweet confidences in the pantalettes and frills of folly
+and made them dance in the market place.
+
+Dear Louisa!  Of nights I have bent over her cruel as a wolf above
+a tender lamb, hearkening even to her soft words murmured in sleep,
+hoping to catch an idea for my next day's grind.  There is worse to
+come.  
+
+God help me!  Next my fangs were buried deep in the neck of the
+fugitive sayings of my little children.
+
+Guy and Viola were two bright fountains of childish, quaint thoughts
+and speeches.  I found a ready sale for this kind of humor, and was
+furnishing a regular department in a magazine with "Funny Fancies of
+Childhood."  I began to stalk them as an Indian stalks the antelope.
+I would hide behind sofas and doors, or crawl on my hands and knees
+among the bushes in the yard to eavesdrop while they were at play.
+I had all the qualities of a harpy except remorse.
+
+Once, when I was barren of ideas, and my copy must leave in the next
+mail, I covered myself in a pile of autumn leaves in the yard, where
+I knew they intended to come to play.  I cannot bring myself to
+believe that Guy was aware of my hiding place, but even if he was,
+I would be loath to blame him for his setting fire to the leaves,
+causing the destruction of my new suit of clothes, and nearly
+cremating a parent.
+
+Soon my own children began to shun me as a pest.  Often, when I was
+creeping upon them like a melancholy ghoul, I would hear them say
+to each other:  "Here comes papa," and they would gather their toys
+and scurry away to some safer hiding place.  Miserable wretch that
+I was!
+
+And yet I was doing well financially.  Before the first year had
+passed I had saved a thousand dollars, and we had lived in comfort.
+
+But at what a cost!  I am not quite clear as to what a pariah is,
+but I was everything that it sounds like.  I had no friends, no
+amusements, no enjoyment of life.  The happiness of my family had
+been sacrificed.  I was a bee, sucking sordid honey from life's
+fairest flowers, dreaded and shunned on account of my stingo.
+
+One day a man spoke to me, with a pleasant and friendly smile. Not
+in months had the thing happened.  I was passing the undertaking
+establishment of Peter Heffelbower.  Peter stood in the door and
+saluted me.  I stopped, strangely wrung in my heart by his greeting.
+He asked me inside.
+
+The day was chill and rainy.  We went into the back room, where a
+fire burned, in a little stove.  A customer came, and Peter left me
+alone for a while.  Presently I felt a new feeling stealing over me
+--a sense of beautiful calm and content, I looked around the place.
+There were rows of shining rosewood caskets, black palls, trestles,
+hearse plumes, mourning streamers, and all the paraphernalia of the
+solemn trade.  Here was peace, order, silence, the abode of grave
+and dignified reflections.  Here, on the brink of life, was a little
+niche pervaded by the spirit of eternal rest.  
+
+When I entered it, the follies of the world abandoned me at the door.
+I felt no inclination to wrest a humorous idea from those sombre and
+stately trappings.  My mind seemed to stretch itself to grateful
+repose upon a couch draped with gentle thoughts.
+
+A quarter of an hour ago I was an abandoned humorist.  Now I was a
+philosopher, full of serenity and ease.  I had found a refuge from
+humor, from the hot chase of the shy quip, from the degrading pursuit
+of the panting joke, from the restless reach after the nimble
+repartee.
+
+I had not known Heffelbower well.  When he came back, I let him talk,
+fearful that he might prove to be a jarring note in the sweet,
+dirgelike harmony of his establishment.
+
+But, no.  He chimed truly.  I gave a long sigh of happiness.  Never
+have I known a man's talk to be as magnificently dull as Peter's was.
+Compared with it the Dead Sea is a geyser.  Never a sparkle or a
+glimmer of wit marred his words.  Commonplaces as trite and as
+plentiful as blackberries flowed from his lips no more stirring in
+quality than a last week's tape running from a ticker.  Quaking a
+little, I tried upon him one of my best pointed jokes.  It fell back
+ineffectual, with the point broken.  I loved that man from then on.
+
+Two or three evenings each week I would steal down to Heffelbower's
+and revel in his back room.  That was my only joy.  I began to rise
+early and hurry through my work, that I might spend more time in my
+haven.  In no other place could I throw off my habit of extracting
+humorous ideas from my surroundings.  Peter's talk left me no opening
+had I besieged it ever so hard.
+
+Under this influence I began to improve in spirits.  It was the
+recreation from one's labor which every man needs.  I surprised one
+or two of my former friends by throwing them a smile and a cheery
+word as I passed them on the streets.  Several times I dumfounded
+my family by relaxing long enough to make a jocose remark in their
+presence.
+
+I had so long been ridden by the incubus of humor that I seized my
+hours of holiday with a schoolboy's zest.
+
+Mv work began to suffer.  It was not the pain and burden to me that
+it had been.  I often whistled at my desk, and wrote with far more
+fluency than before.  I accomplished my tasks impatiently, as anxious
+to be off to my helpful retreat as a drunkard is to get to his tavern.
+
+My wife had some anxious hours in conjecturing where I spent my
+afternoons.  I thought it best not to tell her; women do not
+understand these things.  Poor girl!--she had one shock out of it.
+
+One day I brought home a silver coffin handle for a paper weight and
+a fine, fluffy hearse plume to dust my papers with.
+
+I loved to see them on my desk, and think of the beloved back room
+down at Heffelbower's.  But Louisa found them, and she shrieked with
+horror.  I had to console her with some lame excuse for having them,
+but I saw in her eyes that the prejudice was not removed.  I had to
+remove the articles, though, at double-quick time.
+
+One day Peter Heffelbower laid before me a temptation that swept me
+off my feet.  In his sensible, uninspired way he showed me his books,
+and explained that his profits and his business were increasing
+rapidly.   He had thought of taking in a partner with some cash.  He
+would rather have me than any one he knew.  When I left his place that
+afternoon Peter had my check for the thousand dollars I had in the
+bank, and I was a partner in his undertaking business.
+
+I went home with feelings of delirious joy, mingled with a certain
+amount of doubt.  I was dreading to tell my wife about it.  But I
+walked on air.  To give up the writing of humorous stuff, once more
+to enjoy the apples of life, instead of squeezing them to a pulp for
+a few drops of hard cider to make the pubic feel funny--what a boon
+that would be!
+
+At the supper table Louisa handed me some letters that had come during
+my absence.  Several of them contained rejected manuscript.  Ever
+since I first began going to Heffelbower's my stuff had been coming
+back with alarming frequency.  Lately I had been dashing off my jokes
+and articles with the greatest fluency.  Previously I had labored like
+a bricklayer, slowly and with agony.
+
+Presently I opened a letter from the editor of the weekly with which I
+had a regular contract.  The checks for that weekly article were still
+our main dependence.  The letter ran thus:
+
+
+DEAR SIR:
+  As you are aware, our contract for the year expires with the present
+month.  While regretting the necessity for so doing, we must say that
+we do not care to renew same for the coming year.  We were quite
+pleased with your style of humor, which seems to have delighted quite
+a large proportion of our readers.  But for the past two months we
+have noticed a decided falling off in its quality.  Your earlier work
+showed a spontaneous, easy, natural flow of fun and wit.  Of late it
+is labored, studied, and unconvincing, giving painful evidence of hard
+toil and drudging mechanism.
+  Again regretting that we do not consider your contributions
+available any longer, we are, yours sincerely,
+    THE EDITOR.
+
+
+I handed this letter to my wife.  After she had read it her face grew
+extremely long, and there were tears in her eyes.
+
+"The mean old thing!" she exclaimed indignantly.  "I'm sure your
+pieces are just as good as they ever were.  And it doesn't take you
+half as long to write them as it did."  And then, I suppose, Louisa
+thought of the checks that would cease coming.  "Oh, John," she
+wailed, "what will you do now?"
+
+For an answer I got up and began to do a polka step around the supper
+table.  I am sure Louisa thought the trouble had driven me mad; and
+I think the children hoped it had, for they tore after me, yelling
+with glee and emulating my steps.  I was now something like their old
+playmate as of yore.
+
+"The theatre for us to-night!" I shouted; "nothing less.  And a late,
+wild, disreputable supper for all of us at the Palace Restaurant.
+Lumpty-diddle-de-dee-de-dum!"
+
+And then I explained my glee by declaring that I was now a partner in
+a prosperous undertaking establishment, and that written jokes might
+go hide their heads in sackcloth and ashes for all me.
+
+With the editor's letter in her hand to justify the deed I had done,
+my wife could advance no objections save a few mild ones based on
+the feminine inability to appreciate a good thing such as the little
+back room of Peter Hef--no, of Heffelbower & Co's. undertaking
+establishment.
+
+In conclusion, I will say that to-day you will find no man in our
+town as well liked, as jovial, and full of merry sayings as I.  My
+jokes are again noised about and quoted; once more I take pleasure
+in my wife's confidential chatter without a mercenary thought, while
+Guy and Viola play at my feet distributing gems of childish humor
+without fear of the ghastly tormentor who used to dog their steps,
+notebook in hand.
+
+Our business has prospered finely. I keep the books and look after
+the shop, while Peter attends to outside matters.  He says that my
+levity and high spirits would simply turn any funeral into a regular
+Irish wake.
+
+
+
+
+
+THE SPARROWS IN MADISON SQUARE
+
+The young man in straitened circumstances who comes to New York City
+to enter literature has but one thing to do, provided he has studied
+carefully his field in advance.  He must go straight to Madison
+Square, write an article about the sparrows there, and sell it to the
+~Sun~ for $15.
+
+I cannot recall either a novel or a story dealing with the popular
+theme of the young writer from the provinces who comes to the
+metropolis to win fame and fortune with his pen in which the hero
+does not get his start that way.  It does seem strange that some
+author, in casting about for startlingly original plots, has not hit
+upon the idea of having his hero write about the bluebirds in Union
+Square and sell it to the ~Herald~.  But a search through the files
+of metropolitan fiction counts up overwhelmingly for the sparrows
+and the old Garden Square, and the ~Sun~ always writes the check.
+
+Of course it is easy to understand why this first city venture of the
+budding author is always successful.  He is primed by necessity to a
+superlative effort; mid the iron and stone and marble of the roaring
+city he has found this spot of singing birds and green grass and
+trees; every tender sentiment in his nature is baffling with the sweet
+pain of homesickness; his genius is aroused as it never may be again;
+the birds chirp, the tree branches sway, the noise of wheels is
+forgotten; he writes with his soul in his pen--and he sells it to the
+~Sun~ for $15.
+
+I had read of this custom during many years before I came to New York.
+When my friends were using their strongest arguments to dissuade me
+from coming, I only smiled serenely.  They did not know of that
+sparrow graft I had up my sleeve.
+
+When I arrived in New York, and the car took me straight from the
+ferry up Twenty-third Street to Madison Square, I could hear that
+$15 check rustling in my inside pocket.
+
+I obtained lodging at an unhyphenated hostelry, and the next morning
+I was on a bench in Madison Square almost by the time the sparrows
+were awake.  Their melodious chirping, the benignant spring foliage of
+the noble trees and the clean, fragrant grass reminded me so potently
+of the old farm I had left that tears almost came into my eyes.
+
+Then, all in a moment, I felt my inspiration.  The brave, piercing
+notes of those cheerful small birds formed a keynote to a wonderful,
+light, fanciful song of hope and joy and altruism.  Like myself, they
+were creatures with hearts pitched to the tune of woods and fields;
+as I was, so were they captives by circumstance in the discordant,
+dull city--yet with how much grace and glee they bore the restraint!
+
+And then the early morning people began to pass through the square to
+their work--sullen people, with sidelong glances and glum faces,
+hurrying, hurrying, hurrying.  And I got my theme cut out clear from
+the bird notes, and wrought it into a lesson, and a poem, and a
+carnival dance, and a lullaby; and then translated it all into prose
+and began to write.  
+
+For two hours my pencil traveled over my pad with scarcely a rest.
+Then I went to the little room I had rented for two days, and there
+I cut it to half, and then mailed it, white-hot, to the ~Sun~.
+
+The next morning I was up by daylight and spent two cents of my
+capital for a paper.  If the word "sparrow" was in it I was unable to
+find it.  I took it up to my room and spread it out on the bed and
+went over it, column by column.  Something was wrong.
+
+Three hours afterward the postman brought me a large envelope
+containing my MS. and a piece of inexpensive paper, about 3 inches by
+4--I suppose some of you have seen them--upon which was written in
+violet ink, "With the ~Sun's~ thanks."
+
+I went over to the square and sat upon a bench.  No; I did not think
+it necessary to eat any breakfast that morning.  The confounded pests
+of sparrows were making the square hideous with their idiotic "cheep,
+cheep."  I never saw birds so persistently noisy, impudent, and
+disagreeable in all my life.
+
+By this time, according to all traditions, I should have been standing
+in the office of the editor of the ~Sun~.  That personage--a tall,
+grave, white-haired man--would strike a silver bell as he grasped my
+hand and wiped a suspicious moisture from his glasses.
+
+"Mr. McChesney," he would be saying when a subordinate appeared, "this
+is Mr. Henry, the young man who sent in that exquisite gem about the
+sparrows in Madison Square.  You may give him a desk at once.  Your
+salary, sir, will be $80 a week, to begin with."
+
+This was what I had been led to expect by all writers who have evolved
+romances of literary New York.
+
+Something was decidedly wrong with tradition.  I could not assume the
+blame, so I fixed it upon the sparrows.  I began to hate them with
+intensity and heat.
+
+At that moment an individual wearing an excess of whiskers, two hats,
+and a pestilential air slid into the seat beside me.
+
+"Say, Willie," he muttered cajolingly, "could you cough up a dime out
+of your coffers for a cup of coffee this morning?"
+
+"I'm lung-weary, my friend," said I.  "The best I can do is three
+cents."
+
+"And you look like a gentleman, too," said he.  "What brung you
+down?--boozer?"
+
+"Birds," I said fiercely.  "The brown-throated songsters carolling
+songs of hope and cheer to weary man toiling amid the city's dust
+and din.  The little feathered couriers from the meadows and woods
+chirping sweetly to us of blue skies and flowering fields.  The
+confounded little squint-eyed nuisances yawping like a flock of steam
+pianos, and stuffing themselves like aldermen with grass seeds and
+bugs, while a man sits on a bench and goes without his breakfast.
+Yes, sir, birds! look at them!"
+
+As I spoke I picked up a dead tree branch that lay by the bench, and
+hurled it with all my force into a close congregation of the sparrows
+on the grass.  The flock flew to the trees with a babel of shrill
+cries; but two of them remained prostrate upon the turf.
+
+In a moment my unsavory friend had leaped over the row of benches and
+secured the fluttering victims, which he thrust hurriedly into his
+pockets.  Then he beckoned me with a dirty forefinger.
+
+"Come on, cully," he said hoarsely.  "You're in on the feed."
+
+Thank you very much!
+
+Weakly I followed my dingy acquaintance.  He led me away from the park
+down a side street and through a crack in a fence into a vacant lot
+where some excavating had been going on.  Behind a pile of old stones
+and lumber he paused, and took out his birds.
+
+"I got matches," said he.  "You got any paper to start a fire with?"
+
+I drew forth my manuscript story of the sparrows, and offered it for
+burnt sacrifice.  There were old planks, splinters, and chips for our
+fire.  My frowsy friend produced from some interior of his frayed
+clothing half a loaf of bread, pepper, and salt.
+
+In ten minutes each of us was holding a sparrow spitted upon a stick
+over the leaping flames.
+
+"Say," said my fellow bivouacker, "this ain't so bad when a fellow's
+hungry.  It reminds me of when I struck New York first--about fifteen
+years ago.  I come in from the West to see if I could get a job on a
+newspaper.  I hit the Madison Square Park the first mornin' after, and
+was sitting around on the benches.  I noticed the sparrows chirpin',
+and the grass and trees so nice and green that I thought I was back in
+the country again.  Then I got some papers out of my pocket, and--"
+
+"I know," I interrupted.  "You sent it to the ~Sun~ and got $15."
+
+"Say," said my friend, suspiciously, "you seem to know a good deal.
+Where was you?  I went to sleep on the bench there, in the sun, and
+somebody touched me for every cent I had--$15."
+
+
+
+
+
+HEARTS AND HANDS
+
+At Denver there was an influx of passengers into the coaches on the
+eastbound B. & M. express.  In one coach there sat a very pretty young
+woman dressed in elegant taste and surrounded by all the luxurious
+comforts of an experienced traveler.  Among the newcomers were two
+young men, one of handsome presence with a bold, frank countenance
+and manner; the other a ruffled, glum-faced person, heavily built and
+roughly dressed.  The two were handcuffed together.
+
+As they passed down the aisle of the coach the only vacant seat
+offered was a reversed one facing the attractive young woman.  Here
+the linked couple seated themselves.  The young woman's glance fell
+upon them with a distant, swift disinterest; then with a lovely smile
+brightening her countenance and a tender pink tingeing her rounded
+cheeks, she held out a little gray-gloved hand.  When she spoke her
+voice, full, sweet, and deliberate, proclaimed that its owner was
+accustomed to speak and be heard.
+
+"Well, Mr. Easton, if you ~will~ make me speak first, I suppose I
+must.  Don't vou ever recognize old friends when you meet them in
+the West?"
+
+The younger man roused himself sharply at the sound of her voice,
+seemed to struggle with a slight embarrassment which he threw off
+instantly, and then clasped her fingers with his left hand.
+
+"It's Miss Fairchild," he said, with a smile.  "I'll ask you to excuse
+the other hand; "it's otherwise engaged just at present."
+
+He slightly raised his right hand, bound at the wrist by the shining
+"bracelet" to the left one of his companion.  The glad look in the
+girl's eyes slowly changed to a bewildered horror.  The glow faded
+from her cheeks.  Her lips parted in a vague, relaxing distress.
+Easton, with a little laugh, as if amused, was about to speak again
+when the other forestalled him.  The glum-faced man had been watching
+the girl's countenance with veiled glances from his keen, shrewd eyes.
+
+"You'll excuse me for speaking, miss, but, I see you're acquainted
+with the marshall here.  If you'll ask him to speak a word for me when
+we get to the pen he'll do it, and it'll make things easier for me
+there.  He's taking me to Leavenworth prison.  It's seven years for
+counterfeiting."
+
+"Oh!" said the girl, with a deep breath and returning color.  "So that
+is what you are doing out here?  A marshal!"
+
+"My dear Miss Fairchild," said Easton, calmly, "I had to do something.
+Money has a way of taking wings unto itself, and you know it takes
+money to keep step with our crowd in Washington.  I saw this opening
+in the West, and--well, a marshalship isn't quite as high a position
+as that of ambassador, but--"
+
+"The ambassador," said the girl, warmly, "doesn't call any more.  He
+needn't ever have done so.  You ought to know that.  And so now you
+are one of these dashing Western heroes, and you ride and shoot and go
+into all kinds of dangers.  That's different from the Washington life.
+You have been missed from the old crowd."
+
+The girl's eyes, fascinated, went back, widening a little, to rest
+upon the glittering handcuffs.
+
+"Don't you worry about them, miss," said the other man.  "All marshals
+handcuff themselves to their prisoners to keep them from getting away.
+Mr. Easton knows his business."
+
+"Will we see you again soon in Washington?" asked the girl.
+
+"Not soon, I think," said Easton.  "My butterfly days are over, I
+fear."
+
+"I love the West," said the girl irrelevantly.  Her eyes were
+shining softly.  She looked away out the car window.  She began to
+speak truly and simply without the gloss of style and manner:
+"Mamma and I spent the summer in Denver.  She went home a week ago
+because father was slightly ill.  I could live and be happy in the
+West.  I think the air here agrees with me.  Money isn't everything.
+But people always misunderstand things and remain stupid--"
+
+"Say, Mr. Marshal," growled the glum-faced man.  "This isn't quite
+fair.  I'm needing a drink, and haven't had a smoke all day.  Haven't
+you talked long enough?  Take me in the smoker now, won't you?  I'm
+half dead for a pipe."
+
+The bound travelers rose to their feet, Easton with the same slow
+smile on his face.
+
+"I can't deny a petition for tobacco," he said, lightly.  "It's the
+one friend of the unfortunate.  Good-bye, Miss Fairchild.  Duty calls,
+you know."  He held out his hand for a farewell.
+
+"It's too bad you are not going East," she said, reclothing herself
+with manner and style.  "But you must go on to Leavenworth, I
+suppose?"
+
+"Yes," said Easton, "I must go on to Leavenworth."
+
+The two men sidled down the aisle into the smoker.
+
+The two passengers in a seat near by had heard most of the
+conversation.  Said one of them:  "That marshal's a good sort of
+chap.  Some of these Western fellows are all right."
+
+"Pretty young to hold an office like that, isn't he?" asked the
+other.
+
+"Young!" exclaimed the first speaker, "why--Oh! didn't you catch on?
+Say--did you ever know an officer to handcuff a prisoner to his
+~right~ hand?"
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CACTUS
+
+The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative
+. A large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to
+the drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may review an
+entire courtship while removing one's gloves.
+
+That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor
+apartments.  On the table stood a singular-looking green plant in a
+red earthen jar.  The plant was one of the species of cacti, and was
+provided with long, tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed with
+the slightest breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion.
+
+Trysdale's friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard
+complaining at being allowed to drink alone.  Both men were in
+evening dress.  White favors like stars upon their coats shone
+through the gloom of the apartment.
+
+As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdale's
+mind a swift, scarifying retrospect of the last few hours.  It seemed
+that in his nostrils was still the scent of the flowers that had been
+banked in odorous masses about the church, and in his ears the
+lowpitched hum of a thousand well-bred voices, the rustle of crisp
+garments, and, most insistently recurring, the drawling words of the
+minister irrevocably binding her to another.
+
+>From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, as if it had
+become a habit of his mind, to reach some conjecture as to why and
+how he had lost her.  Shaken rudely by the uncompromising fact, he
+had suddenly found himself confronted by a thing he had never before
+faced --his own innermost, unmitigated, arid unbedecked self.   He
+saw all the garbs of pretence and egoism that he had worn now turn
+to rags of folly.  He shuddered at the thought that to others, before
+now, the garments of his soul must have appeared sorry and threadbare.
+Vanity and conceit?  These were the joints in his armor.  And how
+free from either she had always been--But why--
+
+As she had slowly moved up the aisle toward the altar he had felt an
+unworthy, sullen exultation that had served to support him.  He had
+told himself that her paleness was from thoughts of another than the
+man to whom she was about to give herself.  But even that poor
+consolation had been wrenched from him.  For, when he saw that swift,
+limpid, upward look that she gave the man when he took her hand, he
+knew himself to be forgotten.  Once that same look had been raised
+to him, and he had gauged its meaning.  Indeed, his conceit had
+crumbled; its last prop was gone.  Why had it ended thus?  There had
+been no quarrel between them, nothing--
+
+For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of
+those last few days before the tide had so suddenly turned.
+
+She had always insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had
+accepted her homage with royal grandeur.  It had been a very sweet
+incense that she had burned before him; so modest (he told himself);
+so childlike and worshipful, and (he would once have sworn) so
+sincere.  She had invested him with an almost supernatural number of
+high attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had absorbed the
+oblation as a desert drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise
+of blossom or fruit.
+
+As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the
+crowning instance of his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came
+vividly back to him.  The scene was the night when he had asked her
+to come up on his pedestal with him and share his greatness.  He
+could not, now, for the pain of it, allow his mind to dwell upon the
+memory of her convincing beauty that night--the careless wave of her
+hair, the tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and words.  But
+they had been enough, and they had brought him to speak.  During
+their conversation she had said:
+
+"And Captain Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language
+like a native.  Why have you hidden this accomplishment from me?  Is
+there anything you do not know?"
+
+Now, Carruthers was an idiot.  No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty
+(he sometimes did such things) of airing at the club some old, canting
+Castilian proverb dug from the hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries.
+Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent admirers, was the very man
+to have magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition.
+
+But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and
+flattering.  He allowed the imputation to pass without denial.
+Without protest, he allowed her to twine about his brow this spurious
+bay of Spanish scholarship.  He let it grace his conquering head, and,
+among its soft convolutions, he did not feel the prick of the thorn
+that was to pierce him later.
+
+How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was!  How she fluttered like a
+snared bird when he laid his mightiness at her feet!  He could have
+sworn, and he could swear now, that unmistakable consent was in her
+eyes, but, coyly, she would give him no direct answer.  "I will send
+you my answer to-morrow," she said; and he, the indulgent, confident
+victor, smilingly granted the delay.  The next day he waited,
+impatient, in his rooms for the word.  At noon her groom came to the
+door and left the strange cactus in the red earthen jar.  There was
+no note, no message, merely a tag upon the plant bearing a barbarous
+foreign or botanical name.  He waited until night, but her answer did
+not come.  His large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her.
+Two evenings later they met at a dinner.  Their greetings were
+conventional, but she looked at him, breathless, wondering, eager.
+He was courteous, adamant, waiting her explanation.  With womanly
+swiftness she took her cue from his manner, and turned to snow and
+ice.  Thus, and wider from this on, they had drifted apart.  Where
+was his fault?  Who had been to blame?  Humbled now, he sought the
+answer amid the ruins of his self-conceit.  If--
+
+The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon
+his thoughts, aroused him.
+
+"I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you?  You look
+unhappy as if you yourself had been married instead of having acted
+merely as an accomplice.  Look at me, another accessory, come two
+thousand miles on a garlicky, cockroachy banana steamer all the way
+from South America to connive at the sacrifice--please to observe how
+lightly my guilt rests upon my shoulders.  Only little sister I had,
+too, and now she's gone.  Come now! take something to ease your
+conscience."
+
+"I don't drink just now, thanks," said Trysdale.
+
+"Your brandy," resumed the other, coming over and joining him, "is
+abominable.  Run down to see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try
+some of our stuff that old Garcia smuggles in.  It's worth the, trip.
+Hallo! here's an old acquaintance.  Wherever did you rake up this
+cactus, Trysdale?"
+
+"A present," said Trysdale, "from a friend.  Know the species?"
+
+"Very well.  It's a tropical concern.  See hundreds of 'em around
+Punta every day.  Here's the name on this tag tied to it.  Know any
+Spanish, Trysdale?"
+
+"No," said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile--"Is it
+Spanish?"
+
+"Yes.  The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning
+to you.  They call it by this name--Ventomarme. Name means in English,
+'Come and take me.'"
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DETECTIVE DETECTOR
+
+I was walking in Central Park with Avery Knight, the great New York
+burglar, highwayman, and murderer.
+
+"But, my dear Knight," said I, "it sounds incredible.  You have
+undoubtedly performed some of the most wonderful feats in your
+profession known to modern crime.  You have committed some marvellous
+deeds under the very noses of the police--you have boldly entered the
+homes of millionaires and held them up with an empty gun while you
+made free with their silver and jewels; you have sandbagged citizens
+in the glare of Broadway's electric lights; you have killed and robbed
+with superb openness and absolute impunity--but when you boast that
+within forty-eight hours after committing a murder you can run down
+and actually bring me face to face with the detective assigned to
+apprehend you, I must beg leave to express my doubts--remember, you
+are in New York."
+
+Avery Knight smiled indulgently.
+
+"You pique my professional pride, doctor," he said in a nettled
+tone.  "I will convince you."
+
+About twelve yards in advance of us a prosperous-looking citizen was
+rounding a clump of bushes where the walk curved.  Knight suddenly
+drew a revolver and shot the man in the back.  His victim fell and
+lay without moving.
+
+The great murderer went up to him leisurely and took from his clothes
+his money, watch, and a valuable ring and cravat pin.  He then
+rejoined me smiling calmly, and we continued our walk.
+
+Ten steps and we met a policeman running toward the spot where the
+shot had been fired.  Avery Knight stopped him.
+
+"I have just killed a man," he announced, seriously, "and robbed him
+of his possessions."
+
+"G'wan," said the policeman, angrily, "or I'll run yez in!  Want yer
+name in the papers, don't yez?  I never knew the cranks to come around
+so quick after a shootin' before.  Out of th' park, now, for yours, or
+I'll fan yez."
+
+"What you have done," I said, argumentatively, as Knight and I walked
+on, "was easy.  But when you come to the task of hunting down the
+detective that they send upon your trail you will find that you have
+undertaken a difficult feat."
+
+"Perhaps so," said Knight, lightly.  "I will admit that my success
+depends in a degree upon the sort of man they start after me.  If it
+should be an ordinary plain-clothes man I might fail to gain a sight
+of him.  If they honor me by giving the case to some one of their
+celebrated sleuths I do not fear to match my cunning and powers of
+induction against his."
+
+On the next afternoon Knight entered my office with a satisfied look
+on his keen countenance.
+
+"How goes the mysterious murder?" I asked.
+
+"As usual," said Knight, smilingly. "I have put in the morning at the
+police station and at the inquest.  It seems that a card case of mine
+containing cards with my name and address was found near the body.
