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diff --git a/30953-h/30953-h.htm b/30953-h/30953-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..75d3ab9 --- /dev/null +++ b/30953-h/30953-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6346 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en"> + <head> + <meta name="generator" content="eppg.py 0.38 (29-Dec-2009)" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Boy Scout and Other Stories for Boys by + Richard Harding Davis + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> +body {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%;} +p {margin-top:1ex; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:0; text-align:justify;} +p + p {margin-top:0; text-indent:1em;} + +h1,h2 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal;} +h1 {display:none;} +h2 {font-size:1.4em; margin-top:4ex; margin-bottom:2ex;} + +div.toc {font-variant: small-caps;} +div.loi {} +a {text-decoration:none;} +div.toc a {text-decoration:underline;} +div.loi a {text-decoration:underline;} + +p.center {text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} +p.caption {font-size:smaller;} + +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; clear:both;} +td.tcol2 {text-align:left; padding-right:10ex; vertical-align:top;} +td.tcol3 {text-align:right; vertical-align:bottom;} + +div.figcenter {text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em;} +div.figcenter p {text-align:center;} + +div.bquote {font-size:1.0em; margin:5px 5%;} +div.bquote p {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} + +div.titlepage {margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} +div.titlepage p {text-indent:0em; text-align:center; margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + +div.toc {font-variant: small-caps;} +.tiz {text-indent:0} +.tar {text-align:right;} +.tac {margin-left: auto; margin-right:auto; text-align:center;} + +.fss {font-size:smaller;} +.fs08 {font-size:0.8em;} +.fs12 {font-size:1.2em;} +.fs14 {font-size:1.4em;} +.fs16 {font-size:1.6em;} +.fs18 {font-size:1.8em;} +.mt20 {margin-top:20px;} +.mt30 {margin-top:30px;} +.mb10 {margin-bottom:10px;} +.mb20 {margin-bottom:20px;} +.mb60 {margin-bottom:60px;} + +hr.tb {border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 60%; text-align: center; margin: 15px 20%;} + +hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none; border-top:thin dashed silver;} +@media handheld { +hr.pb {border:none; page-break-after:always; margin-top:4em;} +} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boy Scout and Other Stories for Boys, by +Richard Harding Davis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Boy Scout and Other Stories for Boys + +Author: Richard Harding Davis + +Release Date: January 13, 2010 [EBook #30953] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY SCOUT AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/i-fpc.jpg" id="img001" alt="" /> + <p class="center caption"> + “But how,” he demanded, “how do I get ashore?” + </p> + </div> + <!-- figure --> + <hr class="pb" /> + <div class="titlepage"> + <p class="fs16 mt20 mb10"> + THE BOY SCOUT + </p> + <p class="fs14 mb60"> + AND OTHER STORIES FOR BOYS + </p> + <p> + BY + </p> + <p class="fs12 mb60"> + RICHARD HARDING DAVIS + </p> + <p class="fs08 mb60"> + ILLUSTRATED + </p> + <p> + NEW YORK + </p> + <p> + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + </p> + <p class="mb20"> + 1917 + </p> + </div> + <hr class="pb" /> + <div class="titlepage"> + <p class="fs08"> + C<span class="fss">OPYRIGHT</span>, 1891, 1903, 1912, 1914, 1917, BY<br /> + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + </p> + </div> + <hr class="pb" /> + <p class="tac tiz fs12 mb20"> + PUBLISHER’S NOTE + </p> + <p> + R<span class="fss">ICHARD</span> H<span class="fss">ARDING</span> D<span + class="fss">AVIS</span>, as a friend and fellow author has written of him, + was “youth incarnate,” and there is probably nothing that he + wrote of which a boy would not some day come to feel the appeal. But there + are certain of his stories that go with especial directness to a boy’s + heart and sympathies and make for him quite unforgettable literature. A + few of these were made some years ago into a volume, “Stories for + Boys,” and found a large and enthusiastic special public in addition + to Davis’s general readers; and the present collection from stories + more recently published is issued with the same motive. This book takes + its title from “The Boy Scout,” the first of its tales; and it + includes “The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” “Blood Will Tell,” + the immortal “Gallegher,” and “The Bar Sinister,” + Davis’s famous dog story. It is a fresh volume added to what + Augustus Thomas calls “safe stuff to give to a young fellow who + likes to take off his hat and dilate his nostrils and feel the wind in his + face.” + </p> + <hr class="pb" /> + <div class="toc"> + <table summary="TOC"> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tac tiz"> + <span class="fs12">CONTENTS</span> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <span class="fs08"> </span> + </td> + <td></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td></td> + <td> + <span class="fss">PAGE</span> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#link_1">The Boy Scout</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 3 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#link_2">The Boy Who Cried Wolf</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 42 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#link_3">Gallegher</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 82 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#link_4">Blood Will Tell</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 158 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#link_5">The Bar Sinister</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 212 + </td> + </tr> + </table> + </div> + <hr class="pb" /> + <div class="loi"> + <table summary="LOI"> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tac tiz"> + <span class="fs12">ILLUSTRATIONS</span> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <span class="fs08"> </span> + </td> + <td></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#img001">“But how,” he demanded, “how do + I get ashore?”