+They have three witnesses who saw the shooting and gave a description
+of me. The case has been placed in the hands of Shamrock Jolnes, the
+famous detective.  He left Headquarters at 11:30 on the assignment.
+I waited at my address until two, thinking he might call there."
+
+I laughed, tauntingly.
+
+"You will never see Jolnes," I continued, "until this murder has been
+forgotten, two or three weeks from now.  I had a better opinion of
+your shrewdness, Knight.  During the three hours and a half that you
+waited he has got out of your ken.  He is after you on true induction
+theories now, and no wrongdoer has yet been known to come upon him
+while thus engaged.  I advise you to give it up."
+
+"Doctor," said Knight, with a sudden glint in his keen gray eye and
+a squaring of his chin, "in spite of the record your city holds of
+something like a dozen homicides without a subsequent meeting of the
+perpetrator, and the sleuth in charge of the case, I will undertake
+to break that record.  To-morrow I will take you to Shamrock Jolnes--
+I will unmask him before you and prove to you that it is not an
+impossibility for an officer of the law and a manslayer to stand face
+to face in your city."
+
+"Do it," said I, "and you'll have the sincere thanks of the Police
+Department."
+
+On the next day Knight called for me in a cab.
+
+"I've been on one or two false scents, doctor," he admitted.  "I know
+something of detectives' methods, and I followed out a few of them,
+expecting to find Jolnes at the other end.  The pistol being a .45-
+caliber, I thought surely I would find him at work on the clue in
+Forty-fifth Street.  Then, again, I looked for the detective at the
+Columbia University, as the man's being shot in the back naturally
+suggested hazing.  But I could not find a trace of him."
+
+"--Nor will you," I said, emphatically.
+
+"Not by ordinary methods," said Knight.  "I might walk up and down
+Broadway for a month without success.  But you have aroused my pride,
+doctor; and if I fail to show you Shamrock Jolnes this day, I promise
+you I will never kill or rob in your city again."
+
+"Nonsense, man," I replied.  "When our burglars walk into our houses
+and politely demand, thousands of dollars' worth of jewels, and then
+dine and bang the piano an hour or two before leaving, how do you, a
+mere murderer, expect to come in contact with the detective that is
+looking for you?"
+
+Avery Knight, sat lost in thought for a while.  At length he looked
+up brightly.
+
+"Doc," said he, "I have it.  Put on your hat, and come with me.  In
+half an hour I guarantee that you shall stand in the presence of
+Shamrock Jolnes."
+
+I entered a cab with Avery Knight.  I did not hear his instructions
+to the driver, but the vehicle set out at a smart pace up Broadway,
+turning presently into Fifth Avenue, and proceeding northward again.
+It was with a rapidly beating heart that I accompanied this wonderful
+and gifted assassin, whose analytical genius and superb self-
+confidence had prompted him to make me the tremendous promise of
+bringing me into the presence of a murderer and the New York detective
+in pursuit of him simultaneously.  Even yet I could not believe it
+possible.
+
+"Are you sure that you are not being led into some trap?" I asked.
+"Suppose that your clue, whatever it is, should bring us only into
+the presence of the Commissioner of Police and a couple of dozen
+cops!"
+
+"My dear doctor," said Knight, a little stiffly. "I would remind you
+that I am no gambler."
+
+"I beg your pardon," said I.  "But I do not think you will find
+Jolnes."
+
+The cab stopped before one of the handsomest residences on the avenue.
+Walking up and down in front of the house was a man with long red
+whiskers, with a detective's badge showing on the lapel of his coat.
+Now and then the man would remove his whiskers to wipe his face, and
+then I would recognize at once the well-known features of the great
+New York detective.  Jolnes was keeping a sharp watch upon the doors
+and windows of the house.
+
+"Well, doctor," said Knight, unable to repress a note of triumph in
+his voice, "have you seen?"
+
+"It is wonderful--wonderful!" I could not help exclaiming as our cab
+started on its return trip.  "But how did you do it?  By what process
+of induction--"
+
+"My dear doctor," interrupted the great murderer, "the inductive
+theory is what the detectives use.  My process is more modern.  I
+call it the saltatorial theory.  Without bothering with the tedious
+mental phenomena necessary to the solution of a mystery from slight
+clues, I jump at once to a conclusion.  I will explain to you the
+method I employed in this case.
+
+"In the first place, I argued that as the crime was committed in New
+York City in broad daylight, in a public place and under peculiarly
+atrocious circumstances, and that as the most skilful sleuth
+available was let loose upon the case, the perpetrator would never
+be discovered.  Do you not think my postulation justified by
+precedent?" 
+
+"Perhaps so," I replied, doggedly.  "But if Big Bill Dev--"
+
+"Stop that," interrupted Knight, with a smile, "I've heard that
+several times.  It's too late now.  I will proceed.
+
+"If homicides in New York went undiscovered, I reasoned, although
+the best detective talent was employed to ferret them out, it must
+be true that the detectives went about their work in the wrong way.
+And not only in the wrong way, but exactly opposite from the right
+way.  That was my clue.
+
+"I slew the man in Central Park.  Now, let me describe myself to you.
+
+"I am tall, with a black beard, and I hate publicity.  I have no money
+to speak of; I do not like oatmeal, and it is the one ambition of my
+life to die rich.  I am of a cold and heartless disposition.  I do not
+care for my fellowmen and I never give a cent to beggars or charity.
+
+"Now, my dear doctor, that is the true description of myself, the man
+whom that shrewd detective was to hunt down.  You who are familiar
+with the history of crime in New York of late should be able to
+foretell the result.  When I promised you to exhibit to your
+incredulous gaze the sleuth who was set upon me, you laughed at me
+because you said that detectives and murderers never met in New York.
+I have demonstrated to you that the theory is possible."
+
+"But how did you do it?" I asked again.
+
+"It was very simple," replied the distinguished murderer.  "I
+assumed that the detective would go exactly opposite to the clues
+he had.  I have given you a description of myself.  Therefore, he
+must necessarily set to work and trail a short man with a white
+beard who likes to be in the papers, who is very wealthy, is fond
+'of oatmeal, wants to die poor, and is of an extremely generous
+and philanthropic disposition.  When thus far is reached the mind
+hesitates no longer.  I conveyed you at once to the spot where
+Shamrock Jolnes was piping off Andrew Carnegie's residence."
+
+"Knight," said I, "you're a wonder.  If there was no danger of your
+reforming, what a rounds man you'd make for the Nineteenth Precinct!"
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DOG AND THE PLAYLET
+
+[This story has been rewritten and published in "Strictly Business"
+under the title, The Proof of the Pudding.]
+
+
+Usually it is a cold day in July when you can stroll up Broadway
+in that month and get a story out of the drama.  I found one a few
+breathless, parboiling days ago, and it seems to decide a serious
+question in art.
+
+There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me--and two
+or three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters.
+The elect had fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already
+begun to draw for additional funds.  Every evening Hollis and I
+prowled about the deserted town searching for coolness in empty
+cafes, dining-rooms, and roofgardens.  We knew to the tenth part of a
+revolution the speed of every electric fan in Gotham, and we followed
+the swiftest as they varied.  Hollis's fiancee. Miss Loris Sherman,
+had been in the Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month.  In
+another week he would join her party there.  In the meantime, he
+cursed the city cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society
+because I suffered him to show me her photograph during the black
+coffee every time we dined together.
+
+My revenge was to read to him my one-act play.
+
+It was one insufferable evening when the overplus of the day's heat
+was being hurled quiveringly back to the heavens by every surcharged
+brick and stone and inch of iron in the panting town.  But with the
+cunning of the two-legged beasts we had found an oasis where the
+hoofs of Apollo's steed had not been allowed to strike.  Our seats
+were on an ocean of cool, polished oak; the white linen of fifty
+deserted tables flapped like seagulls in the artificial breeze; a
+mile away a waiter lingered for a heliographic signal--we might have
+roared songs there or fought a duel without molestation.
+
+Out came Miss Loris's photo with the coffee, and I once more praised
+the elegant poise of the neck, the extremely low-coiled mass of heavy
+hair, and the eyes that followed one, like those in an oil painting.
+
+"She's the greatest ever," said Hollis, with enthusiasm.  "Good as
+Great Northern Preferred, and a disposition built like a watch.  One
+week more and I'll be happy Jonny-on-the-spot.  Old Tom Tolliver, my
+best college chum, went up there two weeks ago.  He writes me that
+Loris doesn't talk about anything but me.  Oh, I guess Rip Van Winkle
+didn't have all the good luck!"
+
+"Yes, yes," said I, hurriedly, pulling out my typewritten play.
+"She's no doubt a charming girl.  Now, here's that little curtain-
+raiser you promised to listen to."
+
+"Ever been tried on the stage?" asked Hollis.
+
+"Not exactly," I answered.  "I read half of it the other day to a
+fellow whose brother knows Robert Edeson; but he had to catch a train
+before I finished."
+
+"Go on," said Hollis, sliding back in his chair like a good fellow.
+"I'm no stage carpenter, but I'll tell you what I think of it from a
+first-row balcony standpoint.  I'm a theatre bug during the season,
+and I can size up a fake play almost as quick as the gallery can.
+Flag the waiter once more, and then go ahead as hard as you like with
+it.  I'll be the dog."
+
+I read my little play lovingly, and, I fear, not without some
+elocution.  There was one scene in it that I believed in greatly.
+The comedy swiftly rises into thrilling and unexpectedly developed
+drama.  Capt. Marchmont suddenly becomes cognizant that his wife is
+an unscrupulous adventuress, who has deceived him from the day of
+their first meeting.  The rapid and mortal duel between them from that
+moment--she with her magnificent lies and siren charm, winding about
+him like a serpent, trying to recover her lost ground; he with his
+man's agony and scorn and lost faith, trying to tear her from his
+heart.  That scene I always thought was a crackerjack.  When Capt.
+Marchmont discovers her duplicity by reading on a blotter in a mirror
+the impression of a note that she has written to the Count, he raises
+his hand to heaven and exclaims:  "O God, who created woman while Adam
+slept, and gave her to him for a companion, take back Thy gift and
+return instead the sleep, though it last forever!"
+
+"Rot," said Hollis, rudely, when I had given those lines with proper
+emphasis.
+
+"I beg your pardon!" I said, as sweetly as I could.
+
+"Come now," went on Hollis, "don't be an idiot.  You know very well
+that nobody spouts any stuff like that these days.  That sketch went
+along all right until you rang in the skyrockets.  Cut out that
+right-arm exercise and the Adam and Eve stunt, and make your captain
+talk as you or I or Bill Jones would."
+
+"I'll admit," said I, earnestly (for my theory was being touched
+upon), "that on all ordinary occasions all of us use commonplace
+language to convey our thoughts.  You will rememberthat up to the
+moment when the captain makes his terrible discovery all the
+characters on the stage talk pretty much as they would, in real life.
+But I believe that I am right in allowing him lines suitable to the
+strong and tragic situation into which he falls."
+
+"Tragic, my eye!" said my friend, irreverently.  "In Shakespeare's
+day he might have sputtered out some high-cockalorum nonsense of
+that sort, because in those days they ordered ham and eggs in blank
+verse and discharged the cook with an epic.  But not for B'way in
+the summer of 1905!"
+
+"It is my opinion," said I, "that great human emotions shake up our
+vocabulary and leave the words best suited to express them on top.  A
+sudden violent grief or loss or disappointment will bring expressions
+out of an ordinary man as strong and solemn and dramatic as those used
+in fiction or on the stage to portray those emotions."
+
+"That's where you fellows are wrong," said Hollis.  "Plain, every-day
+talk is what goes.  Your captain would very likely have kicked the
+cat, lit a cigar, stirred up a highball, and telephoned for a lawyer,
+instead of getting off those Robert Mantell pyrotechnics."
+
+"Possibly, a little later," I continued.  "But just at the time--just
+as the blow is delivered, if something Scriptural or theatrical and
+deep-tongued isn't wrung from a man in spite of his modern and
+practical way of speaking, then I'm wrong."
+
+"Of course," said Hollis, kindly, "you've got to whoop her up some
+degrees for the stage.  The audience expects it.  When the villain
+kidnaps little Effie you have to make her mother claw some chunks out
+of the atmosphere, and scream: "Me chee-ild, me chee-ild!"  What she
+would actually do would be to call up the police by 'phone, ring for
+some strong tea, and get the little darling's photo out, ready for
+the reporters.  When you get your villain in a corner--a stage corner
+--it's all right for him to clap his hand to his forehead and hiss:
+"All is lost!"  Off the stage he would remark:  "This is a conspiracy
+against me-- I refer you to my lawyers.'"
+
+"I get no consolation," said I, gloomily, "from your concession of an
+accentuated stage treatment.  In my play I fondly hoped that I was
+following life.  If people in real life meet great crises in a
+commonplace way, they should do the same on the stage."
+
+And then we drifted, like two trout, out of our cool pool in the great
+hotel and began to nibble languidly at the gay flies in the swift
+current of Broadway.  And our question of dramatic art was unsettled.
+
+We nibbled at the flies, and avoided the hooks, as wise trout do; but
+soon the weariness of Manhattan in summer overcame us.  Nine stories
+up, facing the south, was Hollis's apartment, and we soon stepped into
+an elevator bound for that cooler haven.
+
+I was familiar in those quarters, and quickly my play was forgotten,
+and I stood at a sideboard mixing things, with cracked ice and
+glasses all about me.  A breeze from the bay came in the windows not
+altogether blighted by the asphalt furnace over which it had passed.
+Hollis, whistling softly, turned over a late-arrived letter or two
+on his table, and drew around the coolest wicker armchairs.
+
+I was just measuring the Vermouth carefully when I heard a sound.
+Some man's voice groaned hoarsely:  "False, oh, God!--false, and
+Love is a lie and friendship but the byword of devils!"
+
+I looked around quickly.  Hollis lay across the table with his head
+down upon his outstretched arms.  And then he looked up at me and
+laughed in his ordinary manner.
+
+I knew him--he was poking fun at me about my theory.  And it did seem
+so unnatural, those swelling words during our quiet gossip, that I
+half began to believe I had been mistaken--that my theory was wrong.
+
+Hollis raised himself slowly from the table.
+
+"You were right about that theatrical business, old man," he said,
+quietly, as he tossed a note to me.
+
+I read it.
+
+Loris had run away with Tom Tolliver.
+
+
+
+
+
+A LITTLE TALK ABOUT MOBS
+
+"I see," remarked the tall gentleman in the frock coat and black
+slouch hat, "that another street car motorman in your city has
+narrowly excaped lynching at the hands of an infuriated mob by
+lighting a cigar and walking a couple of blocks down the street."
+
+"Do you think they would have lynched him?" asked the New Yorker,
+in the next seat of the ferry station, who was also waiting for
+the boat.
+
+"Not until after the election," said the tall man, cutting a corner
+off his plug of tobacco.  "I've been in your city long enough to know
+something about your mobs.  The motorman's mob is about the least
+dangerous of them all, except the National Guard and the Dressmakers'
+Convention.
+
+"You see, when little Willie Goldstein is sent by his mother for pigs'
+knuckles, with a nickel tightly grasped in his chubby fist, he always
+crosses the street car track safely twenty feet ahead of the car; and
+then suddenly turns back to ask his inother whether it was pale ale
+or a spool of 80 white cotton that she wanted.  The motorman yells
+and throws himself on the brakes like a football player.  There is
+a horrible grinding and then a ripping sound, and a piercing shriek,
+and Willie is sitting, with part of his trousers torn away by the
+fender, screaming for his lost nickel.
+
+"In ten seconds the car is surrounded by 600 infuriated citizens,
+crying, 'Lynch the motorman!  Lynch the motorman!' at the top of
+their voices.  Some of them run to the nearest cigar store to get a
+rope; but they find the last one has just been cut up and labelled.
+Hundreds of the excited mob press close to the cowering motorman,
+whose hand is observed to tremble perceptibly as he transfers a stick
+of pepsin gum from his pocket to his mouth.
+
+"When the bloodthirsty mob of maddened citizens has closed in on the
+motorman, some bringing camp stools and sitting quite close to him,
+and all shouting, 'Lynch him!' Policeman Fogarty forces his way
+through them to the side of their prospective victim.
+
+"'Hello, Mike,' says the motorman in a low voice, 'nice day.  Shall
+I sneak off a block or so, or would you like to rescue me?'
+
+"'Well, Jerry, if you don't mind,' says the policeman, 'I'd like
+to disperse the infuriated mob singlehanded.  I haven't defeated a
+lynching mob since last Tuesday; and that was a small one of only
+300, that wanted to string up a Dago boy for selling wormy pears.
+It would boost me some down at the station.'
+
+"'All right, Mike,' says the motorman, 'anything to oblige.  I'll
+turn pale and tremble.'
+
+"And he does so; and Policeman Fogarty draws his club and says,
+'G'wan wid yez!' and in eight seconds the desperate mob has scattered
+and gone about its business, except about a hundred who remain to
+search for Willie's nickel."
+
+"I never heard of a mob in our city doing violence to a motorman
+because of an accident," said the New Yorker.
+
+"You are not liable to," said the tall man.  "They know the
+motorman's all right, and that he wouldn't even run over a stray
+dog if he could help it.  And they know that not a man among 'em
+would tie the knot to hang even a Thomas cat that had been tried
+and condemned and sentenced according to law."
+
+"Then why do they become infuriated and make threats of lynching?"
+asked the New Yorker.
+
+"To assure the motorman," answered the tall man, "that he is safe.
+If they really wanted to do him up they would go into the houses
+and drop bricks on him from the third-story windows."
+
+"New Yorkers are not cowards," said the other man, a little stiffly.
+
+"Not one at a time," agreed the tall man, promptly.  "You've got a
+fine lot of single-handed scrappers in your town.  I'd rather fight
+three of you than one; and I'd go up against all the Gas Trust's
+victims in a bunch before I'd pass two citizens on a dark corner,
+with my watch chain showing.  When you get rounded up in a bunch you
+lose your nerve.  Get you in crowds and you're easy.  Ask the 'L'
+road guards and George B. Cortelyou and the tintype booths at Coney
+Island.  Divided you stand, united you fall.  ~E pluribus nihil.~ 
+Whenever one of your mobs surrounds a man and begins to holler,
+"Lynch him!' he says to himself, "Oh, dear, I suppose I must look
+pale to please the boys, but I will, forsooth, let my life insurance
+premium lapse to-morrow.  This is a sure tip for me to play Methuselah
+straight across the board in the next handicap.'
+
+"I can imagine the tortured feelings of a prisoner in the hands of
+New York policemen when an infuriated mob demands that he be turned
+over to them for lynching.  "For God's sake, officers,' cries the
+distracted wretch, 'have ye hearts of stone, that ye will not let
+them wrest me from ye?'
+
+"'Sorry, Jimmy,' says one of the policemen, 'but it won't do.  There's
+three of us--me and Darrel and the plain-clothes man; and there's only
+sivin thousand of the mob.  How'd we explain it at the office if they
+took ye?  Jist chase the infuriated aggregation around the corner,
+Darrel, and we'll be movin' along to the station.'"
+
+"Some of our gatherings of excited citizens have not been so
+harmless," said the New Yorker, with a faint note of civic pride.
+
+"I'll admit that," said the tall man.  "A cousin of mine who was on
+a visit here once had an arm broken and lost an ear in one of them."
+
+"That must have been during the Cooper Union riots," remarked the
+New Yorker.
+
+"Not the Cooper Union," explained the tall man--"but it was a union
+riot--at the Vanastor wedding."
+
+"You seem to be in favor of lynch law," said the New Yorker,
+severely.
+
+"No, sir, I am not.  No intelligent man is.  But, sir, there are
+certain cases when people rise in their just majesty and take a
+righteous vengeance for crimes that the law is slow in punishing.
+I am an advocate of law and order, but I will say to you that less
+than six months ago I myself assisted at the lynching of one "of
+that race that is creating a wide chasm between your section of
+country and mine, sir."
+
+"It is a deplorable condition," said the New Yorker, "that exists
+in the South, but--"
+
+"I am from Indiana, sir," said the tall man, taking another chew;
+"and I don't think you will condemn my course when I tell you that
+the colored man in question had stolen $9.60 in cash, sir, from my
+own brother."
+
+
+
+
+
+THE SNOW MAN
+
+EDITORIAL NOTE.--~Before the fatal illness of William Sydney Porter
+(known through his literary work as "O. Henry") this American master
+of short-story writing had begun for Hampton's Magazine the story
+printed below.  Illness crept upon him rapidly and he was compelled
+to give up writing about at the point where the girl enters the
+story.
+
+When he realized that he could do no more {it was his lifelong habit
+to write with a pencil, never dictating to a stenographer), O. Henry
+told in detail the remainder of The Snow Man to Harris Merton Lyon,
+whom he had often spoken of as one of the most effective short-story
+writers of the present time.  Mr. Porter had delineated all of the
+characters, leaving only the rounding out of the plot in the final
+pages to Mr. Lyon.~
+
+
+Housed and windowpaned from it, the greatest wonder to little
+children is the snow.  To men, it is something like a crucible in
+which their world melts into a white star ten million miles away.
+The man who can stand the test is a Snow Man; and this is his reading
+by Fahrenheit, Reaumur, or Moses's carven tablets of stone.
+
+Night had fluttered a sable pinion above the canyon of Big Lost River,
+and I urged my horse toward the Bay Horse Ranch because the snow was
+deepening.  The flakes were as large as an hour's circular tatting by
+Miss Wilkins's ablest spinster, betokening a heavy snowfall and less
+entertainment and more adventure than the completion of the tatting
+could promise.  I knew Ross Curtis of the Bay Horse, and that I would
+be welcome as a snow-bound pilgrim, both for hospitality's sake and
+because Ross had few chances to confide in living creatures who did
+not neigh, bellow, bleat, yelp, or howl during his discourse.
+
+The ranch house was just within the jaws of the canyon where its
+builder may have fatuously fancied that the timbered and rocky walls
+on both sides would have protected it from the wintry Colorado winds;
+but I feared the drift.  Even now through the endless, bottomless rift
+in the hills--the speaking tube of the four winds--came roaring the
+voice of the proprietor to the little room on the top floor.
+
+At my "hello," a ranch hand came from an outer building and received
+my thankful horse.  In another minute, Ross and I sat by a stove in
+the dining-room of the four-room ranch house, while the big, simple
+welcome of the household lay at my disposal.  Fanned by the whizzing
+norther, the fine, dry snow was sifted and bolted through the cracks
+and knotholes of the logs.  The cook room, without a separating door,
+appended.
+
+In there I could see a short, sturdy, leisurely and weather-beaten
+man moving with professional sureness about his red-hot stove.
+His face was stolid and unreadable--something like that of a great
+thinker, or of one who had no thoughts to conceal.  I thought his
+eye seemed unwarrantably superior to the elements and to the man,
+but quickly attributed that to the characteristic self-importance
+of a petty chef.  "Camp cook" was the niche that I gave him in the
+Hall of Types; and he fitted it as an apple fits a dumpling.
+
+Cold it was in spite of the glowing stove; and Ross and I sat and
+talked, shuddering frequently, half from nerves and half from the
+freezing draughts.  So he brought the bottle and the cook brought
+boiling water, and we made prodigious hot toddies against the attacks
+of Boreas.  We clinked glasses often.  They sounded like icicles
+dropping from the eaves, or like the tinkle of a thousand prisms on
+a Louis XIV chandelier that I once heard at a boarder's dance in the
+parlor of a ten-a-week boarding-house in Gramercy Square.  ~Sic
+transit.~
+
+Silence in the terrible beauty of the snow and of the Sphinx and of
+the stars; but they who believe that all things, from a without-wine
+table d'hote to the crucifixion, may be interpreted through music,
+might have found a nocturne or a symphony to express the isolation of
+that blotted-out world.  The clink of glass and bottle, the aeolian
+chorus of the wind in the house crannies, its deeper trombone through
+the canyon below, and the Wagnerian crash of the cook's pots and pans,
+united in a fit, discordant melody, I thought.  No less welcome an
+accompaniment was the sizzling of broiling ham and venison cutlet
+indorsed by the solvent fumes of true Java, bringing rich promises
+of comfort to our yearning souls.
+
+The cook brought the smoking supper to the table.  He nodded to me
+democratically as he cast the heavy plates around as though he were
+pitching quoits or hurling the discus.  I looked at him with some
+appraisement and curiosity and much conciliation.  There was no
+prophet to tell us when that drifting evil outside might cease to
+fall; and it is well, when snow-bound, to stand somewhere within the
+radius of the cook's favorable consideration.  But I could read
+neither favor nor disapproval in the face and manner of our
+pot-wrestler.
+
+He was about five feet nine inches, and two hundred pounds of
+commonplace, bull-necked, pink-faced, callous calm.  He wore brown
+duck trousers too tight and too short, and a blue flannel shirt with
+sleeves rolled above his elbows.  There was a sort of grim, steady
+scowl on his features that looked to me as though he had fixed it
+there purposely as a protection against the weakness of an inherent
+amiability that, he fancied, were better concealed.  And then I let
+supper usurp his brief occupancy of my thoughts.
+
+"Draw up, George," said Ross.  "Let's all eat while the grub's hot."
+
+"You fellows go on and chew," answered the cook.  "I ate mine in the
+kitchen before sun-down."
+
+"Think it'll be a big snow, George?" asked the ranchman.
+
+George had turned to reenter the cook room.  He moved slowly around
+and, looking at his face, it seemed to me that he was turning over
+the wisdom and knowledge of centuries in his head.
+
+"It might," was his delayed reply.
+
+At the door of the kitchen he stopped and looked back at us.  Both
+Ross and I held our knives and forks poised and gave him our regard.
+Some men have the power of drawing the attention of others without
+speaking a word.  Their attitude is more effective than a shout.
+
+"And again it mightn't," said George, and went back to his stove.
+
+After we had eaten, he came in and gathered the emptied dishes.  He
+stood for a moment, while his spurious frown deepened.
+
+"It might stop any minute," he said, "or it might keep up for days."
+
+At the farther end of the cook room I saw George pour hot water into
+his dishpan, light his pipe, and put the tableware through its
+required lavation.  He then carefully unwrapped from a piece of old
+saddle blanket a paperback book, and settled himself to read by his
+dim oil lamp.
+
+And then the ranchman threw tobacco on the cleared table and set
+forth again the bottles and glasses; and I saw that I stood in a deep
+channel through which the long dammed flood of his discourse would
+soon be booming.  But I was half content, comparing my fate with that
+of the late Thomas Tucker, who had to sing for his supper, thus
+doubling the burdens of both himself and his host.  
+
+"Snow is a hell of a thing," said Ross, by way of a foreword.  "It
+ain't, somehow, it seems to me, salubrious.  I can stand water and
+mud and two inches below zero and a hundred and ten in the shade and
+medium-sized cyclones, but this here fuzzy white stuff naturally gets
+me all locoed.  I reckon the reason it rattles you is because it
+changes the look of things so much.  It's like you had a wife and
+left her in the morning with the same old blue cotton wrapper on, and
+rides in of a night and runs across her all outfitted in a white silk
+evening frock, waving an ostrich-feather fan, and monkeying with a
+posy of lily flowers.  Wouldn't it make you look for your pocket
+compass?  You'd be liable to kiss her before you collected your
+presence of mind."
+
+By and by, the flood of Ross's talk was drawn up into the clouds (so
+it pleased me to fancy) and there condensed into the finer snowflakes
+of thought; and we sat silent about the stove, as good friends and
+bitter enemies will do.  I thought of Boss's preamble about the
+mysterious influence upon man exerted by that ermine-lined monster
+that now covered our little world, and knew he was right.
+
+Of all the curious knickknacks, mysteries, puzzles, Indian gifts,
+rat-traps, and well-disguised blessings that the gods chuck down to
+us from the Olympian peaks, the most disquieting and evil-bringing
+is the snow.  By scientific analysis it is absolute beauty and purity
+--so, at the beginning we look doubtfully at chemistry.
+
+It falls upon the world, and lo! we live in another.  It hides in a
+night the old scars and familiar places with which we have grown
+heart-sick or enamored.  So, as quietly as we can, we hustle on our
+embroidered robes and hie us on Prince Camaralzaman's horse or in the
+reindeer sleigh into the white country where the seven colors converge.
+This is when our fancy can overcome the bane of it.
+
+But in certain spots of the earth comes the snow-madness, made known
+by people turned wild and distracted by the bewildering veil that has
+obscured the only world they know.  In the cities, the white fairy who
+sets the brains of her dupes whirling by a wave of her wand is cast
+for the comedy role.  Her diamond shoe buckles glitter like frost;
+with a pirouette she invites the spotless carnival.
+
+But in the waste places the snow is sardonic.  Sponging out the world
+of the outliers, it gives no foothold on another sphere in return.