</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + <i>Frontispiece</i> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td></td> + <td> + <span class="fss">FACING PAGE</span> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#img002">Jimmie dropped the valise, forced his cramped + fingers into straight lines, and saluted</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 8 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#img003">“For God’s sake,” Hade begged, + “let me go”</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 128 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#img004">“Why, it’s Gallegher,” said the + night editor</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 156 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#img005">In front of David’s nose he shook a fist as + large as a catcher’s glove</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 184 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#img006">She dug the shapeless hat into David’s + shoulder</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 210 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#img007">“He’s a coward! I’ve done with + him”</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 230 + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tcol2"> + <a href="#img008">For a long time he kneels in the sawdust</a> + </td> + <td class="tcol3"> + 282 + </td> + </tr> + </table> + </div> + <hr class="pb" /> + <h1> + THE BOY SCOUT AND OTHER STORIES FOR BOYS + </h1> + <p class="tac tiz fs18"> + THE BOY SCOUT<br /><span class="fss">AND OTHER STORIES FOR BOYS</span> + </p> + <hr class="pb" /> + <h2> + <a id="link_1"></a>THE BOY SCOUT + </h2> + <p> + A Rule of the Boy Scouts is every day to do some one a good turn. Not + because the copy-books tell you it deserves another, but in spite of that + pleasing possibility. If you are a true Scout, until you have performed + your act of kindness your day is dark. You are as unhappy as is the + grown-up who has begun his day without shaving or reading the New York <i>Sun</i>. + But as soon as you have proved yourself you may, with a clear conscience, + look the world in the face and untie the knot in your kerchief. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie Reeder untied the accusing knot in his scarf at just ten minutes + past eight on a hot August morning after he had given one dime to his + sister Sadie. With that she could either witness the first-run films at + the Palace, or by dividing her fortune patronize two of the nickel shows + on Lenox Avenue. The choice Jimmie left to her. He was setting out for the + annual encampment of the Boy Scouts at Hunter’s Island, and in the + excitement of that adventure even the movies ceased to thrill. But Sadie + also could be unselfish. With a heroism of a camp-fire maiden she made a + gesture which might have been interpreted to mean she was returning the + money. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t, Jimmie!” she gasped. “I can’t take + it off you. You saved it, and you ought to get the fun of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t saved it yet,” said Jimmie. “I’m + going to cut it out of the railroad fare. I’m going to get off at + City Island instead of at Pelham Manor and walk the difference. That’s + ten cents cheaper.” + </p> + <p> + Sadie exclaimed with admiration: + </p> + <p> + “An’ you carryin’ that heavy grip!” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, that’s nothin’,” said the man of the family. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, mother. So long, Sadie.” + </p> + <p> + To ward off further expressions of gratitude he hurriedly advised Sadie to + take in “The Curse of Cain” rather than “The Mohawks’ + Last Stand,” and fled down the front steps. + </p> + <p> + He wore his khaki uniform. On his shoulders was his knapsack, from his + hands swung his suitcase and between his heavy stockings and his “shorts” + his kneecaps, unkissed by the sun, as yet unscathed by blackberry vines, + showed as white and fragile as the wrists of a girl. As he moved toward + the “L” station at the corner, Sadie and his mother waved to + him; in the street, boys too small to be Scouts hailed him enviously; even + the policeman glancing over the newspapers on the news-stand nodded + approval. + </p> + <p> + “You a Scout, Jimmie?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” retorted Jimmie, for was not he also in uniform? “I’m + Santa Claus out filling Christmas stockings.” + </p> + <p> + The patrolman also possessed a ready wit. + </p> + <p> + “Then get yourself a pair,” he advised. “If a dog was to + see your legs―” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie escaped the insult by fleeing up the steps of the Elevated. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, with his valise in one hand and staff in the other, he was + tramping up the Boston Post Road and breathing heavily. The day was + cruelly hot. Before his eyes, over an interminable stretch of asphalt, the + heat waves danced and flickered. Already the knapsack on his shoulders + pressed upon him like an Old Man of the Sea; the linen in the valise had + turned to pig iron, his pipe-stem legs were wabbling, his eyes smarted + with salt sweat, and the fingers supporting the valise belonged to some + other boy, and were giving that boy much pain. But as the motor-cars + flashed past with raucous warnings, or, that those who rode might better + see the boy with bare knees, passed at “half speed,” Jimmie + stiffened his shoulders and stepped jauntily forward. Even when the + joy-riders mocked with “Oh, you Scout!” he smiled at them. He + was willing to admit to those who rode that the laugh was on the one who + walked. And he regretted–oh, so