+It makes of the earth a firmament under foot; it leaves us clawing
+and stumbling in space in an inimical fifth element whose evil outdoes
+its strangeness and beauty, There Nature, low comedienne, plays her
+tricks on man.  Though she has put him forth as her highest product,
+it appears that she has fashioned him with what seems almost
+incredible carelessness and indexterity.  One-sided and without
+balance, with his two halves unequally fashioned and joined, must he
+ever jog his eccentric way.  The snow falls, the darkness caps it,
+and the ridiculous man-biped strays in accurate circles until he
+succumbs in the ruins of his defective architecture.
+
+In the throat of the thirsty the snow is vitriol.  In appearance as
+plausible as the breakfast food of the angels, it is as hot in the
+mouth as ginger, increasing the pangs of the water-famished.  It is
+a derivative from water, air, and some cold, uncanny fire from which
+the caloric has been extracted.  Good has been said of it; even the
+poets, crazed by its spell and shivering in their attics under its
+touch, have indited permanent melodies commemorative of its beauty.
+
+Still, to the saddest overcoated optimist it is a plague--a corroding
+plague that Pharaoh successfully side-stepped.  It beneficently covers
+the wheat fields, swelling the crop--and the Flour Trust gets us by
+the throat like a sudden quinsy.  It spreads the tail of its white
+kirtle over the red seams of the rugged north--and the Alaskan short
+story is born.  Etiolated perfidy, it shelters the mountain traveler
+burrowing from the icy air--and, melting to-morrow, drowns his
+brother in the valley below.
+
+At its worst it is lock and key and crucible, and the wand of Circe.
+When it corrals man in lonely ranches, mountain cabins, and forest
+huts, the snow makes apes and tigers of the hardiest.  It turns the
+bosoms of weaker ones to glass, their tongues to infants' rattles,
+their hearts to lawlessness and spleen.  It is not all from the
+isolation; the snow is not merely a blockader; it is a Chemical Test.
+It is a good man who can show a reaction that is not chiefly composed
+of a drachm or two of potash and magnesia, with traces of Adam,
+Ananias, Nebuchadnezzar, and the fretful porcupine.
+
+This is no story, you say; well, let it begin.
+
+There was a knock at the door (is the opening not full of context and
+reminiscence oh, best buyers of best sellers?).
+
+We drew the latch, and in stumbled Etienne Girod (as he afterward
+named himself).  But just then he was no more than a worm struggling
+for life, enveloped in a killing white chrysalis.
+
+We dug down through snow, overcoats, mufflers, and waterproofs, and
+dragged forth a living thing with a Van Dyck beard and marvellous
+diamond rings.  We put it through the approved curriculum of snow-
+rubbing, hot milk, and teaspoonful doses of whiskey, working him up
+to a graduating class entitled to a diploma of three fingers of rye
+in half a glassful of hot water.  One of the ranch boys had already
+come from the quarters at Ross's bugle-like yell and kicked the
+stranger's staggering pony to some sheltered corral where beasts were
+entertained.
+
+Let a paragraphic biography of Girod intervene.
+
+Etienne was an opera singer originally, we gathered; but adversity
+and the snow had made him ~non compos vocis~.  The adversity consisted
+of the stranded San Salvador Opera Company, a period of hotel second-
+story work, and then a career as a professional palmist, jumping from
+town to town.  For, like other professional palmists, every time he
+worked the Heart Line too strongly he immediately moved along the Line
+of Least Resistance.  Though Etienne did not confide this to us, we
+surmised that he had moved out into the dusk about twenty minutes
+ahead of a constable, and had thus encountered the snow.  In his most
+sacred blue language he dilated upon the subject of snow; for Etienne
+was Paris-born and loved the snow with the same passion that an orchid
+does.
+
+"Mee-ser-rhable!" commented Etienne, and took another three fingers.
+
+"Complete, cast-iron, pussy-footed, blank... blank!" said Ross, and
+followed suit.
+
+"Rotten," said I.
+
+The cook said nothing.  He stood in the door weighing our outburst;
+and insistently from behind that frozen visage I got two messages
+(via the M. A. M wireless).  One was that George considered our
+vituperation against the snow childish; the other was that George did
+not love Dagoes.  Inasmuch as Etienne was a Frenchman, I concluded I
+had the message wrong.  So I queried the other: "Bright eyes, you
+don't really mean Dagoes, do you?" and over the wireless came three
+deathly, psychic taps:  "Yes."  Then I reflected that to George all
+foreigners were probably "Dagoes."  I had once known another camp
+cook who had thought Mons., Sig., and Millie (Trans-Mississippi for
+Mlle.) were Italian given names; this cook used to marvel therefore
+at the paucity of Neo-Roman precognomens, and therefore why not--
+
+I have said that snow is a test of men.  For one day, two days,
+Etienne stood at the window, Fletcherizing his finger nails and
+shrieking and moaning at the monotony.  To me, Etienne was just
+about as unbearable as the snow; and so, seeking relief, I went out
+on the second day to look at my horse, slipped on a stone, broke my
+collarbone, and thereafter underwent not the snow test, but the test
+of flat-on-the-back.  A test that comes once too often for any man to
+stand.
+
+However, I bore up cheerfully.  I was now merely a spectator, and
+from my couch in the big room I could lie and watch the human
+interplay with that detached, impassive, impersonal feeling which
+French writers tell us is so valuable to the litterateur, and American
+writers to the faro-dealer.  
+
+"I shall go crazy in this abominable, mee-ser-rhable place!" was
+Etienne's constant prediction.
+
+"Never knew Mark Twain to bore me before," said Ross, over and over.
+He sat by the other window, hour after hour, a box of Pittsburg
+stogies of the length, strength, and odor of a Pittsburg graft scandal
+deposited on one side of him, and "Roughing It," "The Jumping Frog,"
+and "Life on the Mississippi" on the other.  For every chapter he lit
+a new stogy, puffing furiously.  This in time, gave him a recurrent
+premonition of cramps, gastritis, smoker's colic or whatever it is
+they have in Pittsburg after a too deep indulgence in graft scandals.
+To fend off the colic, Ross resorted time and again to Old Doctor
+Still's Amber-Colored U. S. A. Colic Cure.  Result, after forty-eight
+hours--nerves.
+
+"Positive fact I never knew Mark Twain to make me tired before.
+Positive fact."  Ross slammed "Roughing It" on the floor.  "When
+you're snowbound this-away you want tragedy, I guess.  Humor just
+seems to bring out all your cussedness.  You read a man's poor,
+pitiful attempts to be funny and it makes you so nervous you want to
+tear the book up, get out your bandana, and have a good, long cry."
+
+At the other end of the room, the Frenchman took his finger nails out
+of his mouth long enough to exclaim:  "Humor!  Humor at such a time
+as thees!  My God, I shall go crazy in thees abominable--"
+
+"Supper," announced George.
+
+These meals were not the meals of Rabelais who said, "the great God
+makes the planets and we make the platters neat."  By that time, the
+ranch-house meals were not affairs of gusto; they were mental
+distraction, not bodily provender.  What they were to be later shall
+never be forgotten by Ross or me or Etienne.
+
+After supper, the stogies and finger nails began again.  My shoulder
+ached wretchedly, and with half-closed eyes I tried to forget it by
+watching the deft movements of the stolid cook.
+
+Suddenly I saw him cock his ear, like a dog.  Then, with a swift
+step, he moved to the door, threw it open, and stood there.
+
+The rest of us had heard nothing.
+
+"What is it, George?" asked Ross.
+
+The cook reached out his hand into the darkness alongside the jamb.
+With careful precision he prodded something.  Then he made one
+careful step into the snow.  His back muscles bulged a little under
+the arms as he stooped and lightly lifted a burden.  Another step
+inside the door, which he shut methodically behind him, and he dumped
+the burden at a safe distance from the fire.
+
+He stood up and fixed us with a solemn eye.  None of us moved under
+that Orphic suspense until,
+
+"A woman," remarked George.
+
+
+Miss Willie Adams was her name.  Vocation, school-teacher.  Present
+avocation, getting  lost  in  the  snow.  Age, yum-yum (the Persian
+for twenty).  Take to the woods if you would describe Miss Adams.
+A willow for grace; a hickory for fibre; a birch for the clear
+whiteness of her skin; for eyes, the blue sky seen through treetops;
+the silk in cocoons for her hair; her voice, the murmur of the evening
+June wind in the leaves; her mouth, the berries of the wintergreen;
+fingers as light as ferns; her toe as small as a deer track.  General
+impression upon the dazed beholder--you could not see the forest for
+the trees.
+
+Psychology, with a capital P and the foot of a lynx, at this juncture
+stalks into the ranch house.  Three men, a cook, a pretty young woman
+--all snowbound.  Count me out of it, as I did not count, anyway.  I
+never did, with women.  Count the cook out, if you like.  But note the
+effect upon Ross and Etienne Girod.
+
+Ross dumped Mark Twain in a trunk and locked the trunk.  Also, he
+discarded the Pittsburg scandals.  Also, he shaved off a three days'
+beard.
+
+Etienne, being French, began on the beard first.  He pomaded it, from
+a little tube of grease Hongroise in his vest pocket.   He combed it
+with a little aluminum comb from the same vest pocket. He trimmed it
+with manicure scissors from the same vest pocket.  His light and
+Gallic spirits underwent a sudden, miraculous change.  He hummed a
+blithe San Salvador Opera Company tune; he grinned, smirked, bowed,
+pirouetted, twiddled, twaddled, twisted, and tooralooed.  Gayly, the
+notorious troubadour, could not have equalled Etienne.
+
+Ross's method of advance was brusque, domineering.  "Little woman,"
+he said, "you're welcome here!"--and with what he thought subtle
+double meaning--"welcome to stay here as long as you like, snow or
+no snow."
+
+Miss Adams thanked him a little wildly, some of the wintergreen
+berries creeping into the birch bark.  She looked around hurriedly as
+if seeking escape.  But there was none, save the kitchen and the room
+allotted her.  She made an excuse and disappeared into her own room.
+
+Later I, feigning sleep, heard the following:
+
+"Mees Adams, I was almost to perislh-die-of monotony w'en your fair
+and beautiful face appear in thees mee-ser-rhable house."  I opened my
+starboard eye.  The beard was being curled furiously around a finger,
+the Svengali eye was rolling, the chair was being hunched closer to
+the school-teacher's.  "I am French--you see--temperamental--nervous!
+I cannot endure thees dull hours in thees ranch house; but--a woman
+comes!  Ah!"  The shoulders gave nine 'rahs and a tiger.  "What a
+difference!  All is light and gay; ever'ting smile w'en you smile.
+You have 'eart, beauty, grace.  My 'eart comes back to me w'en I feel
+your 'eart.  So!"  He laid his hand upon his vest pocket.  From this
+vantage point he suddenly snatched at the  school-teacher's own hand,
+"Ah!  Mees Adams, if I could only tell you how I ad--"
+
+"Dinner," remarked George.  He was standing just behind the
+Frenchman's ear.  His eyes looked straight into the school-teacher's
+eyes.  After thirty seconds of survey, his lips moved, deep in the
+flinty, frozen maelstrom of his face:  "Dinner," he concluded, "will
+be ready in two minutes."
+
+Miss Adams jumped to her feet, relieved.  "I must get ready for
+dinner," she said brightly, and went into her room.
+
+Ross came in fifteen minutes late.  After the dishes had been cleaned
+away, I waited until a propitious time when the room was temporarily
+ours alone, and told him what had happened.
+
+He became so excited that he lit a stogy without thinking. "Yeller-
+hided, unwashed, palm-readin' skunk," he said under his breath.  "I'll
+shoot him full o' holes if he don't watch out--talkin' that way to my
+wife!"
+
+I gave a jump that set my collarbone back another week.  "Your wife!"
+I gasped.
+
+"Well, I mean to make her that," he announced.
+
+The air in the ranch house the rest of that day was tense with pent-up
+emotions, oh, best buyers of best sellers.
+
+Ross watched Miss Adams as a hawk does a hen; he watched Etienne as
+a hawk does a scarecrow, Etienne watched Miss Adams as a weasel does
+a henhouse.  He paid no attention to Ross.
+
+The condition of Miss Adams, in the role of sought-after, was
+feverish.  Lately escaped from the agony and long torture of the white
+cold, where for hours Nature had kept the little school-teacher's
+vision locked in and turned upon herself, nobody knows through what
+profound feminine introspections she had gone.  Now, suddenly cast
+among men, instead of finding relief and security, she beheld herself
+plunged anew into other discomforts.  Even in her own room she could
+hear the loud voices of her imposed suitors.  "I'll blow you full o'
+holes!" shouted Ross.  "Witnesses," shrieked Etienne, waving his
+hand at the cook and me.  She could not have known the previous
+harassed condition of the men, fretting under indoor conditions.  All
+she knew was, that where she had expected the frank freemasonry of
+the West, she found the subtle tangle of two men's minds, bent upon
+exacting whatever romance there might be in her situation.
+
+She tried to dodge Ross and the Frenchman by spells of nursing me.
+They also came over to help nurse.  This combination aroused such a
+natural state of invalid cussedness on my part that they were all
+forced to retire.  Once she did manage to whisper:  "I am so worried
+here.  I don't know what to do."
+
+To which I replied, gently, hitching up my shoulder, that I was a
+hunch-savant and that the Eighth House under this sign, the Moon being
+in Virgo, showed that everything would turn out all right.
+
+But twenty minutes later I saw Etienne reading her palm and felt that
+perhaps I might have to recast her horoscope, and try for a dark man
+coming with a bundle.
+
+Toward sunset, Etienne left the house for a few moments and Ross, who
+had been sitting taciturn and morose, having unlocked Mark Twain, made
+another dash.  It was typical Ross talk.
+
+He stood in front of her and looked down majestically at that cool
+and perfect spot where Miss Adams' forehead met the neat part in her
+fragrant hair.  First, however, he cast a desperate glance at me.  I
+was in a profound slumber.
+
+"Little woman," he began, "it's certainly tough for a man like me to
+see you bothered this way.  You"--gulp--"you have been alone in this
+world too long.  You need a protector.  I might say that at a time
+like this you need a protector the worst kind--a protector who would
+take a three-ring delight in smashing the saffron-colored kisser off
+of any yeller-skinned skunk that made himself obnoxious to you.  Hem.
+Hem.  I am a lonely man, Miss Adams.  I have so far had to carry on
+my life without the"--gulp--"sweet radiance"--gulp--"of a woman around
+the house.  I feel especially doggoned lonely at a time like this,
+when I am pretty near locoed from havin' to stall indoors, and hence
+it was with delight I welcomed your first appearance in this here
+shack.  Since then I have been packed jam full of more different kinds
+of feelings, ornery, mean, dizzy, and superb, than has fallen my way
+in years."
+
+Miss Adams made a useless movement toward escape.  The Ross chin stuck
+firm.  "I don't want to annoy you, Miss Adams, but, by heck, if it
+comes to that you'll have to be annoyed.  And I'll have to have my
+say.  This palm-ticklin' slob of a Frenchman ought to be kicked off
+the place and if you'll say the word, off he goes.  But I don't want
+to do the wrong thing.  You've got to show a preference.  I'm gettin'
+around to the point, Miss--Miss Willie, in my own brick fashion.  I've
+stood about all I can stand these last two days and somethin's got to
+happen.  The suspense hereabouts is enough to hang a sheepherder.
+Miss Willie"--he lassooed her hand by main force--"just say the word.
+You need somebody to take your part all your life long.  Will you
+mar--"
+
+"Supper," remarked George, tersely, from the kitchen door.
+
+Miss Adams hurried away.
+
+Ross turned angrily.  "You--"
+
+"I have been revolving it in my head," said George.
+
+He brought the coffee pot forward heavily. Then bravely the big
+platter of pork and beans.  Then somberly the potatoes.  Then
+profoundly the biscuits.  "I have been revolving it in my mind.
+There ain't no use waitin' any longer for Swengalley.  Might as
+well eat now."
+
+>From my excellent vantage-point on the couch I watched the progress
+of that meal.  Ross, muddled, glowering, disappointed; Etienne,
+eternally blandishing, attentive, ogling; Miss Adams, nervous, picking
+at her food, hesitant about answering questions, almost hysterical;
+now and then the solid, flitting shadow of the cook, passing behind
+their backs like a Dreadnaught in a fog.
+
+I used to own a clock which gurgled in its throat three minutes
+before it struck the hour.  I know, therefore, the slow freight of
+Anticipation.  For I have awakened at three in the morning, heard the
+clock gurgle, and waited those three minutes for the three strokes I
+knew were to come.  ~Alors~.  In Ross's ranch house that night the
+slow freight of  Climax whistled in the distance.
+
+Etienne began it after supper.  Miss Aclams had suddenly displayed a
+lively interest in the kitchen layout and I could see her in there,
+chatting brightly at George--not with him--the while he ducked his
+head and rattled his pans.
+
+"My fren'," said Etienne, exhaling a large cloud from his cigarette
+and patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand
+which, hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, "I see I mus' be
+frank with you.  Firs', because we are rivals; second, because you
+take these matters so serious. I--I am Frenchman.  I love the women"
+--he threw back his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an
+unsavory kiss toward the kitchen.  "It is, I suppose, a trait of my
+nation.  All Frenchmen love the women--pretty women.  Now, look:
+Here I am!"  He spread out his arms.  "Cold outside!  I detes' the
+col-l-l!  Snow!  I abominate the mees-ser-rhable snow!  Two men!
+This--" pointing to me--"an' this!"  Pointing to' Ross.  "I am
+distracted!  For two whole days I stan' at the window an' tear my
+'air!  I am nervous, upset, pr-r-ro-foun'ly distress inside my 'ead!
+An' suddenly--be'old!  A woman, a nice, pretty, charming, innocen'
+young woman!  I, naturally, rejoice.  I become myself again--gay,
+light-'earted, "appy.  I address myself to mademoiselle; it passes
+the time.  That, m'sieu', is wot the women are for--pass the time!
+Entertainment--like the music, like the wine!
+
+"They appeal to the mood, the caprice, the temperamen'.  To play with
+thees woman, follow her through her humor, pursue her--ah! that is
+the mos' delightful way to sen' the hours about their business."
+
+Ross banged the table.  "Shut up, you miserable yeller pup!" he
+roared.  "I object to your pursuin' anything or anybody in my house.
+Now, you listen to me, you--"  He picked up the box of stogies and
+used it on the table as an emphasizer.  The noise of it awoke the
+attention of the girl in the kitchen.  Unheeded, she crept into the
+room.  "I don't know anything about your French ways of lovemakin' an'
+I don't care.  In my section of the country, it's the best man wins.
+And I'm the best man here, and don't you forget it!  This girl's goin'
+to be mine.  There ain't g'oing to be any playing, or philandering,
+or palm reading about it.  I've made up my mind I'll have this girl,
+and that settles it.  My word is the law in this neck o' the woods.
+She's mine, and as soon as she says she's mine, you pull out."  The
+box made one final, tremendous punctuation point.
+
+Etienne's bravado was unruffled.  "Ah! that is no way to win a woman,"
+he smiled, easily.  "I make prophecy you will never win 'er that way.
+No.  Not thees woman.  She mus' be played along an' then keessed, this
+charming, delicious little creature.  One kees!  An' then you 'ave
+her."  Again he displayed his unpleasant teeth.  "I make you a bet I
+will kees her--"
+
+As a cheerful chronicler of deeds done well, it joys me to relate
+that the hand which fell upon Etienne's amorous lips was not his own.
+There was one sudden sound, as of a mule kicking a lath fence, and
+then--through the swinging doors of oblivion for Etienne.
+
+I had seen this blow delivered.  It was an aloof, unstudied, almost
+absent-minded affair.  I had thought the cook was rehearsing the
+proper method of turning a flapjack.
+
+Silently, lost in thought, he stood there scratching his head.  Then
+he began rolling down his sleeves.
+
+"You'd better get your things on, Miss, and we'll get out of here,"
+he decided.  "Wrap up warm."
+
+I heard her heave a little sigh of relief as she went to get her
+cloak, sweater, and hat.
+
+Ross jumped to his feet, and said:  "George, what are you goin'
+to do?"
+
+George, who had been headed in my direction, slowly swivelled around
+and faced his employer.  "Bein' a camp cook, I ain't over-burdened
+with hosses," George enlightened us.  "Therefore, I am going to try
+to borrow this feller's here."
+
+For the first time in four days my soul gave a genuine cheer.  "If
+it's for Lochinvar purposes, go as far as you like," I said, grandly.
+
+The cook studied me a moment, as if trying to find an insult in my
+words.  "No," he replied.  "It's for mine and the young lady's
+purposes, and we'll go only three miles--to Hicksville.  Now let me
+tell you somethin', Ross." Suddenly I was confronted with the cook's
+chunky back and I heard a low, curt, carrying voice shoot through the
+room at my host.  George had wheeled just as Ross started to speak.
+"You're nutty.  That's what's the matter with you.  You can't stand
+the snow. You're getting nervouser, and nuttier every day.  That and
+this Dago"--he jerked a thumb at the half-dead Frenchman in the
+corner--"has got you to the point where I thought I better horn in.
+I got to revolving it around in my mind and I seen if somethin'
+wasn't done, and done soon, there'd be murder around here and maybe"
+--his head gave an imperceptible list toward the girl's room--"worse."
+
+He stopped, but he held up a stubby finger to keep any one else from
+speaking.  Then he plowed slowly through the drift of his ideas.
+"About this here woman.  I know you, Ross, and I know what you reely
+think about women.  If she hadn't happened in here durin' this here
+snow, you'd never have given two thoughts to the whole woman question.
+Likewise, when the storm clears, and you and the boys go hustlin' out,
+this here whole business 'll clear out of your head and you won't
+think of a skirt again until Kingdom Come.  Just because o' this snow
+here, don't forget you're living in the selfsame world you was in four
+days ago.  And you're the same man, too.  Now, what's the use o'
+getting all snarled up over four days of stickin' in the house?  That
+there's what I been revolvin' in my mind and this here's the decision
+I've come to."
+
+He plodded to the door and shouted to one of the ranch hands to saddle
+my horse.
+
+Ross lit a stogy and stood thoughtful in the middle of the room.  Then
+he began:  "I've a durn good notion, George, to knock your confounded
+head off and throw you into that snowbank, if--"
+
+"You're wrong, mister.  That ain't a durned good notion you've got.
+It's durned bad.  Look here!"  He pointed steadily out of doors until
+we were both forced to follow his finger.  "You're in here for more'n
+a week yet." After allowing this fact to sink in, he barked out at
+Ross:  "Can you cook?"  Then at me:  "Can you cook?"  Then he looked
+at the wreck of Etienne and sniffed.
+
+There was an embarrassing silence as Ross and I thought solemnly of
+a foodless week.
+
+"If you just use hoss sense," concluded George, "and don't go for to
+hurt my feelin's, all I want to do is to take this young gal down to
+Hicksville; and then I'll head back here and cook fer you."
+
+The horse and Miss Adams arrived simultaneously, both of them very
+serious and quiet.  The horse because he knew what he had before him
+in that weather; the girl because of what she had left behind.
+
+Then all at once I awoke to a realization of what the cook was doing.
+"My God, man!" I cried, "aren't you afraid to go out in that snow?"
+
+Behind my back I heard Ross mutter, "Not him."
+
+George lifted the girl daintily up behind the saddle, drew on his
+gloves, put his foot in the stirrup, and turned to inspect me
+leisurely.
+
+As I passed slowly in his review, I saw in my mind's eye the
+algebraic equation of Snow, the equals sign, and the answer in
+the man before me.
+
+"Snow is my last name," said George.  He swung into the saddle
+and they started cautiously out into the darkening swirl of fresh
+new currency just issuing from the Snowdrop Mint.  The girl, to keep
+her place, clung happily to the sturdy figure of the camp cook.
+
+I brought three things away from Ross Curtis's ranch house--yes,
+four.  One was the appreciation of snow, which I have so humbly
+tried here to render; (2) was a collarbone, of which I am extra
+careful; (3) was a memory of what it is to eat very extremely bad
+food for a week; and (4) was the cause of (3) a little note delivered
+at the end of the week and hand-painted in blue pencil on a sheet of
+meat paper.
+
+"I cannot come back there to that there job.  Mrs. Snow say no,
+George.  I been revolvin' it in my mind; considerin' circumstances
+she's right."
+
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Waifs and Strays, Part I.
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Waifs and Strays, by O. Henry
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Waifs and Strays
+       Part 1
+
+Author: O. Henry
+
+Posting Date: October 23, 2008 [EBook #2295]
+Release Date: August, 2000
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAIFS AND STRAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Earle C. Beach.  HTML version by Al Haines.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Waifs and Strays
+
+
+by
+
+O Henry
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+TWELVE STORIES
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+  The Red Roses of Tonia
+  Round The Circle
+  The Rubber Plant's Story
+  Out of Nazareth
+  Confessions of a Humorist
+  The Sparrows in Madison Square
+  Hearts and Hands
+  The Cactus
+  The Detective Detector
+  The Dog and the Playlet
+  A Little Talk About Mobs
+  The Snow Man
+
+
+
+
+THE RED ROSES OF TONIA
+
+A trestle burned down on the International Railroad.  The south-bound
+from San Antonio was cut off for the next forty-eight hours. On that
+train was Tonia Weaver's Easter hat.
+
+Espirition, the Mexican, who had been sent forty miles in a buckboard
+from the Espinosa Ranch to fetch it, returned with a shrugging shoulder
+and hands empty except for a cigarette.  At the small station, Nopal,
+he had learned of the delayed train and, having no commands to wait,
+turned his ponies toward the ranch again.
+
+Now, if one supposes that Easter, the Goddess of Spring, cares any more
+for the after-church parade on Fifth Avenue than she does for her loyal
+outfit of subjects that assemble at the meeting-house at Cactus, Tex.,
+a mistake has been made.  The wives and daughters of the ranchmen of
+the Frio country put forth Easter blossoms of new hats and gowns as
+faithfully as is done anywhere, and the Southwest is, for one day, a
+mingling of prickly pear, Paris, and paradise. And now it was Good
+Friday, and Tonia Weaver's Easter hat blushed unseen in the desert air
+of an impotent express car, beyond the burned trestle.  On Saturday
+noon the Rogers girls, from the Shoestring Ranch, and Ella Reeves, from
+the Anchor-O, and Mrs. Bennet and Ida, from Green Valley, would convene
+at the Espinosa and pick up Tonia.  With their Easter hats and frocks
+carefully wrapped and bundled against the dust, the fair aggregation
+would then merrily jog the ten miles to Cactus, where on the morrow
+they would array themselves, subjugate man, do homage to Easter, and
+cause jealous agitation among the lilies of the field.
+
+Tonia sat on the steps of the Espinosa ranch house flicking gloomily
+with a quirt at a tuft of curly mesquite.  She displayed a frown and a
+contumelious lip, and endeavored to radiate an aura of disagreeableness
+and tragedy.
+
+"I hate railroads," she announced positively.  "And men.  Men pretend
+to run them.  Can you give any excuse why a trestle should burn?  Ida
+Bennet's hat is to be trimmed with violets.  I shall not go one step
+toward Cactus without a new hat.  If I were a man I would get one."
+
+Two men listened uneasily to this disparagement of their kind. One was
+Wells Pearson, foreman of the Mucho Calor cattle ranch.  The other was
+Thompson Burrows, the prosperous sheepman from the Quintana Valley.
+Both thought Tonia Weaver adorable, especially when she railed at
+railroads and menaced men.  Either would have given up his epidermis to
+make for her an Easter hat more cheerfully than the ostrich gives up
+his tip or the aigrette lays down its life.  Neither possessed the
+ingenuity to conceive a means of supplying the sad deficiency against
+the coming Sabbath.  Pearson's deep brown face and sunburned light hair
+gave him the appearance of a schoolboy seized by one of youth's
+profound and insolvable melancholies.  Tonia's plight grieved him
+through and through.  Thompson Burrows was the more skilled and
+pliable.  He hailed from somewhere in the East originally; and he wore
+neckties and shoes, and was made dumb by woman's presence.
+
+"The big water-hole on Sandy Creek," said Pearson, scarcely hoping to
+make a hit, "was filled up by that last rain."
+
+"Oh!  Was it?" said Tonia sharply.  "Thank you for the information. I
+suppose a new hat is nothing to you, Mr. Pearson.  I suppose you think
+a woman ought to wear an old Stetson five years without a change, as
+you do.  If your old water-hole could have put out the fire on that
+trestle you might have some reason to talk about it."
+
+"I am deeply sorry," said Burrows, warned by Pearson's fate, "that you
+failed to receive your hat, Miss Weaver--deeply sorry, indeed. If there
+was anything I could do--"
+
+"Don't bother," interrupted Tonia, with sweet sarcasm.  "If there was
+anything you could do, you'd be doing it, of course.  There isn't."
+
+Tonia paused.  A sudden sparkle of hope had come into her eye.  Her
+frown smoothed away.  She had an inspiration.
+
+"There's a store over at Lone Elm Crossing on the Nueces," she said,
+"that keeps hats.  Eva Rogers got hers there.  She said it was the
+latest style.  It might have some left.  But it's twenty-eight miles to
+Lone Elm."
+
+The spurs of two men who hastily arose jingled; and Tonia almost
+smiled.  The Knights, then, were not all turned to dust; nor were their
+rowels rust.
+
+"Of course," said Tonia, looking thoughtfully at a white gulf cloud
+sailing across the cerulean dome, "nobody could ride to Lone Elm and
+back by the time the girls call by for me to-morrow.  So, I reckon I'll
+have to stay at home this Easter Sunday."
+
+And then she smiled.
+
+"Well, Miss Tonia," said Pearson, reaching for his hat, as guileful as
+a sleeping babe.  "I reckon I'll be trotting along back to Mucho Calor.
+There's some cutting out to be done on Dry Branch first thing in the
+morning; and me and Road Runner has got to be on hand.  It's too bad
+your hat got sidetracked.  Maybe they'll get that trestle mended yet in
+time for Easter."
+
+"I must be riding, too, Miss Tonia," announced Burrows, looking at his
+watch.  "I declare, it's nearly five o'clock!  I must be out at my
+lambing camp in time to help pen those crazy ewes."
+
+Tonia's suitors seemed to have been smitten with a need for haste. They
+bade her a ceremonious farewell, and then shook each other's hands with
+the elaborate and solemn courtesy of the Southwesterner.
+
+"Hope I'll see you again soon, Mr. Pearson," said Burrows.
+
+"Same here," said the cowman, with the serious face of one whose friend
+goes upon a whaling voyage.  "Be gratified to see you ride over to
+Mucho Calor any time you strike that section of the range."
+
+Pearson mounted Road Runner, the soundest cow-pony on the Frio, and let
+him pitch for a minute, as he always did on being mounted, even at the
+end of a day's travel.
+
+"What kind of a hat was that, Miss Tonia," he called, "that you ordered
+from San Antone?  I can't help but be sorry about that hat."
+
+"A straw," said Tonia; "the latest shape, of course; trimmed with red
+roses.  That's what I like--red roses."
+
+"There's no color more becoming to your complexion and hair," said
+Burrows, admiringly.
+
+"It's what I like," said Tonia.  "And of all the flowers, give me red
+roses.  Keep all the pinks and blues for yourself.  But what's the use,
+when trestles burn and leave you without anything?  It'll be a dry old
+Easter for me!"
+
+Pearson took off his hat and drove Road Runner at a gallop into the
+chaparral east of the Espinosa ranch house.
+
+As his stirrups rattled against the brush Burrows's long-legged sorrel
+struck out down the narrow stretch of open prairie to the southwest.
+
+Tonia hung up her quirt and went into the sitting-room.
+
+"I'm mighty sorry, daughter, that you didn't get your hat," said her
+mother.
+
+"Oh, don't worry, mother," said Tonia, coolly.  "I'll have a new hat,
+all right, in time to-morrow."
+
+
+When Burrows reached the end of the strip of prairie he pulled his
+sorrel to the right and let him pick his way daintily across a sacuista
+flat through which ran the ragged, dry bed of an arroyo. Then up a
+gravelly hill, matted with bush, the hoarse scrambled, and at length
+emerged, with a snort of satisfaction into a stretch of high, level
+prairie, grassy and dotted with the lighter green of mesquites in their
+fresh spring foliage.  Always to the right Burrows bore, until in a
+little while he struck the old Indian trail that followed the Nueces
+southward, and that passed, twenty-eight miles to the southeast,
+through Lone Elm.
+
+Here Burrows urged the sorrel into a steady lope.  As he settled
+himself in the saddle for a long ride he heard the drumming of hoofs,
+the hollow "thwack" of chaparral against wooden stirrups, the whoop of
+a  Comanche; and Wells Pearson burst out of the brush at the right of
+the trail like a precocious yellow chick from a dark green Easter egg.
+
+Except in the presence of awing femininity melancholy found no place in
+Pearson's bosom.  In Tonia's presence his voice was as soft as a summer
+bullfrog's in his reedy nest.  Now, at his gleesome yawp, rabbits, a
+mile away, ducked their ears, and sensitive plants closed their fearful
+fronds.
+
+"Moved your lambing camp pretty far from the ranch, haven't you,
+neighbor?" asked Pearson, as Road Runner fell in at the sorrel's side.
+
+"Twenty-eight miles," said Burrows, looking a little grim.  Pearson's
+laugh woke an owl one hour too early in his water-elm on the river
+bank, half a mile away.
+
+"All right for you, sheepman.  I like an open game, myself.  We're two
+locoed he-milliners hat-hunting in the wilderness.  I notify you. Burr,
+to mind your corrals.  We've got an even start, and the one that gets
+the headgear will stand some higher at the Espinosa."
+
+"You've got a good pony," said Burrows, eyeing Road Runner's
+barrel-like body and tapering legs that moved as regularly as the
+pistonrod of an engine.  "It's a race, of course; but you're too much
+of a horseman to whoop it up this soon.  Say we travel together till we
+get to the home stretch."
+
+"I'm your company," agreed Pearson, "and I admire your sense.  If
+there's hats at Lone Elm, one of 'em shall set on Miss Tonia's brow
+to-morrow, and you won't be at the crowning.  I ain't bragging, Burr,
+but that sorrel of yours is weak in the fore-legs."
+
+"My horse against yours," offered Burrows, "that Miss Tonia wears the
+hat I take her to Cactus to-morrow."
+
+"I'll take you up," shouted Pearson.  "But oh, it's just like
+horse-stealing for me!  I can use that sorrel for a lady's animal
+when--when somebody comes over to Mucho Calor, and--"
+
+Burrows' dark face glowered so suddenly that the cowman broke off his
+sentence.  But Pearson could never feel any pressure for long.
+
+"What's all this Easter business about, Burr?" he asked, cheerfully.
+"Why do the women folks have to have new hats by the almanac or bust
+all cinches trying to get 'em?"
+
+"It's a seasonable statute out of the testaments," explained Burrows.
+"It's ordered by the Pope or somebody.  And it has something to do with
+the Zodiac I don't know exactly, but I think it was invented by the
+Egyptians."
+
+"It's an all-right jubilee if the heathens did put their brand on it,"
+said Pearson; "or else Tonia wouldn't have anything to do with it.  And
+they pull it off at church, too.  Suppose there ain't but one hat in
+the Lone Elm store, Burr!"
+
+"Then," said Burrows, darkly, "the best man of us'll take it back to
+the Espinosa."
+
+"Oh, man!" cried Pearson, throwing his hat high and catching it again,
+"there's nothing like you come off the sheep ranges before. You talk
+good and collateral to the occasion.  And if there's more than one?"
+
+"Then," said Burrows, "we'll pick our choice and one of us'll get back
+first with his and the other won't."
+
+"There never was two souls," proclaimed Pearson to the stars, "that
+beat more like one heart than yourn and mine.  Me and you might be
+riding on a unicorn and thinking out of the same piece of mind."
+
+At a little past midnight the riders loped into Lone Elm. The half a
+hundred houses of the big village were dark.  On its only street the
+big wooden store stood barred and shuttered.
+
+In a few moments the horses were fastened and Pearson was pounding
+cheerfully on the door of old Sutton, the storekeeper.
+
+The barrel of a Winchester came through a cranny of a solid window
+shutter followed by a short inquiry.
+
+"Wells Pearson, of the Mucho Calor, and Burrows, of Green Valley," was
+the response.  "We want to buy some goods in the store.  Sorry to wake
+you up but we must have 'em.  Come on out, Uncle Tommy, and get a move
+on you."
+
+Uncle Tommy was slow, but at length they got him behind his counter
+with a kerosene lamp lit, and told him of their dire need.
+
+"Easter hats?" said Uncle Tommy, sleepily.  "Why, yes, I believe I have
+got just a couple left.  I only ordered a dozen this spring. I'll show
+'em to you."
+
+Now, Uncle Tommy Sutton was a merchant, half asleep or awake.  In dusty
+pasteboard boxes under the counter he had two left-over spring hats.
+But, alas! for his commercial probity on that early Saturday morn--they
+were hats of two springs ago, and a woman's eye would have detected the
+fraud at half a glance.  But to the unintelligent gaze of the
+cowpuncher and the sheepman they seemed fresh from the mint of
+contemporaneous April.
+
+The hats were of a variety once known as "cart-wheels."  They were of
+stiff straw, colored red, and flat brimmed.  Both were exactly alike,
+and trimmed lavishly around their crowns with full blown, immaculate,
+artificial white roses.
+
+"That all you got, Uncle Tommy?" said Pearson.  "All right. Not much
+choice here, Burr.  Take your pick."
+
+"They're the latest styles" lied Uncle Tommy.  "You'd see 'em on Fifth
+Avenue, if you was in New York."
+
+Uncle Tommy wrapped and tied each hat in two yards of dark calico for a
+protection.  One Pearson tied carefully to his calfskin saddle-thongs;
+and the other became part of Road Runner's burden.  They shouted thanks
+and farewells to Uncle Tommy, and cantered back into the night on the
+home stretch.
+
+The horsemen jockeyed with all their skill.  They rode more slowly on
+their way back.  The few words they spoke were not unfriendly. Burrows
+had a Winchester under his left leg slung over his saddle horn.
+Pearson had a six shooter belted around him.  Thus men rode in the Frio
+country.
+
+At half-past seven in the morning they rode to the top of a hill and
+saw the Espinosa Ranch, a white spot under a dark patch of live-oaks,
+five miles away.
+
+The sight roused Pearson from his drooping pose in the saddle. He knew
+what Road Runner could do.  The sorrel was lathered, and stumbling
+frequently; Road Runner was pegging away like a donkey engine.
+
+Pearson turned toward the sheepman and laughed.  "Good-bye, Burr," he
+cried, with a wave of his hand.  "It's a race now.  We're on the home
+stretch."
+
+He pressed Road Runner with his knees and leaned toward the Espinosa.
+Road Runner struck into a gallop, with tossing head and snorting
+nostrils, as if he were fresh from a month in pasture.
+
+Pearson rode twenty yards and heard the unmistakable sound of a
+Winchester lever throwing a cartridge into the barrel.  He dropped flat
+along his horse's back before the crack of the rifle reached his ears.
+
+It is possible that Burrows intended only to disable the horse--he was
+a good enough shot to do that without endangering his rider. But as
+Pearson stooped the ball went through his shoulder and then through
+Road Runner's neck.  The horse fell and the cowman pitched over his
+head into the hard road, and neither of them tried to move.
+
+Burrows rode on without stopping.
+
+In two hours Pearson opened his eyes and took inventory. He managed to
+get to his feet and staggered back to where Road Runner was lying.
+
+Road Runner was lying there, but he appeared to be comfortable. Pearson
+examined him and found that the bullet had "creased" him. He had been
+knocked out temporarily, but not seriously hurt.  But he was tired, and
+he lay there on Miss Tonia's hat and ate leaves from a mesquite branch
+that obligingly hung over the road.
+
+Pearson made the horse get up.  The Easter hat, loosed from the
+saddle-thongs, lay there in its calico wrappings, a shapeless thing
+from its sojourn beneath the solid carcass of Road Runner.  Then
+Pearson fainted and fell head long upon the poor hat again, crumpling
+it under his wounded shoulders.
+
+It is hard to kill a cowpuncher. In half an hour he revived--long
+enough for a woman to have fainted twice and tried ice-cream for a
+restorer. He got up carefully and found Road Runner who was busy with
+the near-by grass. He tied the unfortunate hat to the saddle again, and
+managed to get himself there, too, after many failures.
+
+At noon a gay and fluttering company waited in front of the Espinosa
+Ranch.  The Rogers girls were there in their new buckboard, and the
+Anchor-O outfit and the Green Valley folks--mostly women.  And each and
+every one wore her new Easter hat, even upon the lonely prairies, for
+they greatly desired to shine forth and do honor to the coming festival.
+
+At the gate stood Tonia, with undisguised tears upon her cheeks. In her
+hand she held Burrow's Lone Elm hat, and it was at its white roses,
+hated by her, that she wept.  For her friends were telling her, with
+the ecstatic joy of true friends, that cart-wheels could not be worn,
+being three seasons passed into oblivion.
+
+"Put on your old hat and come, Tonia," they urged.
+
+"For Easter Sunday?" she answered.  "I'll die first."  And wept again.
+
+The hats of the fortunate ones were curved and twisted into the style
+of spring's latest proclamation.
+
+A strange being rode out of the brush among them, and there sat his
+horse languidly.  He was stained and disfigured with the green of the
+grass and the limestone of rocky roads.
+
+"Hallo, Pearson," said Daddy Weaver.  "Look like you've been breaking a
+mustang.  What's that you've got tied to your saddle--a pig in a poke?"
+
+"Oh, come on, Tonia, if you're going," said Betty Rogers.  "We mustn't
+wait any longer.  We've saved a seat in the buckboard for you.  Never
+mind the hat.  That lovely muslin you've got on looks sweet enough with
+any old hat."
+
+Pearson was slowly untying the queer thing on his saddle.  Tonia looked
+at him with a sudden hope.  Pearson was a man who created hope.  He got
+the thing loose and handed it to her.  Her quick fingers tore at the
+strings.
+
+"Best I could do," said Pearson slowly.  "What Road Runner and me done
+to it will be about all it needs."
+
+"Oh, oh! it's just the right shape," shrieked Tonia.  "And red roses!
+Wait till I try it on!"
+
+She flew in to the glass, and out again, beaming, radiating, blossomed.
+
+"Oh, don't red become her?" chanted the girls in recitative.  "Hurry
+up, Tonia!"
+
+Tonia stopped for a moment by the side of Road Runner.
+
+"Thank you, thank you, Wells," she said, happily.  "It's just what I
+wanted.  Won't you come over to Cactus to-morrow and go to church with
+me?"
+
+"If I can," said Pearson.  He was looking curiously at her hat, and
+then he grinned weakly.
+
+Tonia flew into the buckboard like a bird.  The vehicles sped away for
+Cactus.
+
+"What have you been doing, Pearson?" asked Daddy Weaver.  "You ain't
+looking so well as common."
+
+"Me?" said Pearson.  "I've been painting flowers.  Them roses was white
+when I left Lone Elm.  Help me down, Daddy Weaver, for I haven't got
+any more paint to spare."
+
+
+
+ROUND THE CIRCLE
+
+[This story is especially interesting as an early treatment (1902) of
+the theme afterward developed with a surer hand in The Pendulum.]
+
+
+"Find yo' shirt all right, Sam?" asked Mrs. Webber, from her chair
+under the live-oak, where she was comfortably seated with a paper-back
+volume for company.
+
+"It balances perfeckly, Marthy," answered Sam, with a suspicious
+pleasantness in his tone.  "At first I was about ter be a little
+reckless and kick 'cause ther buttons was all off, but since I diskiver
+that the button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn't go so fur as
+to say the buttons is any loss to speak of."
+
+"Oh, well," said his wife, carelessly, "put on your necktie--that'll
+keep it together."
+
+Sam Webber's sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the
+country between the Nueces and the Frio.  The ranch house--a two-room
+box structure--was on the rise of a gently swelling hill in the midst
+of a wilderness of high chaparral.  In front of it was a small clearing
+where stood the sheep pens, shearing shed, and wool house. Only a few
+feet back of it began the thorny jungle.
+
+Sam was going to ride over to the Chapman ranch to see about buying
+some more improved merino rams.  At length he came out, ready for his
+ride.  This being a business trip of some importance, and the Chapman
+ranch being almost a small town in population and size, Sam had decided
+to "dress up" accordingly.  The result was that he had transformed
+himself from a graceful, picturesque frontiersman into something much
+less pleasing to the sight.  The tight white collar awkwardly
+constricted his muscular, mahogany-colored neck.  The buttonless shirt
+bulged in stiff waves beneath his unbuttoned vest. The suit of
+"ready-made" effectually concealed the fine lines of his straight,
+athletic figure.  His berry-brown face was set to the melancholy
+dignity befitting a prisoner of state.  He gave Randy, his
+three-year-old son, a pat on the head, and hurried out to where Mexico,
+his favorite saddle horse, was standing.
+
+Marthy, leisurely rocking in her chair, fixed her place in the book
+with her finger, and turned her head, smiling mischievously as she
+noted the havoc Sam had wrought with his appearance in trying to "fix
+up."
+
+"Well, ef I must say it, Sam," she drawled, "you look jest like one of
+them hayseeds in the picture papers, 'stead of a free and independent
+sheepman of the State o' Texas."
+
+Sam climbed awkwardly into the saddle.
+
+"You're the one ought to be 'shamed to say so," he replied hotly.
+"'Stead of 'tendin' to a man's clothes you're al'ays setting around
+a-readin' them billy-by-dam yaller-back novils."
+
+"Oh, shet up and ride along," said Mrs. Webber, with a little jerk at
+the handles of her chair; "you always fussin' 'bout my readin'.  I do
+a-plenty; and I'll read when I wanter.  I live in the bresh here like a
+varmint, never seein' nor hearin' nothin', and what other 'musement kin
+I have?  Not in listenin' to you talk, for it's complain, complain, one
+day after another.  Oh, go on, Sam, and leave me in peace."
+
+Sam gave his pony a squeeze with his knees and "shoved" down the wagon
+trail that connected his ranch with the old, open Government road.  It
+was eight o'clock, and already beginning to be very warm. He should
+have started three hours earlier.  Chapman ranch was only eighteen
+miles away, but there was a road for only three miles of the distance.
+He had ridden over there once with one of the Half-Moon cowpunchers,
+and he had the direction well-defined in his mind.
+
+Sam turned off the old Government road at the split mesquite, and
+struck down the arroyo of the Quintanilla.  Here was a narrow stretch
+of smiling valley, upholstered with a rich mat of green, curly mesquite
+grass; and Mexico consumed those few miles quickly with his long, easy
+lope.  Again, upon reaching Wild Duck Waterhole, must he abandon
+well-defined ways.  He turned now to his right up a little hill,
+pebble-covered, upon which grew only the tenacious and thorny prickly
+pear and chaparral.  At the summit of this he paused to take his last
+general view of the landscape for, from now on, he must wind through
+brakes and thickets of chaparral, pear, and mesquite, for the most part
+seeing scarcely farther than twenty yards in any direction, choosing
+his way by the prairie-dweller's instinct, guided only by an occasional
+glimpse of a far distant hilltop, a peculiarly shaped knot of trees, or
+the position of the sun.
+
+Sam rode down the sloping hill and plunged into the great pear flat
+that lies between the Quintanilla and the Piedra.
+
+In about two hours he discovered that he was lost.  Then came the usual
+confusion of mind and the hurry to get somewhere.  Mexico was anxious
+to redeem the situation, twisting with alacrity along the tortuous
+labyrinths of the jungle.  At the moment his master's sureness of the
+route had failed his horse had divined the fact. There were no hills
+now that they could climb to obtain a view of the country.  They came
+upon a few, but so dense and interlaced was the brush that scarcely
+could a rabbit penetrate the mass.  They were in the great, lonely
+thicket of the Frio bottoms.
+
+It was a mere nothing for a cattleman or a sheepman to be lost for a
+day or a night.  The thing often happened.  It was merely a matter of
+missing a meal or two and sleeping comfortably on your saddle blankets
+on a soft mattress of mesquite grass.  But in Sam's case it was
+different.  He had never been away from his ranch at night. Marthy was
+afraid of the country--afraid of Mexicans, of snakes, of panthers, even
+of sheep.  So he had never left her alone.
+
+It must have been about four in the afternoon when Sam's conscience
+awoke.  He was limp and drenched, rather from anxiety than the heat or
+fatigue.  Until now he had been hoping to strike the trail that led to
+the Frio crossing and the Chapman ranch.  He must have crossed it at
+some dim part of it and ridden beyond.  If so he was now something like
+fifty miles from home.  If he could strike a ranch--a camp--any place
+where he could get a fresh horse and inquire the road, he would ride
+all night to get back to Marthy and the kid.
+
+So, I have hinted, Sam was seized by remorse.  There was a big lump in
+his throat as he thought of the cross words he had spoken to his wife.
+Surely it was hard enough for her to live in that horrible country
+without having to bear the burden of his abuse.  He cursed himself
+grimly, and felt a sudden flush of shame that over-glowed the summer
+heat as he remembered the many times he had flouted and railed at her
+because she had a liking for reading fiction.
+
+"Ther only so'ce ov amusement ther po' gal's got," said Sam aloud, with
+a sob, which unaccustomed sound caused Mexico to shy a bit. "A-livin'
+with a sore-headed kiote like me--a low-down skunk that ought to be
+licked to death with a saddle cinch--a-cookin' and a-washin' and
+a-livin' on mutton and beans and me abusin' her fur takin' a squint or
+two in a little book!"
+
+He thought of Marthy as she had been when he first met her in
+Dogtown--smart, pretty, and saucy--before the sun had turned the roses
+in her cheeks brown and the silence of the chaparral had tamed her
+ambitions.
+
+"Ef I ever speaks another hard word to ther little gal," muttered Sam,
+"or fails in the love and affection that's coming to her in the deal, I
+hopes a wildcat'll t'ar me to pieces."
+
+He knew what he would do.  He would write to Garcia & Jones, his San
+Antonio merchants where he bought his supplies and sold his wool, and
+have them send down a big box of novels and reading matter for Marthy.
+Things were going to be different.  He wondered whether a little piano
+could be placed in one of the rooms of the ranch house without the
+family having to move out of doors.
+
+In nowise calculated to allay his self-reproach was the thought that
+Marthy and Randy would have to pass the night alone.  In spite of their
+bickerings, when night came Marthy was wont to dismiss her fears of the
+country, and rest her head upon Sam's strong arm with a sigh of
+peaceful content and dependence.  And were her fears so groundless? Sam
+thought of roving, marauding Mexicans, of stealthy cougars that
+sometimes invaded the ranches, of rattlesnakes, centipedes, and a dozen
+possible dangers.  Marthy would be frantic with fear.  Randy would cry,
+and call for dada to come.
+
+Still the interminable succession of stretches of brush, cactus, and
+mesquite.  Hollow after hollow, slope after slope--all exactly
+alike--all familiar by constant repetition, and yet all strange and
+new. If he could only arrive _somewhere_.
+
+The straight line is Art.  Nature moves in circles.  A straightforward
+man is more an artificial product than a diplomatist is.  Men lost in
+the snow travel in exact circles until they sink, exhausted, as their
+footprints have attested.  Also, travellers in philosophy and other
+mental processes frequently wind up at their starting-point.
+
+It was when Sam Webber was fullest of contrition and good resolves that
+Mexico, with a heavy sigh, subsided from his regular, brisk trot into a
+slow complacent walk.  They were winding up an easy slope covered with
+brush ten or twelve feet high.
+
+"I say now, Mex," demurred Sam, "this here won't do.  I know you're
+plumb tired out, but we got ter git along.  Oh, Lordy, ain't there no
+mo' houses in the world!"  He gave Mexico a smart kick with his heels.
+
+Mexico gave a protesting grunt as if to say:  "What's the use of that,
+now we're so near?"  He quickened his gait into a languid trot.
+Rounding a great clump of black chaparral he stopped short.  Sam
+dropped the bridle reins and sat, looking into the back door of his own
+house, not ten yards away.
+
+Marthy, serene and comfortable, sat in her rocking-chair before the
+door in the shade of the house, with her feet resting luxuriously upon
+the steps.  Randy, who was playing with a pair of spurs on the ground,
+looked up for a moment at his father and went on spinning the rowels
+and singing a little song.  Marthy turned her head lazily against the
+back of the chair and considered the arrivals with emotionless eyes.
+She held a book in her lap with her finger holding the place.
+
+Sam shook himself queerly, like a man coming out of a dream, and slowly
+dismounted.  He moistened his dry lips.
+
+"I see you are still a-settin'," he said, "a-readin' of them
+billy-by-dam yaller-back novils."
+
+Sam had traveled round the circle and was himself again.
+
+
+
+THE RUBBER PLANT'S STORY
+
+We rubber plants form the connecting link between the vegetable kingdom
+and the decorations of a Waldorf-Astoria scene in a Third Avenue
+theatre.  I haven't looked up our family tree, but I believe we were
+raised by grafting a gum overshoe on to a 30-cent table d'hote stalk of
+asparagus.  You take a white bulldog with a Bourke Cockran air of
+independence about him and a rubber plant and there you have the fauna
+and flora of a flat.  What the shamrock is to Ireland the rubber plant
+is to the dweller in flats and furnished rooms.  We get moved from one
+place to another so quickly that the only way we can get our picture
+taken is with a kinetoscope.  We are the vagrant vine and the flitting
+fig tree.  You know the proverb: "Where the rubber plant sits in the
+window the moving van draws up to the door."
+
+We are the city equivalent to the woodbine and the honeysuckle.  No
+other vegetable except the Pittsburg stogie can withstand as much
+handling as we can.  When the family to which we belong moves into a
+flat they set us in the front window and we become lares and penates,
+fly-paper and the peripatetic emblem of "Home Sweet Home." We aren't as
+green as we look.  I guess we are about what you would call the
+soubrettes of the conservatory.  You try sitting in the front window of
+a $40 flat in Manhattan and looking out into the street all day, and
+back into the flat at night, and see whether you get wise or not--hey?
+Talk about the tree of knowledge of good and evil in the garden of
+Eden--say! suppose there had been a rubber plant there when Eve--but I
+was going to tell you a story.
+
+The first thing I can remember I had only three leaves and belonged to
+a member of the pony ballet.  I was kept in a sunny window, and was
+generally watered with seltzer and lemon.  I had plenty of fun in those
+days.  I got cross-eyed trying to watch the numbers of the automobiles
+in the street and the dates on the labels inside at the same time.
+
+Well, then the angel that was molting for the musical comedy lost his
+last feather and the company broke up.  The ponies trotted away and I
+was left in the window ownerless.  The janitor gave me to a refined
+comedy team on the eighth floor, and in six weeks I had been set in the
+window of five different flats I took on experience and put out two
+more leaves.
+
+Miss Carruthers, of the refined comedy team--did you ever see her cross
+both feet back of her neck?--gave me to a friend of hers who had made
+an unfortunate marriage with a man in a store.  Consequently I was
+placed in the window of a furnished room, rent in advance, water two
+flights up, gas extra after ten o'clock at night.  Two of my leaves
+withered off here.  Also, I was moved from one room to another so many
+times that I got to liking the odor of the pipes the expressmen smoked.
+
+I don't think I ever had so dull a time as I did with this lady. There
+was never anything amusing going on inside--she was devoted to her
+husband, and, besides leaning out the window and flirting with the
+iceman, she never did a thing toward breaking the monotony.
+
+When the couple broke up they left me with the rest of their goods at a
+second-hand store.  I was put out in front for sale along with the
+jobbiest lot you ever heard of being lumped into one bargain.  Think of
+this little cornucopia of wonders, all for $1.89:  Henry James's works,
+six talking machine records, one pair of tennis shoes, two bottles of
+horse radish, and a rubber plant--that was me!
+
+One afternoon a girl came along and stopped to look at me.  She had
+dark hair and eyes, and she looked slim, and sad around the mouth.
+
+"Oh, oh!" she says to herself.  "I never thought to see one up here."
+
+She pulls out a little purse about as thick as one of my leaves and
+fingers over some small silver in it.  Old Koen, always on the lockout,
+is ready, rubbing his hands.  This girl proceeds to turn down Mr. James
+and the other commodities.  Rubber plants or nothing is the burden of
+her song.  And at last Koen and she come together at 39 cents, and away
+she goes with me in her arms.
+
+She was a nice girl, but not my style.  Too quiet and sober looking.
+Thinks I to myself:  "I'll just about land on the fire-escape of a
+tenement, six stories up.  And I'll spend the next six months looking
+at clothes on the line."
+
+But she carried me to a nice little room only three flights up in quite
+a decent street.  And she put me in the window, of course.  And then
+she went to work and cooked dinner for herself.  And what do you
+suppose she had?  Bread and tea and a little dab of jam!  Nothing else.
+Not a single lobster, nor so much as one bottle of champagne. The
+Carruthers comedy team had both every evening, except now and then when
+they took a notion for pig's knuckle and kraut.
+
+After she had finished her dinner my new owner came to the window and
+leaned down close to my leaves and cried softly to herself for a while.
+It made me feel funny.  I never knew anybody to cry that way over a
+rubber plant before.  Of course, I've seen a few of 'em turn on the
+tears for what they could get out of it, but she seemed to be crying
+just for the pure enjoyment of it.  She touched my leaves like she
+loved 'em, and she bent down her head and kissed each one of 'em. I
+guess I'm about the toughest specimen of a peripatetic orchid on earth,
+but I tell you it made me feel sort of queer.  Home never was like that
+to me before.  Generally I used to get chewed by poodles and have
+shirt-waists hung on me to dry, and get watered with coffee grounds and
+peroxide of hydrogen.