bitterly–having left the + train. He was indignant that for his “one good turn a day” he + had not selected one less strenuous. That, for instance, he had not + assisted a frightened old lady through the traffic. To refuse the dime she + might have offered, as all true Scouts refuse all tips, would have been + easier than to earn it by walking five miles, with the sun at ninety-nine + degrees, and carrying excess baggage. Twenty times James shifted the + valise to the other hand, twenty times he let it drop and sat upon it. + </p> + <p> + And then, as again he took up his burden, the Good Samaritan drew near. He + drew near in a low gray racing-car at the rate of forty miles an hour, and + within a hundred feet of Jimmie suddenly stopped and backed toward him. + The Good Samaritan was a young man with white hair. He wore a suit of + blue, a golf cap; the hands that held the wheel were disguised in large + yellow gloves. He brought the car to a halt and surveyed the dripping + figure in the road with tired and uncurious eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You a Boy Scout?” he asked. + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/i-008.jpg" id="img002" alt="" /> + <p class="center caption"> + Jimmie dropped the valise, forced his cramped fingers into straight + lines, and saluted. + </p> + </div> + <!-- figure --> + <p> + With alacrity for the twenty-first time Jimmie dropped the valise, forced + his cramped fingers into straight lines, and saluted. + </p> + <p> + The young man in the car nodded toward the seat beside him. + </p> + <p> + “Get in,” he commanded. + </p> + <p> + When James sat panting happily at his elbow the old young man, to Jimmie’s + disappointment, did not continue to shatter the speed limit. Instead, he + seemed inclined for conversation, and the car, growling indignantly, + crawled. + </p> + <p> + “I never saw a Boy Scout before,” announced the old young man. + “Tell me about it. First, tell me what you do when you’re not + scouting.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie explained volubly. When not in uniform he was an office-boy and + from pedlers and beggars guarded the gates of Carroll and Hastings, + stock-brokers. He spoke the names of his employers with awe. It was a firm + distinguished, conservative, and long-established. The white-haired young + man seemed to nod in assent. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know them?” demanded Jimmie suspiciously. “Are + you a customer of ours?” + </p> + <p> + “I know them,” said the young man. “They are customers + of mine.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie wondered in what way Carroll and Hastings were customers of the + white-haired young man. Judging him by his outer garments, Jimmie guessed + he was a Fifth Avenue tailor; he might be even a haberdasher. Jimmie + continued. He lived, he explained, with his mother at One Hundred and + Forty-sixth Street; Sadie, his sister, attended the public school; he + helped support them both, and he now was about to enjoy a well-earned + vacation camping out on Hunter’s Island, where he would cook his own + meals and, if the mosquitoes permitted, sleep in a tent. + </p> + <p> + “And you like that?” demanded the young man. “You call + that fun?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” protested Jimmie. “Don’t <i>you</i> go + camping out?” + </p> + <p> + “I go camping out,” said the Good Samaritan, “whenever I + leave New York.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie had not for three years lived in Wall Street not to understand that + the young man spoke in metaphor. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t look,” objected the young man critically, + “as though you were built for the strenuous life.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie glanced guiltily at his white knees. + </p> + <p> + “You ought ter see me two weeks from now,” he protested. + “I get all sunburnt and hard–hard as anything!” + </p> + <p> + The young man was incredulous. + </p> + <p> + “You were near getting sunstroke when I picked you up,” he + laughed. “If you’re going to Hunter’s Island why didn’t + you take the Third Avenue to Pelham Manor?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right!” assented Jimmie eagerly. “But I + wanted to save the ten cents so’s to send Sadie to the movies. So I + walked.” + </p> + <p> + The young man looked his embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + But Jimmie did not hear him. From the back of the car he was dragging + excitedly at the hated suitcase. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” he commanded. “I got ter get out. I got ter <i>walk</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The young man showed his surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Walk!” he exclaimed. “What is it–a bet?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie dropped the valise and followed it into the roadway. It took some + time to explain to the young man. First, he had to be told about the scout + law and the one good turn a day, and that it must involve some personal + sacrifice. And, as Jimmie pointed out, changing from a slow suburban train + to a racing-car could not be listed as a sacrifice. He had not earned the + money, Jimmie argued; he had only avoided paying it to the railroad. If he + did not walk he would be obtaining the gratitude of Sadie by a falsehood. + Therefore, he must walk. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” protested the young man. “You’ve got + it wrong. What good will it do your sister to have you sunstruck? I think + you <i>are</i> sunstruck. You’re crazy with the heat. You get in + here, and we’ll talk it over as we go along.” + </p> + <p> + Hastily Jimmie backed away. “I’d rather walk,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The young man shifted his legs irritably. + </p> + <p> + “Then how’ll this suit you?” he called. “We’ll + declare that first ‘one good turn’ a failure and start afresh. + Do me a good turn.