+
+This girl had a piano in the room, and she used to disturb it with both
+hands while she made noises with her mouth for hours at a time. I
+suppose she was practising vocal music.
+
+One day she seemed very much excited and kept looking at the clock. At
+eleven somebody knocked and she let in a stout, dark man with towsled
+black hair.  He sat down at once at the piano and played while she sang
+for him.  When she finished she laid one hand on her bosom and looked
+at him.  He shook his head, and she leaned against the piano.  "Two
+years already," she said, speaking slowly--"do you think in two
+more--or even longer?"
+
+The man shook his head again.  "You waste your time," he said, roughly
+I thought.  "The voice is not there."  And then he looked at her in a
+peculiar way.  "But the voice is not everything," he went on.  "You
+have looks.  I can place you, as I told you if--"
+
+The girl pointed to the door without saying anything, and the dark man
+left the room.  And then she came over and cried around me again. It's
+a good thing I had enough rubber in me to be water-proof.
+
+About that time somebody else knocked at the door.  "Thank goodness," I
+said to myself.  "Here's a chance to get the water-works turned off.  I
+hope it's somebody that's game enough to stand a bird and a bottle to
+liven things up a little."  Tell you the truth, this little girl made
+me tired.  A rubber plant likes to see a little sport now and then.  I
+don't suppose there's another green thing in New York that sees as much
+of gay life unless it's the chartreuse or the sprigs of parsley around
+the dish.
+
+When the girl opens the door in steps a young chap in a traveling cap
+and picks her up in his arms, and she sings out "Oh, Dick!" and stays
+there long enough to--well, you've been a rubber plant too, sometimes,
+I suppose.
+
+"Good thing!" says I to myself.  "This is livelier than scales and
+weeping.  Now there'll be something doing."
+
+"You've got to go back with me," says the young man.  "I've come two
+thousand miles for you.  Aren't you tired of it yet. Bess?  You've kept
+all of us waiting so long.  Haven't you found out yet what is best?"
+
+"The bubble burst only to-day," says the girl.  "Come here, Dick, and
+see what I found the other day on the sidewalk for sale."  She brings
+him by the hand and exhibits yours truly.  "How one ever got away up
+here who can tell?  I bought it with almost the last money I had."
+
+He looked at me, but he couldn't keep his eyes off her for more than a
+second.  "Do you remember the night, Bess," he said, "when we stood
+under one of those on the bank of the bayou and what you told me then?"
+
+"Geewillikins!" I said to myself.  "Both of them stand under a rubber
+plant!  Seems to me they are stretching matters somewhat!"
+
+"Do I not," says she, looking up at him and sneaking close to his vest,
+"and now I say it again, and it is to last forever.  Look, Dick, at its
+leaves, how wet they are.  Those are my tears, and it was thinking of
+you that made them fall."
+
+"The dear old magnolias!" says the young man, pinching one of my
+leaves.  "I love them all."
+
+Magnolia!  Well, wouldn't that--say! those innocents thought I was a
+magnolia!  What the--well, wasn't that tough on a genuine little old
+New York rubber plant?
+
+
+
+OUT OF NAZARETH
+
+Okochee, in Georgia, had a boom, and J. Pinkney Bloom came out of it
+with a "wad."  Okochee came out of it with a half-million-dollar debt,
+a two and a half per cent. city property tax, and a city council that
+showed a propensity for traveling the back streets of the town.  These
+things came about through a fatal resemblance of the river Cooloosa to
+the Hudson, as set forth and expounded by a Northern tourist.  Okochee
+felt that New York should not be allowed to consider itself the only
+alligator in the swamp, so to speak.  And then that harmless, but
+persistent, individual so numerous in the South--the man who is always
+clamoring for more cotton mills, and is ready to take a dollar's worth
+of stock, provided he can borrow the dollar--that man added his deadly
+work to the tourist's innocent praise, and Okochee fell.
+
+The Cooloosa River winds through a range of small mountains, passes
+Okochee and then blends its waters trippingly, as fall the mellifluous
+Indian syllables, with the Chattahoochee.
+
+Okochee rose, as it were, from its sunny seat on the post-office stoop,
+hitched up its suspender, and threw a granite dam two hundred and forty
+feet long and sixty feet high across the Cooloosa one mile above the
+town.  Thereupon, a dimpling, sparkling lake backed up twenty miles
+among the little mountains.  Thus in the great game of municipal
+rivalry did Okochee match that famous drawing card, the Hudson.  It was
+conceded that nowhere could the Palisades be judged superior in the way
+of scenery and grandeur.  Following the picture card was played the ace
+of commercial importance.  Fourteen thousand horsepower would this dam
+furnish.  Cotton mills, factories, and manufacturing plants would rise
+up as the green corn after a shower. The spindle and the flywheel and
+turbine would sing the shrewd glory of Okochee.  Along the picturesque
+heights above the lake would rise in beauty the costly villas and the
+splendid summer residences of capital.  The naphtha launch of the
+millionaire would spit among the romantic coves; the verdured hills
+would take formal shapes of terrace, lawn, and park.  Money would be
+spent like water in Okochee, and water would be turned into money.
+
+The fate of the good town is quickly told.  Capital decided not to
+invest.  Of all the great things promised, the scenery alone came to
+fulfilment.  The wooded peaks, the impressive promontories of solemn
+granite, the beautiful green slants of bank and ravine did all they
+could to reconcile Okochee to the delinquency of miserly gold.  The
+sunsets gilded the dreamy draws and coves with a minting that should
+charm away heart-burning.  Okochee, true to the instinct of its blood
+and clime, was lulled by the spell.  It climbed out of the arena,
+loosed its suspender, sat down again on the post-office stoop, and took
+a chew.  It consoled itself by drawling sarcasms at the city council
+which was not to blame, causing the fathers, as has been said, to seek
+back streets and figure perspiringly on the sinking fund and the
+appropriation for interest due.
+
+The youth of Okochee--they who were to carry into the rosy future the
+burden of the debt--accepted failure with youth's uncalculating joy.
+For, here was sport, aquatic and nautical, added to the meagre round of
+life's pleasures.  In yachting caps and flowing neckties they pervaded
+the lake to its limits.  Girls wore silk waists embroidered with
+anchors in blue and pink.  The trousers of the young men widened at the
+bottom, and their hands were proudly calloused by the oft-plied oar.
+Fishermen were under the spell of a deep and tolerant joy.  Sailboats
+and rowboats furrowed the lenient waves, popcorn and ice-cream booths
+sprang up about the little wooden pier.  Two small excursion steamboats
+were built, and plied the delectable waters. Okochee philosophically
+gave up the hope of eating turtle soup with a gold spoon, and settled
+back, not ill content, to its regular diet of lotus and fried hominy.
+And out of this slow wreck of great expectations rose up J. Pinkney
+Bloom with his "wad" and his prosperous, cheery smile.
+
+Needless to say J. Pinkney was no product of Georgia soil.  He came out
+of that flushed and capable region known as the "North."  He called
+himself a "promoter"; his enemies had spoken of him as a "grafter";
+Okochee took a middle course, and held him to be no better nor no worse
+than a "Yank."
+
+Far up the lake--eighteen miles above the town--the eye of this
+cheerful camp-follower of booms had spied out a graft.  He purchased
+there a precipitous tract of five hundred acres at forty-five cents per
+acre; and this he laid out and subdivided as the city of Skyland--the
+Queen City of the Switzerland of the South.  Streets and avenues were
+surveyed; parks designed; corners of central squares reserved for the
+"proposed" opera house, board of trade, lyceum, market, public schools,
+and "Exposition Hall."  The price of lots ranged from five to five
+hundred dollars.  Positively, no lot would be priced higher than five
+hundred dollars.
+
+While the boom was growing in Okochee, J. Pinkney's circulars, maps,
+and prospectuses were flying through the mails to every part of the
+country.  Investors sent in their money by post, and the Skyland Real
+Estate Company (J. Pinkney Bloom) returned to each a deed, duly placed
+on record, to the best lot, at the price, on hand that day. All this
+time the catamount screeched upon the reserved lot of the Skyland Board
+of Trade, the opossum swung by his tail over the site of the exposition
+hall, and the owl hooted a melancholy recitative to his audience of
+young squirrels in opera house square.  Later, when the money was
+coming in fast, J. Pinkney caused to be erected in the coming city half
+a dozen cheap box houses, and persuaded a contingent of indigent
+natives to occupy them, thereby assuming the role of "population" in
+subsequent prospectuses, which became, accordingly, more seductive and
+remunerative.
+
+So, when the dream faded and Okochee dropped back to digging bait and
+nursing its two and a half per cent. tax, J. Pinkney Bloom (unloving of
+checks and drafts and the cold interrogatories of bankers) strapped
+about his fifty-two-inch waist a soft leather belt containing eight
+thousand dollars in big bills, and said that all was very good.
+
+One last trip he was making to Skyland before departing to other salad
+fields.  Skyland was a regular post-office, and the steamboat, _Dixie
+Belle_, under contract, delivered the mail bag (generally empty) twice
+a week.  There was a little business there to be settled--the
+postmaster was to be paid off for his light but lonely services, and
+the "inhabitants" had to be furnished with another month's homely
+rations, as per agreement.  And then Skyland would know J. Pinkney
+Bloom no more.  The owners of these precipitous, barren, useless lots
+might come and view the scene of their invested credulity, or they
+might leave them to their fit tenants, the wild hog and the browsing
+deer.  The work of the Skyland Real Estate Company was finished.
+
+The little steamboat _Dixie Belle_ was about to shove off on her
+regular up-the-lake trip, when a rickety hired carriage rattled up to
+the pier, and a tall, elderly gentleman, in black, stepped out,
+signaling courteously but vivaciously for the boat to wait.  Time was
+of the least importance in the schedule of the _Dixie Belle_; Captain
+MacFarland gave the order, and the boat received its ultimate two
+passengers.  For, upon the arm of the tall, elderly gentleman, as he
+crossed the gangway, was a little elderly lady, with a gray curl
+depending quaintly forward of her left ear.
+
+Captain MacFarland was at the wheel; therefore it seemed to J. Pinkney
+Bloom, who was the only other passenger, that it should be his to play
+the part of host to the boat's new guests, who were, doubtless, on a
+scenery-viewing expedition.  He stepped forward, with that translucent,
+child-candid smile upon his fresh, pink countenance, with that air of
+unaffected sincerity that was redeemed from bluffness only by its
+exquisite calculation, with that promptitude and masterly decision of
+manner that so well suited his calling--with all his stock in trade
+well to the front; he stepped forward to receive Colonel and Mrs.
+Peyton Blaylock.  With the grace of a grand marshal or a wedding usher,
+he escorted the two passengers to a side of the upper deck, from which
+the scenery was supposed to present itself to the observer in increased
+quantity and quality.  There, in comfortable steamer chairs, they sat
+and began to piece together the random lines that were to form an
+intelligent paragraph in the big history of little events.
+
+"Our home, sir," said Colonel Blaylock, removing his wide-brimmed,
+rather shapeless black felt hat, "is in Holly Springs--Holly Springs,
+Georgia.  I am very proud to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bloom. Mrs.
+Blaylock and myself have just arrived in Okochee this morning, sir, on
+business--business of importance in connection with the recent rapid
+march of progress in this section of our state."
+
+The Colonel smoothed back, with a sweeping gesture, his long, smooth,
+locks.  His dark eyes, still fiery under the heavy black brows, seemed
+inappropriate to the face of a business man.  He looked rather to be an
+old courtier handed down from the reign of Charles, and re-attired in a
+modern suit of fine, but raveling and seam-worn, broadcloth.
+
+"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bloom, in his heartiest prospectus voice, "things
+have been whizzing around Okochee.  Biggest industrial revival and
+waking up to natural resources Georgia ever had.  Did you happen to
+squeeze in on the ground floor in any of the gilt-edged grafts,
+Colonel?"
+
+"Well, sir," said the Colonel, hesitating in courteous doubt, "if I
+understand your question, I may say that I took the opportunity to make
+an investment that I believe will prove quite advantageous--yes, sir, I
+believe it will result in both pecuniary profit and agreeable
+occupation."
+
+"Colonel Blaylock," said the little elderly lady, shaking her gray curl
+and smiling indulgent explanation at J. Pinkney Bloom, "is so devoted
+to businesss.  He has such a talent for financiering and markets and
+investments and those kind of things.  I think myself extremely
+fortunate in having secured him for a partner on life's journey--I am
+so unversed in those formidable but very useful branches of learning."
+
+Colonel Blaylock rose and made a bow--a bow that belonged with silk
+stockings and lace ruffles and velvet.
+
+"Practical affairs," he said, with a wave of his hand toward the
+promoter, "are, if I may use the comparison, the garden walks upon
+which we tread through life, viewing upon either side of us the flowers
+which brighten that journey.   It is my pleasure to be able to lay out
+a walk or two.  Mrs. Blaylock, sir, is one of those fortunate higher
+spirits whose mission it is to make the flowers grow. Perhaps, Mr.
+Bloom, you have perused the lines of Lorella, the Southern poetess.
+That is the name above which Mrs. Blaylock has contributed to the press
+of the South for many years."
+
+"Unfortunately," said Mr. Bloom, with a sense of the loss clearly
+written upon his frank face, "I'm like the Colonel--in the walk-making
+business myself--and I haven't had time to even take a sniff at the
+flowers.  Poetry is a line I never dealt in.  It must be nice,
+though--quite nice."
+
+"It is the region," smiled Mrs. Blaylock, "in which my soul dwells. My
+shawl, Peyton, if you please--the breeze comes a little chilly from yon
+verdured hills."
+
+The Colonel drew from the tail pocket of his coat a small shawl of
+knitted silk and laid it solicitously about the shoulders of the lady.
+Mrs. Blaylock sighed contentedly, and turned her expressive eyes--still
+as clear and unworldly as a child's--upon the steep slopes that were
+slowly slipping past.  Very fair and stately they looked in the clear
+morning air.  They seemed to speak in familiar terms to the responsive
+spirit of Lorella.  "My native hills!" she murmured, dreamily.  "See
+how the foliage drinks the sunlight from the hollows and dells."
+
+"Mrs. Blaylock's maiden days," said the Colonel, interpreting her mood
+to J. Pinkney Bloom, "were spent among the mountains of northern
+Georgia.  Mountain air and mountain scenery recall to her those days.
+Holly Springs, where we have lived for twenty years, is low and flat. I
+fear that she may have suffered in health and spirits by so long a
+residence there.  That is one portent reason for the change we are
+making.  My dear, can you not recall those lines you wrote--entitled, I
+think, 'The Georgia Hills'--the poem that was so extensively copied by
+the Southern press and praised so highly by the Atlanta critics?"
+
+Mrs. Blaylock turned a glance of speaking tenderness upon the Colonel,
+fingered for a moment the silvery curl that drooped upon her bosom,
+then looked again toward the mountains.  Without preliminary or
+affectation or demurral she began, in rather thrilling and more deeply
+pitched tones to recite these lines:
+
+  "The Georgia hills, the Georgia hills!--
+    Oh, heart, why dost thou pine?
+  Are not these sheltered lowlands fair
+    With mead and bloom and vine?
+  Ah! as the slow-paced river here
+    Broods on its natal rills
+  My spirit drifts, in longing sweet,
+    Back to the Georgia hills.
+
+  "And through the close-drawn, curtained night
+    I steal on sleep's slow wings
+  Back to my heart's ease--slopes of pine--
+    Where end my wanderings.
+  Oh, heaven seems nearer from their tops--
+    And farther earthly ills--
+  Even in dreams, if I may but
+    Dream of my Georgia hills.
+
+  The grass upon their orchard sides
+    Is a fine couch to me;
+  The common note of each small bird
+    Passes all minstrelsy.
+  It would not seem so dread a thing
+    If, when the Reaper wills,
+  He might come there and take my hand
+    Up in the Georgia hills."
+
+
+"That's great stuff, ma'am," said J. Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically,
+when the poetess had concluded.  "I wish I had looked up poetry more
+than I have.  I was raised in the pine hills myself."
+
+"The mountains ever call to their children," murmured Mrs. Blaylock. "I
+feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in among these
+beautiful hills.  Peyton--a little taste of the currant wine, if you
+will be so good.  The journey, though delightful in the extreme,
+slightly fatigues me."  Colonel Blaylock again visited the depths of
+his prolific coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough, black bottle.
+Mr. Bloom was on his feet in an instant.
+
+"Let me bring a glass, ma'am.  You come along, Colonel--there's a
+little table we can bring, too.  Maybe we can scare up some fruit or a
+cup of tea on board.  I'll ask Mac."
+
+Mrs. Blaylock reclined at ease.  Few royal ladies have held their royal
+prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The
+Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his
+courtship, and J. Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half
+professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed,
+long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court.
+The currant wine--wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit--went
+round, and then J. Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs
+life.
+
+It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs was
+decadent.  A third of the population had moved away.  Business--and the
+Colonel was an authority on business--had dwindled to nothing. After
+carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had
+sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested
+it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.
+
+"Might I inquire, sir," said Mr. Bloom, "in what particular line of
+business you inserted your coin?  I know that town as well as I know
+the regulations for illegal use of the mails.  I might give you a hunch
+as to whether you can make the game go or not."
+
+J. Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated
+representatives of by-gone days.  They were so simple, impractical, and
+unsuspecting.  He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or
+a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him.  He
+would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did
+these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.
+
+"No, sir," said Colonel Blaylock, pausing to arrange the queen's wrap.
+"I did not invest in Okochee.  I have made an exhaustive study of
+business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable
+fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount.  Some
+months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands
+a map and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built
+upon the lake.  The description was so pleasing, the future of the town
+set forth in such convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity
+portrayed in such an attractive style that I decided to take advantage
+of the opportunity it offered.  I carefully selected a lot in the
+centre of the business district, although its price was the highest in
+the schedule--five hundred dollars--and made the purchase at once."
+
+"Are you the man--I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in
+Skyland" asked J. Pinkney Bloom.
+
+"I did, sir," answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest
+millionaire explaining his success; "a lot most excellently situated on
+the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the
+board of trade.  I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one. It is
+my intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and open a
+modest book and stationery store.  During past years I have met with
+many pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to engage in some
+commercial occupation that will furnish me with a livelihood.  The book
+and stationery business, though an humble one, seems to me not inapt
+nor altogether uncongenial.  I am a graduate of the University of
+Virginia; and Mrs. Blaylock's really wonderful acquaintance with
+belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring
+success.  Of course, Mrs. Blaylock would not personally serve behind
+the counter.  With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I
+can manage the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot.  I
+have an old friend in Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store,
+and he has agreed to furnish me with a stock of goods on credit, on
+extremely easy terms.  I am pleased to hope, sir, that Mrs. Blaylock's
+health and happiness will be increased by the change of locality.
+Already I fancy I can perceive the return of those roses that were once
+the hope and despair of Georgia cavaliers."
+
+Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the
+pale cheek of the poetess.  Mrs. Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook
+her curl and gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap.  Secret of
+eternal youth--where art thou?  Every second the answer comes--"Here,
+here, here."  Listen to thine own heartbeats, O weary seeker after
+external miracles.
+
+"Those years," said Mrs. Blaylock, "in Holly Springs were long, long,
+long.  But now is the promised land in sight.  Skyland!--a lovely name."
+
+"Doubtless," said the Colonel, "we shall be able to secure comfortable
+accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates.  Our trunks
+are in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent
+arrangements."
+
+J. Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the
+captain at the wheel.
+
+"Mac," said he, "do you remember my telling you once that I sold one of
+those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?"
+
+"Seems I do," grinned Captain MacFarland.
+
+"I'm not a coward, as a general rule," went on the promoter, "but I
+always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot I'd run
+like a turkey.  Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there?
+Well, he's the boy that drew the prize.  That was the only
+five-hundred-dollar lot that went.  The rest ranged from ten dollars to
+two hundred.  His wife writes poetry.  She's invented one about the
+high grounds of Georgia, that's way up in G.  They're going to Skyland
+to open a book store."
+
+"Well," said MacFarland, with another grin, "it's a good thing you are
+along, J. P.; you can show 'em around town until they begin to feel at
+home."
+
+"He's got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,"
+went on J. Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself.  "And he thinks
+there's an open house up there."
+
+Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg a
+roguish slap.
+
+"You old fat rascal!" he chuckled, with a wink.
+
+"Mac, you're a fool," said J. Pinkney Bloom, coldly.  He went back and
+joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight
+furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being
+shaped within.
+
+"There's a good many swindles connected with these booms," he said
+presently.  "What if this Skyland should turn out to be one--that is,
+suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no special sale for
+books?"
+
+"My dear sir," said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the back of
+his wife's chair, "three times I have been reduced to almost penury by
+the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in humanity. If
+I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content, if
+not worldly profit.  I am aware that there are dishonest schemers in
+the world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not
+altogether bad.  My dear, can you recall those verses entitled 'He
+Giveth the Increase,' that you composed for the choir of our church in
+Holly Springs?"
+
+"That was four years ago," said Mrs. Blaylock; "perhaps I can repeat a
+verse or two.
+
+  "The lily springs from the rotting mould;
+    Pearls from the deep sea slime;
+  Good will come out of Nazareth
+    All in God's own time.
+
+  "To the hardest heart the softening grace
+    Cometh, at last, to bless;
+  Guiding it right to help and cheer
+    And succor in distress.
+
+"I cannot remember the rest.  The lines were not ambitious.  They were
+written to the music composed by a dear friend."
+
+"It's a fine rhyme, just the same," declared Mr. Bloom.  "It seems to
+ring the bell, all right.  I guess I gather the sense of it.  It means
+that the rankest kind of a phony will give you the best end of it once
+in a while."
+
+Mr. Bloom strayed thoughtfully back to the captain, and stood
+meditating.
+
+"Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now in
+a few minutes," chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.
+
+"Go to the devil," said Mr. Bloom, still pensive.
+
+And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village,
+high up on the hills, smothered among green trees.  That was Cold
+Branch--no boom town, but the slow growth of many years.  Cold Branch
+lay on the edge of the grape and corn lands.  The big country road ran
+just back of the heights.  Cold Branch had nothing in common with the
+frisky ambition of Okochee with its impertinent lake.
+
+"Mac," said J. Pinkney suddenly, "I want you to stop at Cold Branch.
+There's a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river
+was up."
+
+"Can't," said the captain, grinning more broadly.  "I've got the United
+States mails on board.  Right to-day this boat's in the government
+service.  Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle
+Sam?  And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its
+mail?  I'm ashamed of your extravagance, J. P."
+
+"Mac," almost whispered J. Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, "I looked
+into the engine room of the _Dixie Belle_ a while ago.  Don't you know
+of somebody that needs a new boiler?  Cement and black Japan can't hide
+flaws from me.  And then, those shares of building and loan that you
+traded for repairs--they were all yours, of course.  I hate to mention
+these things, but--"
+
+"Oh, come now, J. P.," said the captain.  "You know I was just fooling.
+I'll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so."
+
+"The other passengers get off there, too," said Mr. Bloom.
+
+Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the _Dixie Belle_
+turned her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank,
+and the captain, relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the
+passenger deck and made the remarkable announcement:  "All out for
+Skyland."
+
+The Blaylocks and J. Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the _Dixie Belle_
+proceeded on her way up the lake.  Guided by the indefatigable
+promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest
+and admire the view.  Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch.
+Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and
+peaceful beauty.  Mr. Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a
+shady street that bore the legend, "Pine-top Inn."  Here he took his
+leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the
+Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the
+day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.
+
+J. Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch's main street.  He did not
+know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter.
+Presently he saw a sign over a door:  "Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law
+and Notary Public."  A young man was Mr. Cooly, and awaiting business.
+
+"Get your hat, son," said Mr. Bloom, in his breezy way, "and a blank
+deed, and come along.  It's a job for you."
+
+"Now," he continued, when Mr. Cooly had responded with alacrity, "is
+there a bookstore in town?"
+
+"One," said the lawyer.  "Henry Williams's."
+
+"Get there," said Mr. Bloom.  "We're going to buy it."
+
+Henry Williams was behind his counter.  His store was a small one,
+containing a mixture of books, stationery, and fancy rubbish. Adjoining
+it was Henry's home--a decent cottage, vine-embowered and cosy.  Henry
+was lank and soporific, and not inclined to rush his business.
+
+"I want to buy your house and store," said Mr. Bloom.  "I haven't got
+time to dicker--name your price."
+
+"It's worth eight hundred," said Henry, too much dazed to ask more than
+its value.
+
+"Shut that door," said Mr. Bloom to the lawyer.  Then he tore off his
+coat and vest, and began to unbutton his shirt.
+
+"Wanter fight about it, do yer?" said Henry Williams, jumping up and
+cracking his heels together twice.  "All right, hunky--sail in and cut
+yer capers."
+
+"Keep your clothes on," said Mr. Bloom.  "I'm only going down to the
+bank."
+
+He drew eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his money belt and planked
+them down on the counter.  Mr. Cooly showed signs of future promise,
+for he already had the deed spread out, and was reaching across the
+counter for the ink bottle.  Never before or since was such quick
+action had in Cold Branch.
+
+"Your name, please?" asked the lawyer.
+
+"Make it out to Peyton Blaylock," said Mr. Bloom.  "God knows how to
+spell it."
+
+Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and Mr. Bloom
+stood on the brick sidewalk with Mr. Cooly, who held in his hand the
+signed and attested deed.
+
+"You'll find the party at the Pinetop Inn," said J. Pinkney Bloom. "Get
+it recorded, and take it down and give it to him.  He'll ask you a
+hell's mint of questions; so here's ten dollars for the trouble you'll
+have in not being able to answer 'em.  Never run much to poetry, did
+you, young man?"
+
+"Well," said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his right
+mind, "now and then."
+
+"Dig into it," said Mr. Bloom, "it'll pay you.  Never heard a poem,
+now, that run something like this, did you?--
+
+  A good thing out of Nazareth
+    Comes up sometimes, I guess,
+  On hand, all right, to help and cheer
+    A sucker in distress."
+
+"I believe not," said Mr. Cooly.
+
+"It's a hymn," said J. Pinkney Bloom.  "Now, show me the way to a
+livery stable, son, for I'm going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee."
+
+
+
+CONFESSIONS OF A HUMORIST
+
+There was a painless stage of incubation that lasted twenty-five years,
+and then it broke out on me, and people said I was It.
+
+But they called it humor instead of measles.
+
+The employees in the store bought a silver inkstand for the senior
+partner on his fiftieth birthday.  We crowded into his private office
+to present it.  I had been selected for spokesman, and I made a little
+speech that I had been preparing for a week.
+
+It made a hit.  It was full of puns and epigrams and funny twists that
+brought down the house--which was a very solid one in the wholesale
+hardware line.  Old Marlowe himself actually grinned, and the employees
+took their cue and roared.
+
+My reputation as a humorist dates from half-past nine o'clock on that
+morning.  For weeks afterward my fellow clerks fanned the flame of my
+self-esteem.  One by one they came to me, saying what an awfully clever
+speech that was, old man, and carefully explained to me the point of
+each one of my jokes.
+
+Gradually I found that I was expected to keep it up.  Others might
+speak sanely on business matters and the day's topics, but from me
+something gamesome and airy was required.
+
+I was expected to crack jokes about the crockery and lighten up the
+granite ware with persiflage.  I was second bookkeeper, and if I failed
+to show up a balance sheet without something comic about the footings
+or could find no cause for laughter in an invoice of plows, the other
+clerks were disappointed.  By degrees my fame spread, and I became a
+local "character."  Our town was small enough to make this possible.
+The daily newspaper quoted me.  At social gatherings I was
+indispensable.
+
+I believe I did possess considerable wit and a facility for quick and
+spontaneous repartee.  This gift I cultivated and improved by practice.
+And the nature of it was kindly and genial, not running to sarcasm or
+offending others.  People began to smile when they saw me coming, and
+by the time we had met I generally had the word ready to broaden the
+smile into a laugh.
+
+I had married early.  We had a charming boy of three and a girl of
+five.  Naturally, we lived in a vine-covered cottage, and were happy.
+My salary as bookkeeper in the hardware concern kept at a distance
+those ills attendant upon superfluous wealth.
+
+At sundry times I had written out a few jokes and conceits that I
+considered peculiarly happy, and had sent them to certain periodicals
+that print such things.  All of them had been instantly accepted.
+Several of the editors had written to request further contributions.
+
+One day I received a letter from the editor of a famous weekly
+publication.  He suggested that I submit to him a humorous composition
+to fill a column of space; hinting that he would make it a regular
+feature of each issue if the work proved satisfactory.  I did so, and
+at the end of two weeks he offered to make a contract with me for a
+year at a figure that was considerably higher than the amount paid me
+by the hardware firm.
+
+I was filled with delight.  My wife already crowned me in her mind with
+the imperishable evergreens of literary success.  We had lobster
+croquettes and a bottle of blackberry wine for supper that night. Here
+was the chance to liberate myself from drudgery.  I talked over the
+matter very seriously with Louisa.  We agreed that I must resign my
+place at the store and devote myself to humor.
+
+I resigned.  My fellow clerks gave me a farewell banquet.  The speech I
+made there coruscated.  It was printed in full by the Gazette.  The
+next morning I awoke and looked at the clock.
+
+"Late, by George!" I exclaimed, and grabbed for my clothes.  Louisa
+reminded me that I was no longer a slave to hardware and contractors'
+supplies.  I was now a professional humorist.
+
+After breakfast she proudly led me to the little room off the kitchen.
+Dear girl!   There was my table and chair, writing pad, ink, and pipe
+tray.  And all the author's trappings--the celery stand full of fresh
+roses and honeysuckle, last year's calendar on the wall, the
+dictionary, and a little bag of chocolates to nibble between
+inspirations.  Dear girl!
+
+I sat me to work.  The wall paper is patterned with arabesques or
+odalisks or--perhaps--it is trapezoids.  Upon one of the figures I
+fixed my eyes.  I bethought me of humor.
+
+A voice startled me--Louisa's voice.
+
+"If you aren't too busy, dear," it said, "come to dinner."
+
+I looked at my watch.  Yes, five hours had been gathered in by the grim
+scytheman.  I went to dinner.
+
+"You mustn't work too hard at first," said Louisa.  "Goethe--or was it
+Napoleon?--said five hours a day is enough for mental labor.  Couldn't
+you take me and the children to the woods this afternoon?"
+
+"I am a little tired," I admitted.  So we went to the woods.
+
+But I soon got the swing of it.  Within a month I was turning out copy
+as regular as shipments of hardware.
+
+And I had success.  My column in the weekly made some stir, and I was
+referred to in a gossipy way by the critics as something fresh in the
+line of humorists.  I augmented my income considerably by contributing
+to other publications.
+
+I picked up the tricks of the trade.  I could take a funny idea and
+make a two-line joke of it, earning a dollar.  With false whiskers on,
+it would serve up cold as a quatrain, doubling its producing value.  By
+turning the skirt and adding a ruffle of rhyme you would hardly
+recognize it as _vers de societe_ with neatly shod feet and a
+fashion-plate illustration.
+
+I began to save up money, and we had new carpets, and a parlor organ.
+My townspeople began to look upon me as a citizen of some consequence
+instead of the merry trifler I had been when I clerked in the hardware
+store.
+
+After five or six months the spontaniety seemed to depart from my
+humor.  Quips and droll sayings no longer fell carelessly from my lips.
+I was sometimes hard run for material.  I found myself listening to
+catch available ideas from the conversation of my friends.  Sometimes I
+chewed my pencil and gazed at the wall paper for hours trying to build
+up some gay little bubble of unstudied fun.
+
+And then I became a harpy, a Moloch, a Jonah, a vampire, to my
+acquaintances.  Anxious, haggard, greedy, I stood among them like a
+veritable killjoy.  Let a bright saying, a witty comparison, a piquant
+phrase fall from their lips and I was after it like a hound springing
+upon a bone.  I dared not trust my memory; but, turning aside guiltily
+and meanly, I would make a note of it in my ever-present memorandum
+book or upon my cuff for my own future use.
+
+My friends regarded me in sorrow and wonder. I was not the same man.
+Where once I had furnished them entertainment and jollity, I now preyed
+upon them.  No jests from me ever bid for their smiles now. They were
+too precious.  I could not afford to dispense gratuitously the means of
+my livelihood.
+
+I was a lugubrious fox praising the singing of my friends, the crow's,
+that they might drop from their beaks the morsels of wit that I coveted.
+
+Nearly every one began to avoid me.  I even forgot how to smile, not
+even paying that much for the sayings I appropriated.
+
+No persons, places, times, or subjects were exempt from my plundering
+in search of material.  Even in church my demoralized fancy went
+hunting among the solemn aisles and pillars for spoil.
+
+Did the minister give out the long-meter doxology, at once I began:
+"Doxology--sockdology--sockdolager--meter--meet her."
+
+The sermon ran through my mental sieve, its precepts filtering
+unheeded, could I but glean a suggestion of a pun or a _bon mot_. The
+solemnest anthems of the choir were but an accompaniment to my thoughts
+as I conceived new changes to ring upon the ancient comicalities
+concerning the jealousies of soprano, tenor, and basso.
+
+My own home became a hunting ground.  My wife is a singularly feminine
+creature, candid, sympathetic, and impulsive.  Once her conversation
+was my delight, and her ideas a source of unfailing pleasure.  Now I
+worked her.  She was a gold mine of those amusing but lovable
+inconsistencies that distinguish the female mind.
+
+I began to market those pearls of unwisdom and humor that should have
+enriched only the sacred precincts of home.  With devilish cunning I
+encouraged her to talk.  Unsuspecting, she laid her heart bare.  Upon
+the cold, conspicuous, common, printed page I offered it to the public
+gaze.
+
+A literary Judas, I kissed her and betrayed her.  For pieces of silver
+I dressed her sweet confidences in the pantalettes and frills of folly
+and made them dance in the market place.
+
+Dear Louisa!  Of nights I have bent over her cruel as a wolf above a
+tender lamb, hearkening even to her soft words murmured in sleep,
+hoping to catch an idea for my next day's grind.  There is worse to
+come.
+
+God help me!  Next my fangs were buried deep in the neck of the
+fugitive sayings of my little children.
+
+Guy and Viola were two bright fountains of childish, quaint thoughts
+and speeches.  I found a ready sale for this kind of humor, and was
+furnishing a regular department in a magazine with "Funny Fancies of
+Childhood."  I began to stalk them as an Indian stalks the antelope. I
+would hide behind sofas and doors, or crawl on my hands and knees among
+the bushes in the yard to eavesdrop while they were at play. I had all
+the qualities of a harpy except remorse.
+
+Once, when I was barren of ideas, and my copy must leave in the next
+mail, I covered myself in a pile of autumn leaves in the yard, where I
+knew they intended to come to play.  I cannot bring myself to believe
+that Guy was aware of my hiding place, but even if he was, I would be
+loath to blame him for his setting fire to the leaves, causing the
+destruction of my new suit of clothes, and nearly cremating a parent.
+
+Soon my own children began to shun me as a pest.  Often, when I was
+creeping upon them like a melancholy ghoul, I would hear them say to
+each other:  "Here comes papa," and they would gather their toys and
+scurry away to some safer hiding place.  Miserable wretch that I was!
+
+And yet I was doing well financially.  Before the first year had passed
+I had saved a thousand dollars, and we had lived in comfort.
+
+But at what a cost!  I am not quite clear as to what a pariah is, but I
+was everything that it sounds like.  I had no friends, no amusements,
+no enjoyment of life.  The happiness of my family had been sacrificed.
+I was a bee, sucking sordid honey from life's fairest flowers, dreaded
+and shunned on account of my stingo.
+
+One day a man spoke to me, with a pleasant and friendly smile. Not in
+months had the thing happened.  I was passing the undertaking
+establishment of Peter Heffelbower.  Peter stood in the door and
+saluted me.  I stopped, strangely wrung in my heart by his greeting. He
+asked me inside.
+
+The day was chill and rainy.  We went into the back room, where a fire
+burned, in a little stove.  A customer came, and Peter left me alone
+for a while.  Presently I felt a new feeling stealing over me--a sense
+of beautiful calm and content, I looked around the place. There were
+rows of shining rosewood caskets, black palls, trestles, hearse plumes,
+mourning streamers, and all the paraphernalia of the solemn trade.
+Here was peace, order, silence, the abode of grave and dignified
+reflections.  Here, on the brink of life, was a little niche pervaded
+by the spirit of eternal rest.
+
+When I entered it, the follies of the world abandoned me at the door. I
+felt no inclination to wrest a humorous idea from those sombre and
+stately trappings.  My mind seemed to stretch itself to grateful repose
+upon a couch draped with gentle thoughts.
+
+A quarter of an hour ago I was an abandoned humorist.  Now I was a
+philosopher, full of serenity and ease.  I had found a refuge from
+humor, from the hot chase of the shy quip, from the degrading pursuit
+of the panting joke, from the restless reach after the nimble repartee.
+
+I had not known Heffelbower well.  When he came back, I let him talk,
+fearful that he might prove to be a jarring note in the sweet,
+dirgelike harmony of his establishment.
+
+But, no.  He chimed truly.  I gave a long sigh of happiness.  Never
+have I known a man's talk to be as magnificently dull as Peter's was.
+Compared with it the Dead Sea is a geyser.  Never a sparkle or a
+glimmer of wit marred his words.  Commonplaces as trite and as
+plentiful as blackberries flowed from his lips no more stirring in
+quality than a last week's tape running from a ticker.  Quaking a
+little, I tried upon him one of my best pointed jokes.  It fell back
+ineffectual, with the point broken.  I loved that man from then on.
+
+Two or three evenings each week I would steal down to Heffelbower's and
+revel in his back room.  That was my only joy.  I began to rise early
+and hurry through my work, that I might spend more time in my haven.
+In no other place could I throw off my habit of extracting humorous
+ideas from my surroundings.  Peter's talk left me no opening had I
+besieged it ever so hard.
+
+Under this influence I began to improve in spirits.  It was the
+recreation from one's labor which every man needs.  I surprised one or
+two of my former friends by throwing them a smile and a cheery word as
+I passed them on the streets.  Several times I dumfounded my family by
+relaxing long enough to make a jocose remark in their presence.
+
+I had so long been ridden by the incubus of humor that I seized my
+hours of holiday with a schoolboy's zest.
+
+Mv work began to suffer.  It was not the pain and burden to me that it
+had been.  I often whistled at my desk, and wrote with far more fluency
+than before.  I accomplished my tasks impatiently, as anxious to be off
+to my helpful retreat as a drunkard is to get to his tavern.
+
+My wife had some anxious hours in conjecturing where I spent my
+afternoons.  I thought it best not to tell her; women do not understand
+these things.  Poor girl!--she had one shock out of it.
+
+One day I brought home a silver coffin handle for a paper weight and a
+fine, fluffy hearse plume to dust my papers with.
+
+I loved to see them on my desk, and think of the beloved back room down
+at Heffelbower's.  But Louisa found them, and she shrieked with horror.
+I had to console her with some lame excuse for having them, but I saw
+in her eyes that the prejudice was not removed.  I had to remove the
+articles, though, at double-quick time.
+
+One day Peter Heffelbower laid before me a temptation that swept me off
+my feet.  In his sensible, uninspired way he showed me his books, and
+explained that his profits and his business were increasing rapidly.
+He had thought of taking in a partner with some cash.  He would rather
+have me than any one he knew.  When I left his place that afternoon
+Peter had my check for the thousand dollars I had in the bank, and I
+was a partner in his undertaking business.
+
+I went home with feelings of delirious joy, mingled with a certain
+amount of doubt.  I was dreading to tell my wife about it.  But I
+walked on air.  To give up the writing of humorous stuff, once more to
+enjoy the apples of life, instead of squeezing them to a pulp for a few
+drops of hard cider to make the pubic feel funny--what a boon that
+would be!
+
+At the supper table Louisa handed me some letters that had come during
+my absence.  Several of them contained rejected manuscript.  Ever since
+I first began going to Heffelbower's my stuff had been coming back with
+alarming frequency.  Lately I had been dashing off my jokes and
+articles with the greatest fluency.  Previously I had labored like a
+bricklayer, slowly and with agony.
+
+Presently I opened a letter from the editor of the weekly with which I
+had a regular contract.  The checks for that weekly article were still
+our main dependence.  The letter ran thus:
+
+
+DEAR SIR:
+
+As you are aware, our contract for the year expires with the present
+month.  While regretting the necessity for so doing, we must say that
+we do not care to renew same for the coming year.  We were quite
+pleased with your style of humor, which seems to have delighted quite a
+large proportion of our readers.  But for the past two months we have
+noticed a decided falling off in its quality.  Your earlier work showed
+a spontaneous, easy, natural flow of fun and wit.  Of late it is
+labored, studied, and unconvincing, giving painful evidence of hard
+toil and drudging mechanism.
+
+Again regretting that we do not consider your contributions available
+any longer, we are, yours sincerely,
+
+THE EDITOR.
+
+
+I handed this letter to my wife.  After she had read it her face grew
+extremely long, and there were tears in her eyes.
+
+"The mean old thing!" she exclaimed indignantly.  "I'm sure your pieces
+are just as good as they ever were.  And it doesn't take you half as
+long to write them as it did."  And then, I suppose, Louisa thought of
+the checks that would cease coming.  "Oh, John," she wailed, "what will
+you do now?"
+
+For an answer I got up and began to do a polka step around the supper
+table.  I am sure Louisa thought the trouble had driven me mad; and I
+think the children hoped it had, for they tore after me, yelling with
+glee and emulating my steps.  I was now something like their old
+playmate as of yore.
+
+"The theatre for us to-night!" I shouted; "nothing less.  And a late,
+wild, disreputable supper for all of us at the Palace Restaurant.
+Lumpty-diddle-de-dee-de-dum!"
+
+And then I explained my glee by declaring that I was now a partner in a
+prosperous undertaking establishment, and that written jokes might go
+hide their heads in sackcloth and ashes for all me.
+
+With the editor's letter in her hand to justify the deed I had done, my
+wife could advance no objections save a few mild ones based on the
+feminine inability to appreciate a good thing such as the little back
+room of Peter Hef--no, of Heffelbower & Co's. undertaking establishment.
+
+In conclusion, I will say that to-day you will find no man in our town
+as well liked, as jovial, and full of merry sayings as I.  My jokes are
+again noised about and quoted; once more I take pleasure in my wife's
+confidential chatter without a mercenary thought, while Guy and Viola
+play at my feet distributing gems of childish humor without fear of the
+ghastly tormentor who used to dog their steps, notebook in hand.
+
+Our business has prospered finely. I keep the books and look after the
+shop, while Peter attends to outside matters.  He says that my levity
+and high spirits would simply turn any funeral into a regular Irish
+wake.
+
+
+
+THE SPARROWS IN MADISON SQUARE
+
+The young man in straitened circumstances who comes to New York City to
+enter literature has but one thing to do, provided he has studied
+carefully his field in advance.  He must go straight to Madison Square,
+write an article about the sparrows there, and sell it to the _Sun_ for
+$15.
+
+I cannot recall either a novel or a story dealing with the popular
+theme of the young writer from the provinces who comes to the
+metropolis to win fame and fortune with his pen in which the hero does
+not get his start that way.  It does seem strange that some author, in
+casting about for startlingly original plots, has not hit upon the idea
+of having his hero write about the bluebirds in Union Square and sell
+it to the _Herald_.  But a search through the files of metropolitan
+fiction counts up overwhelmingly for the sparrows and the old Garden
+Square, and the _Sun_ always writes the check.
+
+Of course it is easy to understand why this first city venture of the
+budding author is always successful.  He is primed by necessity to a
+superlative effort; mid the iron and stone and marble of the roaring
+city he has found this spot of singing birds and green grass and trees;
+every tender sentiment in his nature is baffling with the sweet pain of
+homesickness; his genius is aroused as it never may be again; the birds
+chirp, the tree branches sway, the noise of wheels is forgotten; he
+writes with his soul in his pen--and he sells it to the _Sun_ for $15.
+
+I had read of this custom during many years before I came to New York.
+When my friends were using their strongest arguments to dissuade me
+from coming, I only smiled serenely.  They did not know of that sparrow
+graft I had up my sleeve.
+
+When I arrived in New York, and the car took me straight from the ferry
+up Twenty-third Street to Madison Square, I could hear that $15 check
+rustling in my inside pocket.
+
+I obtained lodging at an unhyphenated hostelry, and the next morning I
+was on a bench in Madison Square almost by the time the sparrows were
+awake.  Their melodious chirping, the benignant spring foliage of the
+noble trees and the clean, fragrant grass reminded me so potently of
+the old farm I had left that tears almost came into my eyes.
+
+Then, all in a moment, I felt my inspiration.  The brave, piercing
+notes of those cheerful small birds formed a keynote to a wonderful,
+light, fanciful song of hope and joy and altruism.  Like myself, they
+were creatures with hearts pitched to the tune of woods and fields; as
+I was, so were they captives by circumstance in the discordant, dull
+city--yet with how much grace and glee they bore the restraint!
+
+And then the early morning people began to pass through the square to
+their work--sullen people, with sidelong glances and glum faces,
+hurrying, hurrying, hurrying.  And I got my theme cut out clear from
+the bird notes, and wrought it into a lesson, and a poem, and a
+carnival dance, and a lullaby; and then translated it all into prose
+and began to write.
+
+For two hours my pencil traveled over my pad with scarcely a rest. Then
+I went to the little room I had rented for two days, and there I cut it
+to half, and then mailed it, white-hot, to the _Sun_.
+
+The next morning I was up by daylight and spent two cents of my capital
+for a paper.  If the word "sparrow" was in it I was unable to find it.
+I took it up to my room and spread it out on the bed and went over it,
+column by column.  Something was wrong.
+
+Three hours afterward the postman brought me a large envelope
+containing my MS. and a piece of inexpensive paper, about 3 inches by
+4--I suppose some of you have seen them--upon which was written in
+violet ink, "With the _Sun's_ thanks."
+
+I went over to the square and sat upon a bench.  No; I did not think it
+necessary to eat any breakfast that morning.  The confounded pests of
+sparrows were making the square hideous with their idiotic "cheep,
+cheep."  I never saw birds so persistently noisy, impudent, and
+disagreeable in all my life.
+
+By this time, according to all traditions, I should have been standing
+in the office of the editor of the _Sun_.  That personage--a tall,
+grave, white-haired man--would strike a silver bell as he grasped my
+hand and wiped a suspicious moisture from his glasses.
+
+"Mr. McChesney," he would be saying when a subordinate appeared, "this
+is Mr. Henry, the young man who sent in that exquisite gem about the
+sparrows in Madison Square.  You may give him a desk at once.  Your
+salary, sir, will be $80 a week, to begin with."
+
+This was what I had been led to expect by all writers who have evolved
+romances of literary New York.
+
+Something was decidedly wrong with tradition.  I could not assume the
+blame, so I fixed it upon the sparrows.  I began to hate them with
+intensity and heat.
+
+At that moment an individual wearing an excess of whiskers, two hats,
+and a pestilential air slid into the seat beside me.
+
+"Say, Willie," he muttered cajolingly, "could you cough up a dime out
+of your coffers for a cup of coffee this morning?"
+
+"I'm lung-weary, my friend," said I.  "The best I can do is three
+cents."
+
+"And you look like a gentleman, too," said he.  "What brung you
+down?--boozer?"
+
+"Birds," I said fiercely.  "The brown-throated songsters carolling
+songs of hope and cheer to weary man toiling amid the city's dust and
+din.  The little feathered couriers from the meadows and woods chirping
+sweetly to us of blue skies and flowering fields.  The confounded
+little squint-eyed nuisances yawping like a flock of steam pianos, and
+stuffing themselves like aldermen with grass seeds and bugs, while a
+man sits on a bench and goes without his breakfast. Yes, sir, birds!
+look at them!"
+
+As I spoke I picked up a dead tree branch that lay by the bench, and
+hurled it with all my force into a close congregation of the sparrows
+on the grass.  The flock flew to the trees with a babel of shrill
+cries; but two of them remained prostrate upon the turf.
+
+In a moment my unsavory friend had leaped over the row of benches and
+secured the fluttering victims, which he thrust hurriedly into his
+pockets.  Then he beckoned me with a dirty forefinger.
+
+"Come on, cully," he said hoarsely.  "You're in on the feed."
+
+Thank you very much!
+
+Weakly I followed my dingy acquaintance.  He led me away from the park
+down a side street and through a crack in a fence into a vacant lot
+where some excavating had been going on.  Behind a pile of old stones
+and lumber he paused, and took out his birds.
+
+"I got matches," said he.  "You got any paper to start a fire with?"
+
+I drew forth my manuscript story of the sparrows, and offered it for
+burnt sacrifice.  There were old planks, splinters, and chips for our
+fire.  My frowsy friend produced from some interior of his frayed
+clothing half a loaf of bread, pepper, and salt.
+
+In ten minutes each of us was holding a sparrow spitted upon a stick
+over the leaping flames.
+
+"Say," said my fellow bivouacker, "this ain't so bad when a fellow's
+hungry.  It reminds me of when I struck New York first--about fifteen
+years ago.  I come in from the West to see if I could get a job on a
+newspaper.  I hit the Madison Square Park the first mornin' after, and
+was sitting around on the benches.  I noticed the sparrows chirpin',
+and the grass and trees so nice and green that I thought I was back in
+the country again.  Then I got some papers out of my pocket, and--"
+
+"I know," I interrupted.  "You sent it to the _Sun_ and got $15."
+
+"Say," said my friend, suspiciously, "you seem to know a good deal.
+Where was you?  I went to sleep on the bench there, in the sun, and
+somebody touched me for every cent I had--$15."
+
+
+
+HEARTS AND HANDS
+
+At Denver there was an influx of passengers into the coaches on the
+eastbound B. & M. express.  In one coach there sat a very pretty young
+woman dressed in elegant taste and surrounded by all the luxurious
+comforts of an experienced traveler.  Among the newcomers were two
+young men, one of handsome presence with a bold, frank countenance and
+manner; the other a ruffled, glum-faced person, heavily built and
+roughly dressed.  The two were handcuffed together.
+
+As they passed down the aisle of the coach the only vacant seat offered
+was a reversed one facing the attractive young woman.  Here the linked
+couple seated themselves.  The young woman's glance fell upon them with
+a distant, swift disinterest; then with a lovely smile brightening her
+countenance and a tender pink tingeing her rounded cheeks, she held out
+a little gray-gloved hand.  When she spoke her voice, full, sweet, and
+deliberate, proclaimed that its owner was accustomed to speak and be
+heard.
+
+"Well, Mr. Easton, if you _will_ make me speak first, I suppose I must.
+Don't you ever recognize old friends when you meet them in the West?"
+
+The younger man roused himself sharply at the sound of her voice,
+seemed to struggle with a slight embarrassment which he threw off
+instantly, and then clasped her fingers with his left hand.
+
+"It's Miss Fairchild," he said, with a smile.  "I'll ask you to excuse
+the other hand; it's otherwise engaged just at present."
+
+He slightly raised his right hand, bound at the wrist by the shining
+"bracelet" to the left one of his companion.  The glad look in the
+girl's eyes slowly changed to a bewildered horror.  The glow faded from
+her cheeks.  Her lips parted in a vague, relaxing distress. Easton,
+with a little laugh, as if amused, was about to speak again when the
+other forestalled him.  The glum-faced man had been watching the girl's
+countenance with veiled glances from his keen, shrewd eyes.
+
+"You'll excuse me for speaking, miss, but, I see you're acquainted with
+the marshall here.  If you'll ask him to speak a word for me when we
+get to the pen he'll do it, and it'll make things easier for me there.
+He's taking me to Leavenworth prison.  It's seven years for
+counterfeiting."
+
+"Oh!" said the girl, with a deep breath and returning color.  "So that
+is what you are doing out here?  A marshal!"
+
+"My dear Miss Fairchild," said Easton, calmly, "I had to do something.
+Money has a way of taking wings unto itself, and you know it takes
+money to keep step with our crowd in Washington.  I saw this opening in
+the West, and--well, a marshalship isn't quite as high a position as
+that of ambassador, but--"
+
+"The ambassador," said the girl, warmly, "doesn't call any more.  He
+needn't ever have done so.  You ought to know that.  And so now you are
+one of these dashing Western heroes, and you ride and shoot and go into
+all kinds of dangers.  That's different from the Washington life. You
+have been missed from the old crowd."
+
+The girl's eyes, fascinated, went back, widening a little, to rest upon
+the glittering handcuffs.
+
+"Don't you worry about them, miss," said the other man.  "All marshals
+handcuff themselves to their prisoners to keep them from getting away.
+Mr. Easton knows his business."
+
+"Will we see you again soon in Washington?" asked the girl.
+
+"Not soon, I think," said Easton.  "My butterfly days are over, I fear."
+
+"I love the West," said the girl irrelevantly.  Her eyes were shining
+softly.  She looked away out the car window.  She began to speak truly
+and simply without the gloss of style and manner: "Mamma and I spent
+the summer in Denver.  She went home a week ago because father was
+slightly ill.  I could live and be happy in the West.  I think the air
+here agrees with me.  Money isn't everything. But people always
+misunderstand things and remain stupid--"
+
+"Say, Mr. Marshal," growled the glum-faced man.  "This isn't quite
+fair.  I'm needing a drink, and haven't had a smoke all day.  Haven't
+you talked long enough?  Take me in the smoker now, won't you?  I'm
+half dead for a pipe."
+
+The bound travelers rose to their feet, Easton with the same slow smile
+on his face.
+
+"I can't deny a petition for tobacco," he said, lightly.  "It's the one
+friend of the unfortunate.  Good-bye, Miss Fairchild.  Duty calls, you
+know."  He held out his hand for a farewell.
+
+"It's too bad you are not going East," she said, reclothing herself
+with manner and style.  "But you must go on to Leavenworth, I suppose?"
+
+"Yes," said Easton, "I must go on to Leavenworth."
+
+The two men sidled down the aisle into the smoker.
+
+The two passengers in a seat near by had heard most of the
+conversation.  Said one of them:  "That marshal's a good sort of chap.
+Some of these Western fellows are all right."
+
+"Pretty young to hold an office like that, isn't he?" asked the other.
+
+"Young!" exclaimed the first speaker, "why--Oh! didn't you catch on?
+Say--did you ever know an officer to handcuff a prisoner to his _right_
+hand?"
+
+
+
+THE CACTUS
+
+The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A
+large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the
+drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may review an entire
+courtship while removing one's gloves.
+
+That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor
+apartments.  On the table stood a singular-looking green plant in a red
+earthen jar.  The plant was one of the species of cacti, and was
+provided with long, tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed with the
+slightest breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion.
+
+Trysdale's friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard
+complaining at being allowed to drink alone.  Both men were in evening
+dress.  White favors like stars upon their coats shone through the
+gloom of the apartment.
+
+As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdale's
+mind a swift, scarifying retrospect of the last few hours.  It seemed
+that in his nostrils was still the scent of the flowers that had been
+banked in odorous masses about the church, and in his ears the
+lowpitched hum of a thousand well-bred voices, the rustle of crisp
+garments, and, most insistently recurring, the drawling words of the
+minister irrevocably binding her to another.
+
+From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, as if it had
+become a habit of his mind, to reach some conjecture as to why and how
+he had lost her.  Shaken rudely by the uncompromising fact, he had
+suddenly found himself confronted by a thing he had never before
+faced--his own innermost, unmitigated, arid unbedecked self.   He saw
+all the garbs of pretence and egoism that he had worn now turn to rags
+of folly.  He shuddered at the thought that to others, before now, the
+garments of his soul must have appeared sorry and threadbare. Vanity
+and conceit?  These were the joints in his armor.  And how free from
+either she had always been--But why--
+
+As she had slowly moved up the aisle toward the altar he had felt an
+unworthy, sullen exultation that had served to support him.  He had
+told himself that her paleness was from thoughts of another than the
+man to whom she was about to give herself.  But even that poor
+consolation had been wrenched from him.  For, when he saw that swift,
+limpid, upward look that she gave the man when he took her hand, he
+knew himself to be forgotten.  Once that same look had been raised to
+him, and he had gauged its meaning.  Indeed, his conceit had crumbled;
+its last prop was gone.  Why had it ended thus?  There had been no
+quarrel between them, nothing--
+
+For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of those
+last few days before the tide had so suddenly turned.
+
+She had always insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had
+accepted her homage with royal grandeur.  It had been a very sweet
+incense that she had burned before him; so modest (he told himself); so
+childlike and worshipful, and (he would once have sworn) so sincere.
+She had invested him with an almost supernatural number of high
+attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had absorbed the
+oblation as a desert drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise
+of blossom or fruit.
+
+As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the
+crowning instance of his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came
+vividly back to him.  The scene was the night when he had asked her to
+come up on his pedestal with him and share his greatness.  He could
+not, now, for the pain of it, allow his mind to dwell upon the memory
+of her convincing beauty that night--the careless wave of her hair, the
+tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and words.  But they had
+been enough, and they had brought him to speak.  During their
+conversation she had said:
+
+"And Captain Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language
+like a native.  Why have you hidden this accomplishment from me?  Is
+there anything you do not know?"
+
+Now, Carruthers was an idiot.  No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty
+(he sometimes did such things) of airing at the club some old, canting
+Castilian proverb dug from the hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries.
+Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent admirers, was the very man
+to have magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition.
+
+But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and
+flattering.  He allowed the imputation to pass without denial. Without
+protest, he allowed her to twine about his brow this spurious bay of
+Spanish scholarship.  He let it grace his conquering head, and, among
+its soft convolutions, he did not feel the prick of the thorn that was
+to pierce him later.