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie halted in his tracks and looked back suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to Hunter’s Island Inn,” called the + young man, “and I’ve lost my way. You get in here and guide + me. That’ll be doing me a good turn.” + </p> + <p> + On either side of the road, blotting out the landscape, giant hands picked + out in electric-light bulbs pointed the way to Hunter’s Island Inn. + Jimmie grinned and nodded toward them. + </p> + <p> + “Much obliged,” he called, “I got ter walk.” + Turning his back upon temptation, he wabbled forward into the flickering + heat waves. + </p> + <p> + The young man did not attempt to pursue. At the side of the road, under + the shade of a giant elm, he had brought the car to a halt and with his + arms crossed upon the wheel sat motionless, following with frowning eyes + the retreating figure of Jimmie. But the narrow-chested and knock-kneed + boy staggering over the sun-baked asphalt no longer concerned him. It was + not Jimmie, but the code preached by Jimmie, and not only preached but + before his eyes put into practice, that interested him. The young man with + white hair had been running away from temptation. At forty miles an hour + he had been running away from the temptation to do a fellow mortal “a + good turn.” That morning, to the appeal of a drowning Cćsar to + “Help me, Cassius, or I sink,” he had answered, “Sink!” + That answer he had no wish to reconsider. That he might not reconsider he + had sought to escape. It was his experience that a sixty-horse-power + racing-machine is a jealous mistress. For retrospective, sentimental, or + philanthropic thoughts she grants no leave of absence. But he had not + escaped. Jimmie had halted him, tripped him by the heels and set him again + to thinking. Within the half-hour that followed those who rolled past saw + at the side of the road a car with her engine running, and leaning upon + the wheel, as unconscious of his surroundings as though he sat at his own + fireplace, a young man who frowned and stared at nothing. The half-hour + passed and the young man swung his car back toward the city. But at the + first roadhouse that showed a blue-and-white telephone sign he left it, + and into the iron box at the end of the bar dropped a nickel. He wished to + communicate with Mr. Carroll, of Carroll and Hastings; and when he learned + Mr. Carroll had just issued orders that he must not be disturbed, the + young man gave his name. + </p> + <p> + The effect upon the barkeeper was instantaneous. With the aggrieved air of + one who feels he is the victim of a jest he laughed scornfully. “What + are you putting over?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + The young man smiled reassuringly. He had begun to speak and, though + apparently engaged with the beer-glass he was polishing, the barkeeper + listened. + </p> + <p> + Down in Wall Street the senior member of Carroll and Hastings also + listened. He was alone in the most private of all his private offices, and + when interrupted had been engaged in what, of all undertakings, is the + most momentous. On the desk before him lay letters to his lawyer, to the + coroner, to his wife; and hidden by a mass of papers, but within reach of + his hand, an automatic pistol. The promise it offered of swift release had + made the writing of the letters simple, had given him a feeling of + complete detachment, had released him, at least in thought, from all + responsibilities. And when at his elbow the telephone coughed discreetly, + it was as though some one had called him from a world from which already + he had made his exit. + </p> + <p> + Mechanically, through mere habit, he lifted the receiver. + </p> + <p> + The voice over the telephone came in brisk staccato sentences. + </p> + <p> + “That letter I sent this morning? Forget it. Tear it up. I’ve + been thinking and I’m going to take a chance. I’ve decided to + back you boys, and I know you’ll make good. I’m speaking from + a roadhouse in the Bronx; going straight from here to the bank. So you can + begin to draw against us within an hour. And–hello!–will three + millions see you through?” + </p> + <p> + From Wall Street there came no answer, but from the hands of the barkeeper + a glass crashed to the floor. + </p> + <p> + The young man regarded the barkeeper with puzzled eyes. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t answer,” he exclaimed. “He must have + hung up.” + </p> + <p> + “He must have fainted!” said the barkeeper. + </p> + <p> + The white-haired one pushed a bill across the counter. “To pay for + breakage,” he said, and disappeared down Pelham Parkway. + </p> + <p> + Throughout the day, with the bill, for evidence, pasted against the + mirror, the barkeeper told and retold the wondrous tale. + </p> + <p> + “He stood just where you’re standing now,” he related, + “blowing in million-dollar bills like you’d blow suds off a + beer. If I’d knowed it was <i>him</i>, I’d have hit him once, + and hid him in the cellar for the reward. Who’d I think he was? I + thought he was a wire-tapper, working a con game!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Carroll had not “hung up,” but when in the Bronx the + beer-glass crashed, in Wall Street the receiver had slipped from the hand + of the man who held it, and the man himself had fallen forward. His desk + hit him in the face and woke him–woke him to the wonderful fact that + he still lived; that at forty he had been born again; that before him + stretched many more years in which, as the young man with the white hair + had pointed out, he still could make good. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon was far advanced when the staff of Carroll and Hastings were + allowed to depart, and, even late as was the hour, two of them were asked + to remain. Into the most private of the private offices Carroll invited + Gaskell, the head clerk; in the main office Hastings had asked young + Thorne, the bond clerk, to be seated. + </p> + <p> + Until the senior partner has finished with Gaskell young Thorne must + remain seated. + </p> + <p> + “Gaskell,” said Mr. Carroll, “if we had listened to you, + if we’d run this place as it was when father was alive, this never + would have happened. It <i>hasn’t</i> happened, but we’ve had + our lesson. And after this we’re going slow and going straight. And + we don’t need you to tell us how to do that. We want you to go away–on + a month’s vacation. When I thought we were going under I planned to + send the children on a sea-voyage with the governess–so they wouldn’t + see the newspapers. But now that I can look them in the eye again, I need + them, I can’t let them go. So, if you’d like to take your wife + on an ocean trip to Nova Scotia and Quebec, here are the cabins I reserved + for the kids. They call it the Royal Suite–whatever that is–and + the trip lasts a month. The boat sails to-morrow morning. Don’t + sleep too late or you may miss her.” + </p> + <hr class="tb" /> + <p> + The head clerk was secreting the tickets in the inside pocket of his + waistcoat. His fingers trembled, and when he laughed his voice trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Miss the boat!” the head clerk exclaimed. “If she gets + away from Millie and me she’s got to start now. We’ll go on + board to-night!” + </p> + <p> + A half-hour later Millie was on her knees packing a trunk, and her husband + was telephoning to the drug-store for a sponge bag and a cure for + sea-sickness. + </p> + <p> + Owing to the joy in her heart and to the fact that she was on her knees, + Millie was alternately weeping into the trunk-tray and offering up + incoherent prayers of thanksgiving. Suddenly she sank back upon the floor. + </p> + <p> + “John!” she cried, “doesn’t it seem sinful to sail + away in a ‘royal suite’ and leave this beautiful flat empty?” + </p> + <p> + Over the telephone John was having trouble with the drug clerk. + </p> + <p> + “No!” he explained, “I’m not sea-sick <i>now</i>. + The medicine I want is to be taken later. I <i>know</i> I’m speaking + from the Pavonia; but the Pavonia isn’t a ship; it’s an + apartment-house.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to Millie. “We can’t be in two places at the same + time,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “But, think,” insisted Millie, “of all the poor people + stifling to-night in this heat, trying to sleep on the roofs and + fire-escapes; and our flat so cool and big and pretty–and no one in + it.” + </p> + <p> + John nodded his head proudly. + </p> + <p> + “I know it’s big,” he said, “but it isn’t + big enough to hold all the people who are sleeping to-night on the roofs + and in the parks.” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of your brother–and Grace,” said Millie. + “They’ve been married only two weeks now, and they’re in + a stuffy hall bedroom and eating with all the other boarders. Think what + our flat would mean to them; to be by themselves, with eight rooms and + their own kitchen and bath, and our new refrigerator and the gramophone! + It would be Heaven! It would be a real honeymoon!” + </p> + <p> + Abandoning the drug clerk, John lifted Millie in his arms and kissed her, + for next to his wife nearest his heart was the younger brother. + </p> + <hr class="tb" /> + <p> + The younger brother and Grace were sitting on the stoop of the + boarding-house. On the upper steps, in their shirt-sleeves, were the other + boarders; so the bride and bridegroom spoke in whispers. The air of the + cross street was stale and stagnant; from it rose exhalations of rotting + fruit, the gases of an open subway, the smoke of passing taxicabs. But + between the street and the hall bedroom, with its odors of a gas-stove and + a kitchen, the choice was difficult. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve got to cool off somehow,” the young husband was + saying, “or you won’t sleep. Shall we treat ourselves to + ice-cream sodas or a trip on the Weehawken ferry-boat?” + </p> + <p> + “The ferry-boat!” begged the girl, “where we can get + away from all these people.” + </p> + <p> + A taxicab with a trunk in front whirled into the street, kicked itself to + a stop, and the head clerk and Millie spilled out upon the pavement. They + talked so fast, and the younger brother and Grace talked so fast, that the + boarders, although they listened intently, could make nothing of it. + </p> + <p> + They distinguished only the concluding sentences: + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you drive down to the wharf with us,” they + heard the elder brother ask, “and see our royal suite?” + </p> + <p> + But the younger brother laughed him to scorn. + </p> + <p> + “What’s your royal suite,” he mocked, “to our + royal palace?” + </p> + <p> + An hour later, had the boarders listened outside the flat of the head + clerk, they would have heard issuing from his bathroom the cooling murmur + of running water and from his gramophone the jubilant notes of “Alexander’s + Ragtime Band.” + </p> + <p> + When in his private office Carroll was making a present of the royal suite + to the head clerk, in the main office Hastings, the junior partner, was + addressing “Champ” Thorne, the bond clerk. He addressed him + familiarly and affectionately as “Champ.” This was due partly + to the fact that twenty-six years before Thorne had been christened + Champneys and to the coincidence that he had captained the football eleven + of one of the Big Three to the championship. + </p> + <p> + “Champ,” said Mr. Hastings, “last month, when you asked + me to raise your salary, the reason I didn’t do it was not because + you didn’t deserve it, but because I believed if we gave you a raise + you’d immediately get married.” + </p> + <p> + The shoulders of the ex-football captain rose aggressively; he snorted + with indignation. + </p> + <p> + “And why should I <i>not</i> get married?” he demanded. + “You’re a fine one to talk! You’re the most offensively + happy married man I ever met.