+
+How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was!  How she fluttered like a
+snared bird when he laid his mightiness at her feet!  He could have
+sworn, and he could swear now, that unmistakable consent was in her
+eyes, but, coyly, she would give him no direct answer.  "I will send
+you my answer to-morrow," she said; and he, the indulgent, confident
+victor, smilingly granted the delay.  The next day he waited,
+impatient, in his rooms for the word.  At noon her groom came to the
+door and left the strange cactus in the red earthen jar.  There was no
+note, no message, merely a tag upon the plant bearing a barbarous
+foreign or botanical name.  He waited until night, but her answer did
+not come.  His large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her.
+Two evenings later they met at a dinner.  Their greetings were
+conventional, but she looked at him, breathless, wondering, eager. He
+was courteous, adamant, waiting her explanation.  With womanly
+swiftness she took her cue from his manner, and turned to snow and ice.
+Thus, and wider from this on, they had drifted apart.  Where was his
+fault?  Who had been to blame?  Humbled now, he sought the answer amid
+the ruins of his self-conceit.  If--
+
+The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon his
+thoughts, aroused him.
+
+"I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you?  You look
+unhappy as if you yourself had been married instead of having acted
+merely as an accomplice.  Look at me, another accessory, come two
+thousand miles on a garlicky, cockroachy banana steamer all the way
+from South America to connive at the sacrifice--please to observe how
+lightly my guilt rests upon my shoulders.  Only little sister I had,
+too, and now she's gone.  Come now! take something to ease your
+conscience."
+
+"I don't drink just now, thanks," said Trysdale.
+
+"Your brandy," resumed the other, coming over and joining him, "is
+abominable.  Run down to see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try
+some of our stuff that old Garcia smuggles in.  It's worth the trip.
+Hallo! here's an old acquaintance.  Wherever did you rake up this
+cactus, Trysdale?"
+
+"A present," said Trysdale, "from a friend.  Know the species?"
+
+"Very well.  It's a tropical concern.  See hundreds of 'em around Punta
+every day.  Here's the name on this tag tied to it.  Know any Spanish,
+Trysdale?"
+
+"No," said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile--"Is it Spanish?"
+
+"Yes.  The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to
+you.  They call it by this name--Ventomarme. Name means in English,
+'Come and take me.'"
+
+
+
+THE DETECTIVE DETECTOR
+
+I was walking in Central Park with Avery Knight, the great New York
+burglar, highwayman, and murderer.
+
+"But, my dear Knight," said I, "it sounds incredible.  You have
+undoubtedly performed some of the most wonderful feats in your
+profession known to modern crime.  You have committed some marvellous
+deeds under the very noses of the police--you have boldly entered the
+homes of millionaires and held them up with an empty gun while you made
+free with their silver and jewels; you have sandbagged citizens in the
+glare of Broadway's electric lights; you have killed and robbed with
+superb openness and absolute impunity--but when you boast that within
+forty-eight hours after committing a murder you can run down and
+actually bring me face to face with the detective assigned to apprehend
+you, I must beg leave to express my doubts--remember, you are in New
+York."
+
+Avery Knight smiled indulgently.
+
+"You pique my professional pride, doctor," he said in a nettled tone.
+"I will convince you."
+
+About twelve yards in advance of us a prosperous-looking citizen was
+rounding a clump of bushes where the walk curved.  Knight suddenly drew
+a revolver and shot the man in the back.  His victim fell and lay
+without moving.
+
+The great murderer went up to him leisurely and took from his clothes
+his money, watch, and a valuable ring and cravat pin.  He then rejoined
+me smiling calmly, and we continued our walk.
+
+Ten steps and we met a policeman running toward the spot where the shot
+had been fired.  Avery Knight stopped him.
+
+"I have just killed a man," he announced, seriously, "and robbed him of
+his possessions."
+
+"G'wan," said the policeman, angrily, "or I'll run yez in!  Want yer
+name in the papers, don't yez?  I never knew the cranks to come around
+so quick after a shootin' before.  Out of th' park, now, for yours, or
+I'll fan yez."
+
+"What you have done," I said, argumentatively, as Knight and I walked
+on, "was easy.  But when you come to the task of hunting down the
+detective that they send upon your trail you will find that you have
+undertaken a difficult feat."
+
+"Perhaps so," said Knight, lightly.  "I will admit that my success
+depends in a degree upon the sort of man they start after me.  If it
+should be an ordinary plain-clothes man I might fail to gain a sight of
+him.  If they honor me by giving the case to some one of their
+celebrated sleuths I do not fear to match my cunning and powers of
+induction against his."
+
+On the next afternoon Knight entered my office with a satisfied look on
+his keen countenance.
+
+"How goes the mysterious murder?" I asked.
+
+"As usual," said Knight, smilingly. "I have put in the morning at the
+police station and at the inquest.  It seems that a card case of mine
+containing cards with my name and address was found near the body. They
+have three witnesses who saw the shooting and gave a description of me.
+The case has been placed in the hands of Shamrock Jolnes, the famous
+detective.  He left Headquarters at 11:30 on the assignment. I waited
+at my address until two, thinking he might call there."
+
+I laughed, tauntingly.
+
+"You will never see Jolnes," I continued, "until this murder has been
+forgotten, two or three weeks from now.  I had a better opinion of your
+shrewdness, Knight.  During the three hours and a half that you waited
+he has got out of your ken.  He is after you on true induction theories
+now, and no wrongdoer has yet been known to come upon him while thus
+engaged.  I advise you to give it up."
+
+"Doctor," said Knight, with a sudden glint in his keen gray eye and a
+squaring of his chin, "in spite of the record your city holds of
+something like a dozen homicides without a subsequent meeting of the
+perpetrator, and the sleuth in charge of the case, I will undertake to
+break that record.  To-morrow I will take you to Shamrock Jolnes--I
+will unmask him before you and prove to you that it is not an
+impossibility for an officer of the law and a manslayer to stand face
+to face in your city."
+
+"Do it," said I, "and you'll have the sincere thanks of the Police
+Department."
+
+On the next day Knight called for me in a cab.
+
+"I've been on one or two false scents, doctor," he admitted.  "I know
+something of detectives' methods, and I followed out a few of them,
+expecting to find Jolnes at the other end.  The pistol being a
+.45-caliber, I thought surely I would find him at work on the clue in
+Forty-fifth Street.  Then, again, I looked for the detective at the
+Columbia University, as the man's being shot in the back naturally
+suggested hazing.  But I could not find a trace of him."
+
+"--Nor will you," I said, emphatically.
+
+"Not by ordinary methods," said Knight.  "I might walk up and down
+Broadway for a month without success.  But you have aroused my pride,
+doctor; and if I fail to show you Shamrock Jolnes this day, I promise
+you I will never kill or rob in your city again."
+
+"Nonsense, man," I replied.  "When our burglars walk into our houses
+and politely demand, thousands of dollars' worth of jewels, and then
+dine and bang the piano an hour or two before leaving, how do you, a
+mere murderer, expect to come in contact with the detective that is
+looking for you?"
+
+Avery Knight, sat lost in thought for a while.  At length he looked up
+brightly.
+
+"Doc," said he, "I have it.  Put on your hat, and come with me.  In
+half an hour I guarantee that you shall stand in the presence of
+Shamrock Jolnes."
+
+I entered a cab with Avery Knight.  I did not hear his instructions to
+the driver, but the vehicle set out at a smart pace up Broadway,
+turning presently into Fifth Avenue, and proceeding northward again. It
+was with a rapidly beating heart that I accompanied this wonderful and
+gifted assassin, whose analytical genius and superb self-confidence had
+prompted him to make me the tremendous promise of bringing me into the
+presence of a murderer and the New York detective in pursuit of him
+simultaneously.  Even yet I could not believe it possible.
+
+"Are you sure that you are not being led into some trap?" I asked.
+"Suppose that your clue, whatever it is, should bring us only into the
+presence of the Commissioner of Police and a couple of dozen cops!"
+
+"My dear doctor," said Knight, a little stiffly. "I would remind you
+that I am no gambler."
+
+"I beg your pardon," said I.  "But I do not think you will find Jolnes."
+
+The cab stopped before one of the handsomest residences on the avenue.
+Walking up and down in front of the house was a man with long red
+whiskers, with a detective's badge showing on the lapel of his coat.
+Now and then the man would remove his whiskers to wipe his face, and
+then I would recognize at once the well-known features of the great New
+York detective.  Jolnes was keeping a sharp watch upon the doors and
+windows of the house.
+
+"Well, doctor," said Knight, unable to repress a note of triumph in his
+voice, "have you seen?"
+
+"It is wonderful--wonderful!" I could not help exclaiming as our cab
+started on its return trip.  "But how did you do it?  By what process
+of induction--"
+
+"My dear doctor," interrupted the great murderer, "the inductive theory
+is what the detectives use.  My process is more modern.  I call it the
+saltatorial theory.  Without bothering with the tedious mental
+phenomena necessary to the solution of a mystery from slight clues, I
+jump at once to a conclusion.  I will explain to you the method I
+employed in this case.
+
+"In the first place, I argued that as the crime was committed in New
+York City in broad daylight, in a public place and under peculiarly
+atrocious circumstances, and that as the most skilful sleuth available
+was let loose upon the case, the perpetrator would never be discovered.
+Do you not think my postulation justified by precedent?"
+
+"Perhaps so," I replied, doggedly.  "But if Big Bill Dev--"
+
+"Stop that," interrupted Knight, with a smile, "I've heard that several
+times.  It's too late now.  I will proceed.
+
+"If homicides in New York went undiscovered, I reasoned, although the
+best detective talent was employed to ferret them out, it must be true
+that the detectives went about their work in the wrong way. And not
+only in the wrong way, but exactly opposite from the right way.  That
+was my clue.
+
+"I slew the man in Central Park.  Now, let me describe myself to you.
+
+"I am tall, with a black beard, and I hate publicity.  I have no money
+to speak of; I do not like oatmeal, and it is the one ambition of my
+life to die rich.  I am of a cold and heartless disposition.  I do not
+care for my fellowmen and I never give a cent to beggars or charity.
+
+"Now, my dear doctor, that is the true description of myself, the man
+whom that shrewd detective was to hunt down.  You who are familiar with
+the history of crime in New York of late should be able to foretell the
+result.  When I promised you to exhibit to your incredulous gaze the
+sleuth who was set upon me, you laughed at me because you said that
+detectives and murderers never met in New York. I have demonstrated to
+you that the theory is possible."
+
+"But how did you do it?" I asked again.
+
+"It was very simple," replied the distinguished murderer.  "I assumed
+that the detective would go exactly opposite to the clues he had.  I
+have given you a description of myself.  Therefore, he must necessarily
+set to work and trail a short man with a white beard who likes to be in
+the papers, who is very wealthy, is fond 'of oatmeal, wants to die
+poor, and is of an extremely generous and philanthropic disposition.
+When thus far is reached the mind hesitates no longer.  I conveyed you
+at once to the spot where Shamrock Jolnes was piping off Andrew
+Carnegie's residence."
+
+"Knight," said I, "you're a wonder.  If there was no danger of your
+reforming, what a rounds man you'd make for the Nineteenth Precinct!"
+
+
+
+THE DOG AND THE PLAYLET
+
+[This story has been rewritten and published in "Strictly Business"
+under the title, The Proof of the Pudding.]
+
+
+Usually it is a cold day in July when you can stroll up Broadway in
+that month and get a story out of the drama.  I found one a few
+breathless, parboiling days ago, and it seems to decide a serious
+question in art.
+
+There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me--and two or
+three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters. The
+elect had fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already begun
+to draw for additional funds.  Every evening Hollis and I prowled about
+the deserted town searching for coolness in empty cafes, dining-rooms,
+and roofgardens.  We knew to the tenth part of a revolution the speed
+of every electric fan in Gotham, and we followed the swiftest as they
+varied.  Hollis's fiancee. Miss Loris Sherman, had been in the
+Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month.  In another week he
+would join her party there.  In the meantime, he cursed the city
+cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society because I suffered
+him to show me her photograph during the black coffee every time we
+dined together.
+
+My revenge was to read to him my one-act play.
+
+It was one insufferable evening when the overplus of the day's heat was
+being hurled quiveringly back to the heavens by every surcharged brick
+and stone and inch of iron in the panting town.  But with the cunning
+of the two-legged beasts we had found an oasis where the hoofs of
+Apollo's steed had not been allowed to strike.  Our seats were on an
+ocean of cool, polished oak; the white linen of fifty deserted tables
+flapped like seagulls in the artificial breeze; a mile away a waiter
+lingered for a heliographic signal--we might have roared songs there or
+fought a duel without molestation.
+
+Out came Miss Loris's photo with the coffee, and I once more praised
+the elegant poise of the neck, the extremely low-coiled mass of heavy
+hair, and the eyes that followed one, like those in an oil painting.
+
+"She's the greatest ever," said Hollis, with enthusiasm.  "Good as
+Great Northern Preferred, and a disposition built like a watch.  One
+week more and I'll be happy Jonny-on-the-spot.  Old Tom Tolliver, my
+best college chum, went up there two weeks ago.  He writes me that
+Loris doesn't talk about anything but me.  Oh, I guess Rip Van Winkle
+didn't have all the good luck!"
+
+"Yes, yes," said I, hurriedly, pulling out my typewritten play. "She's
+no doubt a charming girl.  Now, here's that little curtain-raiser you
+promised to listen to."
+
+"Ever been tried on the stage?" asked Hollis.
+
+"Not exactly," I answered.  "I read half of it the other day to a
+fellow whose brother knows Robert Edeson; but he had to catch a train
+before I finished."
+
+"Go on," said Hollis, sliding back in his chair like a good fellow.
+"I'm no stage carpenter, but I'll tell you what I think of it from a
+first-row balcony standpoint.  I'm a theatre bug during the season, and
+I can size up a fake play almost as quick as the gallery can. Flag the
+waiter once more, and then go ahead as hard as you like with it.  I'll
+be the dog."
+
+I read my little play lovingly, and, I fear, not without some
+elocution.  There was one scene in it that I believed in greatly. The
+comedy swiftly rises into thrilling and unexpectedly developed drama.
+Capt. Marchmont suddenly becomes cognizant that his wife is an
+unscrupulous adventuress, who has deceived him from the day of their
+first meeting.  The rapid and mortal duel between them from that
+moment--she with her magnificent lies and siren charm, winding about
+him like a serpent, trying to recover her lost ground; he with his
+man's agony and scorn and lost faith, trying to tear her from his
+heart.  That scene I always thought was a crackerjack.  When Capt.
+Marchmont discovers her duplicity by reading on a blotter in a mirror
+the impression of a note that she has written to the Count, he raises
+his hand to heaven and exclaims:  "O God, who created woman while Adam
+slept, and gave her to him for a companion, take back Thy gift and
+return instead the sleep, though it last forever!"
+
+"Rot," said Hollis, rudely, when I had given those lines with proper
+emphasis.
+
+"I beg your pardon!" I said, as sweetly as I could.
+
+"Come now," went on Hollis, "don't be an idiot.  You know very well
+that nobody spouts any stuff like that these days.  That sketch went
+along all right until you rang in the skyrockets.  Cut out that
+right-arm exercise and the Adam and Eve stunt, and make your captain
+talk as you or I or Bill Jones would."
+
+"I'll admit," said I, earnestly (for my theory was being touched upon),
+"that on all ordinary occasions all of us use commonplace language to
+convey our thoughts.  You will remember that up to the moment when the
+captain makes his terrible discovery all the characters on the stage
+talk pretty much as they would, in real life. But I believe that I am
+right in allowing him lines suitable to the strong and tragic situation
+into which he falls."
+
+"Tragic, my eye!" said my friend, irreverently.  "In Shakespeare's day
+he might have sputtered out some high-cockalorum nonsense of that sort,
+because in those days they ordered ham and eggs in blank verse and
+discharged the cook with an epic.  But not for B'way in the summer of
+1905!"
+
+"It is my opinion," said I, "that great human emotions shake up our
+vocabulary and leave the words best suited to express them on top.  A
+sudden violent grief or loss or disappointment will bring expressions
+out of an ordinary man as strong and solemn and dramatic as those used
+in fiction or on the stage to portray those emotions."
+
+"That's where you fellows are wrong," said Hollis.  "Plain, every-day
+talk is what goes.  Your captain would very likely have kicked the cat,
+lit a cigar, stirred up a highball, and telephoned for a lawyer,
+instead of getting off those Robert Mantell pyrotechnics."
+
+"Possibly, a little later," I continued.  "But just at the time--just
+as the blow is delivered, if something Scriptural or theatrical and
+deep-tongued isn't wrung from a man in spite of his modern and
+practical way of speaking, then I'm wrong."
+
+"Of course," said Hollis, kindly, "you've got to whoop her up some
+degrees for the stage.  The audience expects it.  When the villain
+kidnaps little Effie you have to make her mother claw some chunks out
+of the atmosphere, and scream: "Me chee-ild, me chee-ild!"  What she
+would actually do would be to call up the police by 'phone, ring for
+some strong tea, and get the little darling's photo out, ready for the
+reporters.  When you get your villain in a corner--a stage corner--it's
+all right for him to clap his hand to his forehead and hiss: "All is
+lost!"  Off the stage he would remark:  "This is a conspiracy against
+me--I refer you to my lawyers.'"
+
+"I get no consolation," said I, gloomily, "from your concession of an
+accentuated stage treatment.  In my play I fondly hoped that I was
+following life.  If people in real life meet great crises in a
+commonplace way, they should do the same on the stage."
+
+And then we drifted, like two trout, out of our cool pool in the great
+hotel and began to nibble languidly at the gay flies in the swift
+current of Broadway.  And our question of dramatic art was unsettled.
+
+We nibbled at the flies, and avoided the hooks, as wise trout do; but
+soon the weariness of Manhattan in summer overcame us.  Nine stories
+up, facing the south, was Hollis's apartment, and we soon stepped into
+an elevator bound for that cooler haven.
+
+I was familiar in those quarters, and quickly my play was forgotten,
+and I stood at a sideboard mixing things, with cracked ice and glasses
+all about me.  A breeze from the bay came in the windows not altogether
+blighted by the asphalt furnace over which it had passed. Hollis,
+whistling softly, turned over a late-arrived letter or two on his
+table, and drew around the coolest wicker armchairs.
+
+I was just measuring the Vermouth carefully when I heard a sound. Some
+man's voice groaned hoarsely:  "False, oh, God!--false, and Love is a
+lie and friendship but the byword of devils!"
+
+I looked around quickly.  Hollis lay across the table with his head
+down upon his outstretched arms.  And then he looked up at me and
+laughed in his ordinary manner.
+
+I knew him--he was poking fun at me about my theory.  And it did seem
+so unnatural, those swelling words during our quiet gossip, that I half
+began to believe I had been mistaken--that my theory was wrong.
+
+Hollis raised himself slowly from the table.
+
+"You were right about that theatrical business, old man," he said,
+quietly, as he tossed a note to me.
+
+I read it.
+
+Loris had run away with Tom Tolliver.
+
+
+
+A LITTLE TALK ABOUT MOBS
+
+"I see," remarked the tall gentleman in the frock coat and black slouch
+hat, "that another street car motorman in your city has narrowly
+excaped lynching at the hands of an infuriated mob by lighting a cigar
+and walking a couple of blocks down the street."
+
+"Do you think they would have lynched him?" asked the New Yorker, in
+the next seat of the ferry station, who was also waiting for the boat.
+
+"Not until after the election," said the tall man, cutting a corner off
+his plug of tobacco.  "I've been in your city long enough to know
+something about your mobs.  The motorman's mob is about the least
+dangerous of them all, except the National Guard and the Dressmakers'
+Convention.
+
+"You see, when little Willie Goldstein is sent by his mother for pigs'
+knuckles, with a nickel tightly grasped in his chubby fist, he always
+crosses the street car track safely twenty feet ahead of the car; and
+then suddenly turns back to ask his mother whether it was pale ale or a
+spool of 80 white cotton that she wanted.  The motorman yells and
+throws himself on the brakes like a football player.  There is a
+horrible grinding and then a ripping sound, and a piercing shriek, and
+Willie is sitting, with part of his trousers torn away by the fender,
+screaming for his lost nickel.
+
+"In ten seconds the car is surrounded by 600 infuriated citizens,
+crying, 'Lynch the motorman!  Lynch the motorman!' at the top of their
+voices.  Some of them run to the nearest cigar store to get a rope; but
+they find the last one has just been cut up and labelled. Hundreds of
+the excited mob press close to the cowering motorman, whose hand is
+observed to tremble perceptibly as he transfers a stick of pepsin gum
+from his pocket to his mouth.
+
+"When the bloodthirsty mob of maddened citizens has closed in on the
+motorman, some bringing camp stools and sitting quite close to him, and
+all shouting, 'Lynch him!' Policeman Fogarty forces his way through
+them to the side of their prospective victim.
+
+"'Hello, Mike,' says the motorman in a low voice, 'nice day.  Shall I
+sneak off a block or so, or would you like to rescue me?'
+
+"'Well, Jerry, if you don't mind,' says the policeman, 'I'd like to
+disperse the infuriated mob singlehanded.  I haven't defeated a
+lynching mob since last Tuesday; and that was a small one of only 300,
+that wanted to string up a Dago boy for selling wormy pears. It would
+boost me some down at the station.'
+
+"'All right, Mike,' says the motorman, 'anything to oblige.  I'll turn
+pale and tremble.'
+
+"And he does so; and Policeman Fogarty draws his club and says, 'G'wan
+wid yez!' and in eight seconds the desperate mob has scattered and gone
+about its business, except about a hundred who remain to search for
+Willie's nickel."
+
+"I never heard of a mob in our city doing violence to a motorman
+because of an accident," said the New Yorker.
+
+"You are not liable to," said the tall man.  "They know the motorman's
+all right, and that he wouldn't even run over a stray dog if he could
+help it.  And they know that not a man among 'em would tie the knot to
+hang even a Thomas cat that had been tried and condemned and sentenced
+according to law."
+
+"Then why do they become infuriated and make threats of lynching?"
+asked the New Yorker.
+
+"To assure the motorman," answered the tall man, "that he is safe. If
+they really wanted to do him up they would go into the houses and drop
+bricks on him from the third-story windows."
+
+"New Yorkers are not cowards," said the other man, a little stiffly.
+
+"Not one at a time," agreed the tall man, promptly.  "You've got a fine
+lot of single-handed scrappers in your town.  I'd rather fight three of
+you than one; and I'd go up against all the Gas Trust's victims in a
+bunch before I'd pass two citizens on a dark corner, with my watch
+chain showing.  When you get rounded up in a bunch you lose your nerve.
+Get you in crowds and you're easy.  Ask the 'L' road guards and George
+B. Cortelyou and the tintype booths at Coney Island.  Divided you
+stand, united you fall.  _E pluribus nihil_. Whenever one of your mobs
+surrounds a man and begins to holler, 'Lynch him!' he says to himself,
+"Oh, dear, I suppose I must look pale to please the boys, but I will,
+forsooth, let my life insurance premium lapse to-morrow.  This is a
+sure tip for me to play Methuselah straight across the board in the
+next handicap.'
+
+"I can imagine the tortured feelings of a prisoner in the hands of New
+York policemen when an infuriated mob demands that he be turned over to
+them for lynching.  'For God's sake, officers,' cries the distracted
+wretch, 'have ye hearts of stone, that ye will not let them wrest me
+from ye?'
+
+"'Sorry, Jimmy,' says one of the policemen, 'but it won't do.  There's
+three of us--me and Darrel and the plain-clothes man; and there's only
+sivin thousand of the mob.  How'd we explain it at the office if they
+took ye?  Jist chase the infuriated aggregation around the corner,
+Darrel, and we'll be movin' along to the station.'"
+
+"Some of our gatherings of excited citizens have not been so harmless,"
+said the New Yorker, with a faint note of civic pride.
+
+"I'll admit that," said the tall man.  "A cousin of mine who was on a
+visit here once had an arm broken and lost an ear in one of them."
+
+"That must have been during the Cooper Union riots," remarked the New
+Yorker.
+
+"Not the Cooper Union," explained the tall man--"but it was a union
+riot--at the Vanastor wedding."
+
+"You seem to be in favor of lynch law," said the New Yorker, severely.
+
+"No, sir, I am not.  No intelligent man is.  But, sir, there are
+certain cases when people rise in their just majesty and take a
+righteous vengeance for crimes that the law is slow in punishing. I am
+an advocate of law and order, but I will say to you that less than six
+months ago I myself assisted at the lynching of one of that race that
+is creating a wide chasm between your section of country and mine, sir."
+
+"It is a deplorable condition," said the New Yorker, "that exists in
+the South, but--"
+
+"I am from Indiana, sir," said the tall man, taking another chew; "and
+I don't think you will condemn my course when I tell you that the
+colored man in question had stolen $9.60 in cash, sir, from my own
+brother."
+
+
+
+THE SNOW MAN
+
+EDITORIAL NOTE.--_Before the fatal illness of William Sydney Porter
+(known through his literary work as "O. Henry") this American master of
+short-story writing had begun for Hampton's Magazine the story printed
+below.  Illness crept upon him rapidly and he was compelled to give up
+writing about at the point where the girl enters the story._
+
+_When he realized that he could do no more (it was his lifelong habit
+to write with a pencil, never dictating to a stenographer), O. Henry
+told in detail the remainder of The Snow Man to Harris Merton Lyon,
+whom he had often spoken of as one of the most effective short-story
+writers of the present time.  Mr. Porter had delineated all of the
+characters, leaving only the rounding out of the plot in the final
+pages to Mr. Lyon._
+
+
+Housed and windowpaned from it, the greatest wonder to little children
+is the snow.  To men, it is something like a crucible in which their
+world melts into a white star ten million miles away. The man who can
+stand the test is a Snow Man; and this is his reading by Fahrenheit,
+Reaumur, or Moses's carven tablets of stone.
+
+Night had fluttered a sable pinion above the canyon of Big Lost River,
+and I urged my horse toward the Bay Horse Ranch because the snow was
+deepening.  The flakes were as large as an hour's circular tatting by
+Miss Wilkins's ablest spinster, betokening a heavy snowfall and less
+entertainment and more adventure than the completion of the tatting
+could promise.  I knew Ross Curtis of the Bay Horse, and that I would
+be welcome as a snow-bound pilgrim, both for hospitality's sake and
+because Ross had few chances to confide in living creatures who did not
+neigh, bellow, bleat, yelp, or howl during his discourse.
+
+The ranch house was just within the jaws of the canyon where its
+builder may have fatuously fancied that the timbered and rocky walls on
+both sides would have protected it from the wintry Colorado winds; but
+I feared the drift.  Even now through the endless, bottomless rift in
+the hills--the speaking tube of the four winds--came roaring the voice
+of the proprietor to the little room on the top floor.
+
+At my "hello," a ranch hand came from an outer building and received my
+thankful horse.  In another minute, Ross and I sat by a stove in the
+dining-room of the four-room ranch house, while the big, simple welcome
+of the household lay at my disposal.  Fanned by the whizzing norther,
+the fine, dry snow was sifted and bolted through the cracks and
+knotholes of the logs.  The cook room, without a separating door,
+appended.
+
+In there I could see a short, sturdy, leisurely and weather-beaten man
+moving with professional sureness about his red-hot stove. His face was
+stolid and unreadable--something like that of a great thinker, or of
+one who had no thoughts to conceal.  I thought his eye seemed
+unwarrantably superior to the elements and to the man, but quickly
+attributed that to the characteristic self-importance of a petty chef.
+"Camp cook" was the niche that I gave him in the Hall of Types; and he
+fitted it as an apple fits a dumpling.
+
+Cold it was in spite of the glowing stove; and Ross and I sat and
+talked, shuddering frequently, half from nerves and half from the
+freezing draughts.  So he brought the bottle and the cook brought
+boiling water, and we made prodigious hot toddies against the attacks
+of Boreas.  We clinked glasses often.  They sounded like icicles
+dropping from the eaves, or like the tinkle of a thousand prisms on a
+Louis XIV chandelier that I once heard at a boarder's dance in the
+parlor of a ten-a-week boarding-house in Gramercy Square.  _Sic
+transit_.
+
+Silence in the terrible beauty of the snow and of the Sphinx and of the
+stars; but they who believe that all things, from a without-wine table
+d'hote to the crucifixion, may be interpreted through music, might have
+found a nocturne or a symphony to express the isolation of that
+blotted-out world.  The clink of glass and bottle, the aeolian chorus
+of the wind in the house crannies, its deeper trombone through the
+canyon below, and the Wagnerian crash of the cook's pots and pans,
+united in a fit, discordant melody, I thought.  No less welcome an
+accompaniment was the sizzling of broiling ham and venison cutlet
+indorsed by the solvent fumes of true Java, bringing rich promises of
+comfort to our yearning souls.