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I know I am happy better than you do,” reproved the + junior partner; “but I know also that it takes money to support a + wife.” + </p> + <p> + “You raise me to a hundred a week,” urged Champ, “and I’ll + make it support a wife whether it supports me or not.” + </p> + <p> + “A month ago,” continued Hastings, “we could have <i>promised</i> + you a hundred, but we didn’t know how long we could pay it. We didn’t + want you to rush off and marry some fine girl―” + </p> + <p> + “Some fine girl!” muttered Mr. Thorne. “The Finest Girl!” + </p> + <p> + “The finer the girl,” Hastings pointed out, “the harder + it would have been for you if we had failed and you had lost your job.” + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the young man opened with sympathy and concern. + </p> + <p> + “Is it as bad as that?” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + Hastings sighed happily. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>was</i>,” he said, “but this morning the Young + Man of Wall Street did us a good turn–saved us–saved our + creditors, saved our homes, saved our honor. We’re going to start + fresh and pay our debts, and we agreed the first debt we paid would be the + small one we owe you. You’ve brought us more than we’ve given, + and if you’ll stay with us we’re going to ‘see’ + your fifty and raise it a hundred. What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + Young Mr. Thorne leaped to his feet. What he said was: “Where’n + hell’s my hat?” + </p> + <p> + But by the time he had found the hat and the door he mended his manners. + </p> + <p> + “I say, ‘thank you a thousand times,’” he shouted + over his shoulder. “Excuse me, but I’ve got to go. I’ve + got to break the news to―” + </p> + <p> + He did not explain to whom he was going to break the news; but Hastings + must have guessed, for again he sighed happily and then, a little + hysterically, laughed aloud. Several months had passed since he had + laughed aloud. + </p> + <p> + In his anxiety to break the news Champ Thorne almost broke his neck. In + his excitement he could not remember whether the red flash meant the + elevator was going down or coming up, and sooner than wait to find out he + started to race down eighteen flights of stairs when fortunately the + elevator-door swung open. + </p> + <p> + “You get five dollars,” he announced to the elevator man, + “if you drop to the street without a stop. Beat the speed limit! Act + like the building is on fire and you’re trying to save me before the + roof falls.” + </p> + <p> + Senator Barnes and his entire family, which was his daughter Barbara, were + at the Ritz-Carlton. They were in town in August because there was a + meeting of the directors of the Brazil and Cuyaba Rubber Company, of which + company Senator Barnes was president. It was a secret meeting. Those + directors who were keeping cool at the edge of the ocean had been summoned + by telegraph; those who were steaming across the ocean, by wireless. + </p> + <p> + Up from the equator had drifted the threat of a scandal, sickening, grim, + terrible. As yet it burned beneath the surface, giving out only an odor, + but an odor as rank as burning rubber itself. At any moment it might break + into flame. For the directors, was it the better wisdom to let the scandal + smoulder, and take a chance, or to be the first to give the alarm, the + first to lead the way to the horror and stamp it out? + </p> + <p> + It was to decide this that, in the heat of August, the directors and the + president had foregathered. + </p> + <p> + Champ Thorne knew nothing of this; he knew only that by a miracle Barbara + Barnes was in town; that at last he was in a position to ask her to marry + him; that she would certainly say she would. That was all he cared to + know. + </p> + <p> + A year before he had issued his declaration of independence. Before he + could marry, he told her, he must be able to support a wife on what he + earned, without her having to accept money from her father, and until he + received “a minimum wage” of five thousand dollars they must + wait. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with my father’s money?” Barbara had + demanded. + </p> + <p> + Thorne had evaded the direct question. + </p> + <p> + “There is too much of it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Do you object to the way he makes it?” insisted Barbara. + “Because rubber is most useful. You put it in golf balls and auto + tires and galoches. There is nothing so perfectly respectable as galoches. + And what is there ‘tainted’ about a raincoat?” + </p> + <p> + Thorne shook his head unhappily. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not the finished product to which I refer,” he + stammered; “it’s the way they get the raw material.” + </p> + <p> + “They get it out of trees,” said Barbara. Then she exclaimed + with enlightenment―“Oh!” she cried, “you are + thinking of the Congo. There it is terrible! <i>That</i> is slavery. But + there are no slaves on the Amazon. The natives are free and the work is + easy. They just tap the trees the way the farmers gather sugar in Vermont. + Father has told me about it often.” + </p> + <p> + Thorne had made no comment. He could abuse a friend, if the friend were + among those present, but denouncing any one he disliked as heartily as he + disliked Senator Barnes was a public service he preferred to leave to + others. And he knew besides that, if the father she loved and the man she + loved distrusted each other, Barbara would not rest until she learned the + reason why. + </p> + <p> + One day, in a newspaper, Barbara read of the Puju Mayo atrocities, of the + Indian slaves in the jungles and back waters of the Amazon, who are + offered up as sacrifices to “red rubber.” She carried the + paper to her father. What it said, her father told her, was untrue, and if + it were true it was the first he had heard of it. + </p> + <p> + Senator Barnes loved the good things of life, but the thing he loved most + was his daughter; the thing he valued the highest was her good opinion. So + when for the first time she looked at him in doubt, he assured her he at + once would order an investigation. + </p> + <p> + “But, of course,” he added, “it will be many months + before our agents can report. On the Amazon news travels very slowly.” + </p> + <p> + In the eyes of his daughter the doubt still lingered. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” she said, “that that is true.” + </p> + <p> + That was six months before the directors of the Brazil and Cuyaba Rubber + Company were summoned to meet their president at his rooms in the + Ritz-Carlton. They were due to arrive in half an hour, and while Senator + Barnes awaited their coming Barbara came to him. In her eyes was a light + that helped to tell the great news. It gave him a sharp, jealous pang. He + wanted at once to play a part in her happiness, to make her grateful to + him, not alone to this stranger who was taking her away. So fearful was he + that she would shut him out of her life that had she asked for half his + kingdom he would have parted with it. + </p> + <p> + “And besides giving my consent,” said the rubber king, “for + which no one seems to have asked, what can I give my little girl to make + her remember her old father? Some diamonds to put on her head, or pearls + to hang around her neck, or does she want a vacant lot on Fifth Avenue?” + </p> + <p> + The lovely hands of Barbara rested upon his shoulders; her lovely face was + raised to his; her lovely eyes were appealing, and a little frightened. + </p> + <p> + “What would one of those things cost?” asked Barbara. + </p> + <p> + The question was eminently practical. It came within the scope of the + senator’s understanding. After all, he was not to be cast into outer + darkness. His smile was complacent. He answered airily: + </p> + <p> + “Anything you like,” he said; “a million dollars?” + </p> + <p> + The fingers closed upon his shoulders. The eyes, still frightened, still + searched his in appeal. + </p> + <p> + “Then for my wedding-present,” said the girl, “I want + you to take that million dollars and send an expedition to the Amazon. And + I will choose the men. Men unafraid; men not afraid of fever or sudden + death; not afraid to tell the truth–even to <i>you</i>. And all the + world will know. And they–I mean <i>you</i>–will set those + people free!” + </p> + <p> + Senator Barnes received the directors with an embarrassment which he + concealed under a manner of just indignation. + </p> + <p> + “My mind is made up,” he told them. “Existing conditions + cannot continue. And to that end, at my own expense, I am sending an + expedition across South America. It will investigate, punish, and + establish reforms. I suggest, on account of this damned heat, we do now + adjourn.” + </p> + <p> + That night, over on Long Island, Carroll told his wife all, or nearly all. + He did not tell her about the automatic pistol. And together on tiptoe + they crept to the nursery and looked down at their sleeping children. When + she rose from her knees the mother said, “But how can I thank him?” + </p> + <p> + By “him” she meant the Young Man of Wall Street. + </p> + <p> + “You never can thank him,” said Carroll; “that’s + the worst of it.” + </p> + <p> + But after a long silence the mother said: “I will send him a + photograph of the children. Do you think he will understand?” + </p> + <p> + Down at Seabright, Hastings and his wife walked in the sunken garden. The + moon was so bright that the roses still held their color. + </p> + <p> + “I would like to thank him,” said the young wife. She meant + the Young Man of Wall Street. “But for him we would have lost <i>this</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes caressed the garden, the fruit-trees, the house with wide, + hospitable verandas. “To-morrow I will send him some of these roses,” + said the young wife. “Will he understand that they mean our home?” + </p> + <p> + At a scandalously late hour, in a scandalous spirit of independence, Champ + Thorne and Barbara were driving around Central Park in a taxicab. + </p> + <p> + “How strangely the Lord moves, his wonders to perform,” + misquoted Barbara. “Had not the Young Man of Wall Street saved Mr. + Hastings, Mr. Hastings could not have raised your salary; you would not + have asked me to marry you, and had you not asked me to marry you, father + would not have given me a wedding-present, and―” + </p> + <p> + “And,” said Champ, taking up the tale, “thousands of + slaves would still be buried in the jungles, hidden away from their wives + and children, and the light of the sun and their fellow men. They still + would be dying of fever, starvation, tortures.” + </p> + <p> + He took her hand in both of his and held her finger-tips against his lips. + </p> + <p> + “And they will never know,” he whispered, “when their + freedom comes, that they owe it all to <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <hr class="tb" /> + <p> + On Hunter’s Island Jimmie Reeder and his bunkie, Sam Sturges, each + on his canvas cot, tossed and twisted. The heat, the moonlight, and the + mosquitoes would not let them even think of sleep. + </p> + <p> + “That was bully,” said Jimmie, “what you did to-day + about saving that dog. If it hadn’t been for you he’d ha’ + drownded.” + </p> + <p> + “He would <i>not</i>!” said Sammy with punctilious regard for + the truth; “it wasn’t deep enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the scout-master ought to know,” argued Jimmie; “he + said it was the best ‘one good turn’ of the day!” + </p> + <p> + Modestly Sam shifted the limelight so that it fell upon his bunkie. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bet,” he declared loyally, “<i>your</i> + ‘one good turn’ was a better one!