+
+The cook brought the smoking supper to the table.  He nodded to me
+democratically as he cast the heavy plates around as though he were
+pitching quoits or hurling the discus.  I looked at him with some
+appraisement and curiosity and much conciliation.  There was no prophet
+to tell us when that drifting evil outside might cease to fall; and it
+is well, when snow-bound, to stand somewhere within the radius of the
+cook's favorable consideration.  But I could read neither favor nor
+disapproval in the face and manner of our pot-wrestler.
+
+He was about five feet nine inches, and two hundred pounds of
+commonplace, bull-necked, pink-faced, callous calm.  He wore brown duck
+trousers too tight and too short, and a blue flannel shirt with sleeves
+rolled above his elbows.  There was a sort of grim, steady scowl on his
+features that looked to me as though he had fixed it there purposely as
+a protection against the weakness of an inherent amiability that, he
+fancied, were better concealed.  And then I let supper usurp his brief
+occupancy of my thoughts.
+
+"Draw up, George," said Ross.  "Let's all eat while the grub's hot."
+
+"You fellows go on and chew," answered the cook.  "I ate mine in the
+kitchen before sun-down."
+
+"Think it'll be a big snow, George?" asked the ranchman.
+
+George had turned to reenter the cook room.  He moved slowly around
+and, looking at his face, it seemed to me that he was turning over the
+wisdom and knowledge of centuries in his head.
+
+"It might," was his delayed reply.
+
+At the door of the kitchen he stopped and looked back at us.  Both Ross
+and I held our knives and forks poised and gave him our regard. Some
+men have the power of drawing the attention of others without speaking
+a word.  Their attitude is more effective than a shout.
+
+"And again it mightn't," said George, and went back to his stove.
+
+After we had eaten, he came in and gathered the emptied dishes.  He
+stood for a moment, while his spurious frown deepened.
+
+"It might stop any minute," he said, "or it might keep up for days."
+
+At the farther end of the cook room I saw George pour hot water into
+his dishpan, light his pipe, and put the tableware through its required
+lavation.  He then carefully unwrapped from a piece of old saddle
+blanket a paperback book, and settled himself to read by his dim oil
+lamp.
+
+And then the ranchman threw tobacco on the cleared table and set forth
+again the bottles and glasses; and I saw that I stood in a deep channel
+through which the long dammed flood of his discourse would soon be
+booming.  But I was half content, comparing my fate with that of the
+late Thomas Tucker, who had to sing for his supper, thus doubling the
+burdens of both himself and his host.
+
+"Snow is a hell of a thing," said Ross, by way of a foreword.  "It
+ain't, somehow, it seems to me, salubrious.  I can stand water and mud
+and two inches below zero and a hundred and ten in the shade and
+medium-sized cyclones, but this here fuzzy white stuff naturally gets
+me all locoed.  I reckon the reason it rattles you is because it
+changes the look of things so much.  It's like you had a wife and left
+her in the morning with the same old blue cotton wrapper on, and rides
+in of a night and runs across her all outfitted in a white silk evening
+frock, waving an ostrich-feather fan, and monkeying with a posy of lily
+flowers.  Wouldn't it make you look for your pocket compass?  You'd be
+liable to kiss her before you collected your presence of mind."
+
+By and by, the flood of Ross's talk was drawn up into the clouds (so it
+pleased me to fancy) and there condensed into the finer snowflakes of
+thought; and we sat silent about the stove, as good friends and bitter
+enemies will do.  I thought of Boss's preamble about the mysterious
+influence upon man exerted by that ermine-lined monster that now
+covered our little world, and knew he was right.
+
+Of all the curious knickknacks, mysteries, puzzles, Indian gifts,
+rat-traps, and well-disguised blessings that the gods chuck down to us
+from the Olympian peaks, the most disquieting and evil-bringing is the
+snow.  By scientific analysis it is absolute beauty and purity--so, at
+the beginning we look doubtfully at chemistry.
+
+It falls upon the world, and lo! we live in another.  It hides in a
+night the old scars and familiar places with which we have grown
+heart-sick or enamored.  So, as quietly as we can, we hustle on our
+embroidered robes and hie us on Prince Camaralzaman's horse or in the
+reindeer sleigh into the white country where the seven colors converge.
+This is when our fancy can overcome the bane of it.
+
+But in certain spots of the earth comes the snow-madness, made known by
+people turned wild and distracted by the bewildering veil that has
+obscured the only world they know.  In the cities, the white fairy who
+sets the brains of her dupes whirling by a wave of her wand is cast for
+the comedy role.  Her diamond shoe buckles glitter like frost; with a
+pirouette she invites the spotless carnival.
+
+But in the waste places the snow is sardonic.  Sponging out the world
+of the outliers, it gives no foothold on another sphere in return. It
+makes of the earth a firmament under foot; it leaves us clawing and
+stumbling in space in an inimical fifth element whose evil outdoes its
+strangeness and beauty, There Nature, low comedienne, plays her tricks
+on man.  Though she has put him forth as her highest product, it
+appears that she has fashioned him with what seems almost incredible
+carelessness and indexterity.  One-sided and without balance, with his
+two halves unequally fashioned and joined, must he ever jog his
+eccentric way.  The snow falls, the darkness caps it, and the
+ridiculous man-biped strays in accurate circles until he succumbs in
+the ruins of his defective architecture.
+
+In the throat of the thirsty the snow is vitriol.  In appearance as
+plausible as the breakfast food of the angels, it is as hot in the
+mouth as ginger, increasing the pangs of the water-famished.  It is a
+derivative from water, air, and some cold, uncanny fire from which the
+caloric has been extracted.  Good has been said of it; even the poets,
+crazed by its spell and shivering in their attics under its touch, have
+indited permanent melodies commemorative of its beauty.
+
+Still, to the saddest overcoated optimist it is a plague--a corroding
+plague that Pharaoh successfully side-stepped.  It beneficently covers
+the wheat fields, swelling the crop--and the Flour Trust gets us by the
+throat like a sudden quinsy.  It spreads the tail of its white kirtle
+over the red seams of the rugged north--and the Alaskan short story is
+born.  Etiolated perfidy, it shelters the mountain traveler burrowing
+from the icy air--and, melting to-morrow, drowns his brother in the
+valley below.
+
+At its worst it is lock and key and crucible, and the wand of Circe.
+When it corrals man in lonely ranches, mountain cabins, and forest
+huts, the snow makes apes and tigers of the hardiest.  It turns the
+bosoms of weaker ones to glass, their tongues to infants' rattles,
+their hearts to lawlessness and spleen.  It is not all from the
+isolation; the snow is not merely a blockader; it is a Chemical Test.
+It is a good man who can show a reaction that is not chiefly composed
+of a drachm or two of potash and magnesia, with traces of Adam,
+Ananias, Nebuchadnezzar, and the fretful porcupine.
+
+This is no story, you say; well, let it begin.
+
+There was a knock at the door (is the opening not full of context and
+reminiscence oh, best buyers of best sellers?).
+
+We drew the latch, and in stumbled Etienne Girod (as he afterward named
+himself).  But just then he was no more than a worm struggling for
+life, enveloped in a killing white chrysalis.
+
+We dug down through snow, overcoats, mufflers, and waterproofs, and
+dragged forth a living thing with a Van Dyck beard and marvellous
+diamond rings.  We put it through the approved curriculum of
+snow-rubbing, hot milk, and teaspoonful doses of whiskey, working him
+up to a graduating class entitled to a diploma of three fingers of rye
+in half a glassful of hot water.  One of the ranch boys had already
+come from the quarters at Ross's bugle-like yell and kicked the
+stranger's staggering pony to some sheltered corral where beasts were
+entertained.
+
+Let a paragraphic biography of Girod intervene.
+
+Etienne was an opera singer originally, we gathered; but adversity and
+the snow had made him _non compos vocis_.  The adversity consisted of
+the stranded San Salvador Opera Company, a period of hotel second-story
+work, and then a career as a professional palmist, jumping from town to
+town.  For, like other professional palmists, every time he worked the
+Heart Line too strongly he immediately moved along the Line of Least
+Resistance.  Though Etienne did not confide this to us, we surmised
+that he had moved out into the dusk about twenty minutes ahead of a
+constable, and had thus encountered the snow.  In his most sacred blue
+language he dilated upon the subject of snow; for Etienne was
+Paris-born and loved the snow with the same passion that an orchid does.
+
+"Mee-ser-rhable!" commented Etienne, and took another three fingers.
+
+"Complete, cast-iron, pussy-footed, blank... blank!" said Ross, and
+followed suit.
+
+"Rotten," said I.
+
+The cook said nothing.  He stood in the door weighing our outburst; and
+insistently from behind that frozen visage I got two messages (via the
+M. A. M wireless).  One was that George considered our vituperation
+against the snow childish; the other was that George did not love
+Dagoes.  Inasmuch as Etienne was a Frenchman, I concluded I had the
+message wrong.  So I queried the other: "Bright eyes, you don't really
+mean Dagoes, do you?" and over the wireless came three deathly, psychic
+taps:  "Yes."  Then I reflected that to George all foreigners were
+probably "Dagoes."  I had once known another camp cook who had thought
+Mons., Sig., and Millie (Trans-Mississippi for Mlle.) were Italian
+given names; this cook used to marvel therefore at the paucity of
+Neo-Roman precognomens, and therefore why not--
+
+I have said that snow is a test of men.  For one day, two days, Etienne
+stood at the window, Fletcherizing his finger nails and shrieking and
+moaning at the monotony.  To me, Etienne was just about as unbearable
+as the snow; and so, seeking relief, I went out on the second day to
+look at my horse, slipped on a stone, broke my collarbone, and
+thereafter underwent not the snow test, but the test of
+flat-on-the-back.  A test that comes once too often for any man to
+stand.
+
+However, I bore up cheerfully.  I was now merely a spectator, and from
+my couch in the big room I could lie and watch the human interplay with
+that detached, impassive, impersonal feeling which French writers tell
+us is so valuable to the litterateur, and American writers to the
+faro-dealer.
+
+"I shall go crazy in this abominable, mee-ser-rhable place!" was
+Etienne's constant prediction.
+
+"Never knew Mark Twain to bore me before," said Ross, over and over. He
+sat by the other window, hour after hour, a box of Pittsburg stogies of
+the length, strength, and odor of a Pittsburg graft scandal deposited
+on one side of him, and "Roughing It," "The Jumping Frog," and "Life on
+the Mississippi" on the other.  For every chapter he lit a new stogy,
+puffing furiously.  This in time, gave him a recurrent premonition of
+cramps, gastritis, smoker's colic or whatever it is they have in
+Pittsburg after a too deep indulgence in graft scandals. To fend off
+the colic, Ross resorted time and again to Old Doctor Still's
+Amber-Colored U. S. A. Colic Cure.  Result, after forty-eight
+hours--nerves.
+
+"Positive fact I never knew Mark Twain to make me tired before.
+Positive fact."  Ross slammed "Roughing It" on the floor.  "When you're
+snowbound this-away you want tragedy, I guess.  Humor just seems to
+bring out all your cussedness.  You read a man's poor, pitiful attempts
+to be funny and it makes you so nervous you want to tear the book up,
+get out your bandana, and have a good, long cry."
+
+At the other end of the room, the Frenchman took his finger nails out
+of his mouth long enough to exclaim:  "Humor!  Humor at such a time as
+thees!  My God, I shall go crazy in thees abominable--"
+
+"Supper," announced George.
+
+These meals were not the meals of Rabelais who said, "the great God
+makes the planets and we make the platters neat."  By that time, the
+ranch-house meals were not affairs of gusto; they were mental
+distraction, not bodily provender.  What they were to be later shall
+never be forgotten by Ross or me or Etienne.
+
+After supper, the stogies and finger nails began again.  My shoulder
+ached wretchedly, and with half-closed eyes I tried to forget it by
+watching the deft movements of the stolid cook.
+
+Suddenly I saw him cock his ear, like a dog.  Then, with a swift step,
+he moved to the door, threw it open, and stood there.
+
+The rest of us had heard nothing.
+
+"What is it, George?" asked Ross.
+
+The cook reached out his hand into the darkness alongside the jamb.
+With careful precision he prodded something.  Then he made one careful
+step into the snow.  His back muscles bulged a little under the arms as
+he stooped and lightly lifted a burden.  Another step inside the door,
+which he shut methodically behind him, and he dumped the burden at a
+safe distance from the fire.
+
+He stood up and fixed us with a solemn eye.  None of us moved under
+that Orphic suspense until,
+
+"A woman," remarked George.
+
+
+Miss Willie Adams was her name.  Vocation, school-teacher.  Present
+avocation, getting  lost  in  the  snow.  Age, yum-yum (the Persian for
+twenty).  Take to the woods if you would describe Miss Adams. A willow
+for grace; a hickory for fibre; a birch for the clear whiteness of her
+skin; for eyes, the blue sky seen through treetops; the silk in cocoons
+for her hair; her voice, the murmur of the evening June wind in the
+leaves; her mouth, the berries of the wintergreen; fingers as light as
+ferns; her toe as small as a deer track.  General impression upon the
+dazed beholder--you could not see the forest for the trees.
+
+Psychology, with a capital P and the foot of a lynx, at this juncture
+stalks into the ranch house.  Three men, a cook, a pretty young
+woman--all snowbound.  Count me out of it, as I did not count, anyway.
+I never did, with women.  Count the cook out, if you like.  But note
+the effect upon Ross and Etienne Girod.
+
+Ross dumped Mark Twain in a trunk and locked the trunk.  Also, he
+discarded the Pittsburg scandals.  Also, he shaved off a three days'
+beard.
+
+Etienne, being French, began on the beard first.  He pomaded it, from a
+little tube of grease Hongroise in his vest pocket.   He combed it with
+a little aluminum comb from the same vest pocket. He trimmed it with
+manicure scissors from the same vest pocket.  His light and Gallic
+spirits underwent a sudden, miraculous change.  He hummed a blithe San
+Salvador Opera Company tune; he grinned, smirked, bowed, pirouetted,
+twiddled, twaddled, twisted, and tooralooed.  Gayly, the notorious
+troubadour, could not have equalled Etienne.
+
+Ross's method of advance was brusque, domineering.  "Little woman," he
+said, "you're welcome here!"--and with what he thought subtle double
+meaning--"welcome to stay here as long as you like, snow or no snow."
+
+Miss Adams thanked him a little wildly, some of the wintergreen berries
+creeping into the birch bark.  She looked around hurriedly as if
+seeking escape.  But there was none, save the kitchen and the room
+allotted her.  She made an excuse and disappeared into her own room.
+
+Later I, feigning sleep, heard the following:
+
+"Mees Adams, I was almost to perish-die-of monotony w'en your fair and
+beautiful face appear in thees mee-ser-rhable house."  I opened my
+starboard eye.  The beard was being curled furiously around a finger,
+the Svengali eye was rolling, the chair was being hunched closer to the
+school-teacher's.  "I am French--you see--temperamental--nervous! I
+cannot endure thees dull hours in thees ranch house; but--a woman
+comes!  Ah!"  The shoulders gave nine 'rahs and a tiger.  "What a
+difference!  All is light and gay; ever'ting smile w'en you smile. You
+have 'eart, beauty, grace.  My 'eart comes back to me w'en I feel your
+'eart.  So!"  He laid his hand upon his vest pocket.  From this vantage
+point he suddenly snatched at the  school-teacher's own hand, "Ah!
+Mees Adams, if I could only tell you how I ad--"
+
+"Dinner," remarked George.  He was standing just behind the Frenchman's
+ear.  His eyes looked straight into the school-teacher's eyes.  After
+thirty seconds of survey, his lips moved, deep in the flinty, frozen
+maelstrom of his face:  "Dinner," he concluded, "will be ready in two
+minutes."
+
+Miss Adams jumped to her feet, relieved.  "I must get ready for
+dinner," she said brightly, and went into her room.
+
+Ross came in fifteen minutes late.  After the dishes had been cleaned
+away, I waited until a propitious time when the room was temporarily
+ours alone, and told him what had happened.
+
+He became so excited that he lit a stogy without thinking.
+"Yeller-hided, unwashed, palm-readin' skunk," he said under his breath.
+"I'll shoot him full o' holes if he don't watch out--talkin' that way
+to my wife!"
+
+I gave a jump that set my collarbone back another week.  "Your wife!" I
+gasped.
+
+"Well, I mean to make her that," he announced.
+
+The air in the ranch house the rest of that day was tense with pent-up
+emotions, oh, best buyers of best sellers.
+
+Ross watched Miss Adams as a hawk does a hen; he watched Etienne as a
+hawk does a scarecrow, Etienne watched Miss Adams as a weasel does a
+henhouse.  He paid no attention to Ross.
+
+The condition of Miss Adams, in the role of sought-after, was feverish.
+Lately escaped from the agony and long torture of the white cold, where
+for hours Nature had kept the little school-teacher's vision locked in
+and turned upon herself, nobody knows through what profound feminine
+introspections she had gone.  Now, suddenly cast among men, instead of
+finding relief and security, she beheld herself plunged anew into other
+discomforts.  Even in her own room she could hear the loud voices of
+her imposed suitors.  "I'll blow you full o' holes!" shouted Ross.
+"Witnesses," shrieked Etienne, waving his hand at the cook and me.  She
+could not have known the previous harassed condition of the men,
+fretting under indoor conditions.  All she knew was, that where she had
+expected the frank freemasonry of the West, she found the subtle tangle
+of two men's minds, bent upon exacting whatever romance there might be
+in her situation.
+
+She tried to dodge Ross and the Frenchman by spells of nursing me. They
+also came over to help nurse.  This combination aroused such a natural
+state of invalid cussedness on my part that they were all forced to
+retire.  Once she did manage to whisper:  "I am so worried here.  I
+don't know what to do."
+
+To which I replied, gently, hitching up my shoulder, that I was a
+hunch-savant and that the Eighth House under this sign, the Moon being
+in Virgo, showed that everything would turn out all right.
+
+But twenty minutes later I saw Etienne reading her palm and felt that
+perhaps I might have to recast her horoscope, and try for a dark man
+coming with a bundle.
+
+Toward sunset, Etienne left the house for a few moments and Ross, who
+had been sitting taciturn and morose, having unlocked Mark Twain, made
+another dash.  It was typical Ross talk.
+
+He stood in front of her and looked down majestically at that cool and
+perfect spot where Miss Adams' forehead met the neat part in her
+fragrant hair.  First, however, he cast a desperate glance at me.  I
+was in a profound slumber.
+
+"Little woman," he began, "it's certainly tough for a man like me to
+see you bothered this way.  You"--gulp--"you have been alone in this
+world too long.  You need a protector.  I might say that at a time like
+this you need a protector the worst kind--a protector who would take a
+three-ring delight in smashing the saffron-colored kisser off of any
+yeller-skinned skunk that made himself obnoxious to you.  Hem. Hem.  I
+am a lonely man, Miss Adams.  I have so far had to carry on my life
+without the"--gulp--"sweet radiance"--gulp--"of a woman around the
+house.  I feel especially doggoned lonely at a time like this, when I
+am pretty near locoed from havin' to stall indoors, and hence it was
+with delight I welcomed your first appearance in this here shack.
+Since then I have been packed jam full of more different kinds of
+feelings, ornery, mean, dizzy, and superb, than has fallen my way in
+years."
+
+Miss Adams made a useless movement toward escape.  The Ross chin stuck
+firm.  "I don't want to annoy you, Miss Adams, but, by heck, if it
+comes to that you'll have to be annoyed.  And I'll have to have my say.
+This palm-ticklin' slob of a Frenchman ought to be kicked off the place
+and if you'll say the word, off he goes.  But I don't want to do the
+wrong thing.  You've got to show a preference.  I'm gettin' around to
+the point, Miss--Miss Willie, in my own brick fashion.  I've stood
+about all I can stand these last two days and somethin's got to happen.
+The suspense hereabouts is enough to hang a sheepherder. Miss
+Willie"--he lassooed her hand by main force--"just say the word. You
+need somebody to take your part all your life long.  Will you mar--"
+
+"Supper," remarked George, tersely, from the kitchen door.
+
+Miss Adams hurried away.
+
+Ross turned angrily.  "You--"
+
+"I have been revolving it in my head," said George.
+
+He brought the coffee pot forward heavily. Then bravely the big platter
+of pork and beans.  Then somberly the potatoes.  Then profoundly the
+biscuits.  "I have been revolving it in my mind. There ain't no use
+waitin' any longer for Swengalley.  Might as well eat now."
+
+From my excellent vantage-point on the couch I watched the progress of
+that meal.  Ross, muddled, glowering, disappointed; Etienne, eternally
+blandishing, attentive, ogling; Miss Adams, nervous, picking at her
+food, hesitant about answering questions, almost hysterical; now and
+then the solid, flitting shadow of the cook, passing behind their backs
+like a Dreadnaught in a fog.
+
+I used to own a clock which gurgled in its throat three minutes before
+it struck the hour.  I know, therefore, the slow freight of
+Anticipation.  For I have awakened at three in the morning, heard the
+clock gurgle, and waited those three minutes for the three strokes I
+knew were to come.  _Alors_.  In Ross's ranch house that night the slow
+freight of  Climax whistled in the distance.
+
+Etienne began it after supper.  Miss Adams had suddenly displayed a
+lively interest in the kitchen layout and I could see her in there,
+chatting brightly at George--not with him--the while he ducked his head
+and rattled his pans.
+
+"My fren'," said Etienne, exhaling a large cloud from his cigarette and
+patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand which,
+hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, "I see I mus' be frank with
+you.  Firs', because we are rivals; second, because you take these
+matters so serious. I--I am Frenchman.  I love the women"--he threw
+back his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an unsavory kiss
+toward the kitchen.  "It is, I suppose, a trait of my nation.  All
+Frenchmen love the women--pretty women.  Now, look: Here I am!"  He
+spread out his arms.  "Cold outside!  I detes' the col-l-l!  Snow!  I
+abominate the mees-ser-rhable snow!  Two men! This--" pointing to
+me--"an' this!"  Pointing to' Ross.  "I am distracted!  For two whole
+days I stan' at the window an' tear my 'air!  I am nervous, upset,
+pr-r-ro-foun'ly distress inside my 'ead! An' suddenly--be'old!  A
+woman, a nice, pretty, charming, innocen' young woman!  I, naturally,
+rejoice.  I become myself again--gay, light-'earted, 'appy.  I address
+myself to mademoiselle; it passes the time.  That, m'sieu', is wot the
+women are for--pass the time! Entertainment--like the music, like the
+wine!
+
+"They appeal to the mood, the caprice, the temperamen'.  To play with
+thees woman, follow her through her humor, pursue her--ah! that is the
+mos' delightful way to sen' the hours about their business."
+
+Ross banged the table.  "Shut up, you miserable yeller pup!" he roared.
+"I object to your pursuin' anything or anybody in my house. Now, you
+listen to me, you--"  He picked up the box of stogies and used it on
+the table as an emphasizer.  The noise of it awoke the attention of the
+girl in the kitchen.  Unheeded, she crept into the room.  "I don't know
+anything about your French ways of lovemakin' an' I don't care.  In my
+section of the country, it's the best man wins. And I'm the best man
+here, and don't you forget it!  This girl's goin' to be mine.  There
+ain't going to be any playing, or philandering, or palm reading about
+it.  I've made up my mind I'll have this girl, and that settles it.  My
+word is the law in this neck o' the woods. She's mine, and as soon as
+she says she's mine, you pull out."  The box made one final, tremendous
+punctuation point.
+
+Etienne's bravado was unruffled.  "Ah! that is no way to win a woman,"
+he smiled, easily.  "I make prophecy you will never win 'er that way.
+No.  Not thees woman.  She mus' be played along an' then keessed, this
+charming, delicious little creature.  One kees!  An' then you 'ave
+her."  Again he displayed his unpleasant teeth.  "I make you a bet I
+will kees her--"
+
+As a cheerful chronicler of deeds done well, it joys me to relate that
+the hand which fell upon Etienne's amorous lips was not his own. There
+was one sudden sound, as of a mule kicking a lath fence, and
+then--through the swinging doors of oblivion for Etienne.
+
+I had seen this blow delivered.  It was an aloof, unstudied, almost
+absent-minded affair.  I had thought the cook was rehearsing the proper
+method of turning a flapjack.
+
+Silently, lost in thought, he stood there scratching his head.  Then he
+began rolling down his sleeves.
+
+"You'd better get your things on, Miss, and we'll get out of here," he
+decided.  "Wrap up warm."
+
+I heard her heave a little sigh of relief as she went to get her cloak,
+sweater, and hat.
+
+Ross jumped to his feet, and said:  "George, what are you goin' to do?"
+
+George, who had been headed in my direction, slowly swivelled around
+and faced his employer.  "Bein' a camp cook, I ain't over-burdened with
+hosses," George enlightened us.  "Therefore, I am going to try to
+borrow this feller's here."
+
+For the first time in four days my soul gave a genuine cheer.  "If it's
+for Lochinvar purposes, go as far as you like," I said, grandly.
+
+The cook studied me a moment, as if trying to find an insult in my
+words.  "No," he replied.  "It's for mine and the young lady's
+purposes, and we'll go only three miles--to Hicksville.  Now let me
+tell you somethin', Ross." Suddenly I was confronted with the cook's
+chunky back and I heard a low, curt, carrying voice shoot through the
+room at my host.  George had wheeled just as Ross started to speak.
+"You're nutty.  That's what's the matter with you.  You can't stand the
+snow. You're getting nervouser, and nuttier every day.  That and this
+Dago"--he jerked a thumb at the half-dead Frenchman in the corner--"has
+got you to the point where I thought I better horn in. I got to
+revolving it around in my mind and I seen if somethin' wasn't done, and
+done soon, there'd be murder around here and maybe"--his head gave an
+imperceptible list toward the girl's room--"worse."
+
+He stopped, but he held up a stubby finger to keep any one else from
+speaking.  Then he plowed slowly through the drift of his ideas. "About
+this here woman.  I know you, Ross, and I know what you reely think
+about women.  If she hadn't happened in here durin' this here snow,
+you'd never have given two thoughts to the whole woman question.
+Likewise, when the storm clears, and you and the boys go hustlin' out,
+this here whole business 'll clear out of your head and you won't think
+of a skirt again until Kingdom Come.  Just because o' this snow here,
+don't forget you're living in the selfsame world you was in four days
+ago.  And you're the same man, too.  Now, what's the use o' getting all
+snarled up over four days of stickin' in the house?  That there's what
+I been revolvin' in my mind and this here's the decision I've come to."
+
+He plodded to the door and shouted to one of the ranch hands to saddle
+my horse.
+
+Ross lit a stogy and stood thoughtful in the middle of the room.  Then
+he began:  "I've a durn good notion, George, to knock your confounded
+head off and throw you into that snowbank, if--"
+
+"You're wrong, mister.  That ain't a durned good notion you've got.
+It's durned bad.  Look here!"  He pointed steadily out of doors until
+we were both forced to follow his finger.  "You're in here for more'n a
+week yet." After allowing this fact to sink in, he barked out at Ross:
+"Can you cook?"  Then at me:  "Can you cook?"  Then he looked at the
+wreck of Etienne and sniffed.
+
+There was an embarrassing silence as Ross and I thought solemnly of a
+foodless week.
+
+"If you just use hoss sense," concluded George, "and don't go for to
+hurt my feelin's, all I want to do is to take this young gal down to
+Hicksville; and then I'll head back here and cook fer you."
+
+The horse and Miss Adams arrived simultaneously, both of them very
+serious and quiet.  The horse because he knew what he had before him in
+that weather; the girl because of what she had left behind.
+
+Then all at once I awoke to a realization of what the cook was doing.
+"My God, man!" I cried, "aren't you afraid to go out in that snow?"
+
+Behind my back I heard Ross mutter, "Not him."
+
+George lifted the girl daintily up behind the saddle, drew on his
+gloves, put his foot in the stirrup, and turned to inspect me leisurely.
+
+As I passed slowly in his review, I saw in my mind's eye the algebraic
+equation of Snow, the equals sign, and the answer in the man before me.
+
+"Snow is my last name," said George.  He swung into the saddle and they
+started cautiously out into the darkening swirl of fresh new currency
+just issuing from the Snowdrop Mint.  The girl, to keep her place,
+clung happily to the sturdy figure of the camp cook.
+
+I brought three things away from Ross Curtis's ranch house--yes, four.
+One was the appreciation of snow, which I have so humbly tried here to
+render; (2) was a collarbone, of which I am extra careful; (3) was a
+memory of what it is to eat very extremely bad food for a week; and (4)
+was the cause of (3) a little note delivered at the end of the week and
+hand-painted in blue pencil on a sheet of meat paper.
+
+"I cannot come back there to that there job.  Mrs. Snow say no, George.
+I been revolvin' it in my mind; considerin' circumstances she's right."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Waifs and Strays, by O. Henry
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