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie yawned, and then laughed scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “Me,” he scoffed, “I didn’t do nothing. I sent my + sister to the movies.” + </p> + <hr class="pb" /> + <h2> + <a id="link_2"></a>THE BOY WHO CRIED WOLF + </h2> + <p> + Before he finally arrested him, “Jimmie” Sniffen had seen the + man with the golf-cap, and the blue eyes that laughed at you, three times. + Twice, unexpectedly, he had come upon him in a wood road and once on Round + Hill where the stranger was pretending to watch the sunset. Jimmie knew + people do not climb hills merely to look at sunsets, so he was not + deceived. He guessed the man was a German spy seeking gun sites, and + secretly vowed to “stalk” him. From that moment, had the + stranger known it, he was as good as dead. For a boy scout with badges on + his sleeve for “stalking” and “path-finding,” not + to boast of others for “gardening” and “cooking,” + can outwit any spy. Even had General Baden-Powell remained in Mafeking and + not invented the boy scout, Jimmie Sniffen would have been one. Because by + birth he was a boy, and by inheritance a scout. In Westchester County the + Sniffens are one of the county families. If it isn’t a Sarles, it’s + a Sniffen; and with Brundages, Platts, and Jays, the Sniffens date back to + when the acres of the first Charles Ferris ran from the Boston post road + to the coach road to Albany, and when the first Gouverneur Morris stood on + one of his hills and saw the Indian canoes in the Hudson and in the Sound + and rejoiced that all the land between belonged to him. + </p> + <p> + If you do not believe in heredity, the fact that Jimmie’s + great-great-grandfather was a scout for General Washington and hunted + deer, and even bear, over exactly the same hills where Jimmie hunted + weasels will count for nothing. It will not explain why to Jimmie, from + Tarrytown to Port Chester, the hills, the roads, the woods, and the + cowpaths, caves, streams, and springs hidden in the woods were as familiar + as his own kitchen garden. + </p> + <p> + Nor explain why, when you could not see a Pease and Elliman “For + Sale” sign nailed to a tree, Jimmie could see in the highest + branches a last year’s bird’s nest. + </p> + <p> + Or why, when he was out alone playing Indians and had sunk his scout’s + axe into a fallen log and then scalped the log, he felt that once before + in those same woods he had trailed that same Indian, and with his own + tomahawk split open his skull. Sometimes when he knelt to drink at a + secret spring in the forest, the autumn leaves would crackle and he would + raise his eyes fearing to see a panther facing him. + </p> + <p> + “But there ain’t no panthers in Westchester,” Jimmie + would reassure himself. And in the distance the roar of an automobile + climbing a hill with the muffler open would seem to suggest he was right. + But still Jimmie remembered once before he had knelt at that same spring, + and that when he raised his eyes he had faced a crouching panther. “Mebbe + dad told me it happened to grandpop,” Jimmie would explain, “or + I dreamed it, or, mebbe, I read it in a story book.” + </p> + <p> + The “German spy” mania attacked Round Hill after the visit to + the boy scouts of Clavering Gould, the war correspondent. He was spending + the week-end with “Squire” Harry Van Vorst, and as young Van + Vorst, besides being a justice of the peace and a Master of Beagles and + President of the Country Club, was also a local “councilman” + for the Round Hill Scouts, he brought his guest to a camp-fire meeting to + talk to them. In deference to his audience, Gould told them of the boy + scouts he had seen in Belgium and of the part they were playing in the + great war. It was his peroration that made trouble. + </p> + <p> + “And any day,” he assured his audience, “this country + may be at war with Germany; and every one of you boys will be expected to + do his bit. You can begin now. When the Germans land it will be near New + Haven, or New Bedford. They will first capture the munition works at + Springfield, Hartford, and Watervliet so as to make sure of their + ammunition, and then they will start for New York City. They will follow + the New Haven and New York Central railroads, and march straight through + this village. I haven’t the least doubt,” exclaimed the + enthusiastic war prophet, “that at this moment German spies are as + thick in Westchester as blackberries. They are here to select camp sites + and gun positions, to find out which of these hills enfilade the others + and to learn to what extent their armies can live on the country. They are + counting the cows, the horses, the barns where fodder is stored; and they + are marking down on their maps the wells and streams.” + </p> + <p> + As though at that moment a German spy might be crouching behind the door, + Mr. Gould spoke in a whisper. “Keep your eyes open!” he + commanded. “Watch every stranger. If he acts suspiciously, get word + quick to your sheriff, or to Judge Van Vorst here. Remember the scouts’ + motto, ‘Be prepared!’” + </p> + <p> + That night as the scouts walked home, behind each wall and hayrick they + saw spiked helmets. + </p> + <p> + Young Van Vorst was extremely annoyed. + </p> + <p> + “Next time you talk to my scouts,” he declared, “you’ll + talk on ‘Votes for Women.’ After what you said to-night every + real-estate agent who dares open a map will be arrested. We’re not + trying to drive people away from Westchester, we’re trying to sell + them building sites.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> are not!” retorted his friend, “you own half + the county now, and you’re trying to buy the other half.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a justice of the peace,” explained Van Vorst. + “I don’t know <i>why</i> I am, except that they wished it on + me. All I get out of it is trouble. The Italians make charges against my + best friends for over-speeding, and I have to fine them, and my best + friends bring charges against the Italians for poaching, and when I fine + the Italians they send me Black Hand letters. And now every day I’ll + be asked to issue a warrant for a German spy who is selecting gun sites. + And he will turn out to be a millionaire who is tired of living at the + Ritz-Carlton and wants to ‘own his own home’ and his own + golf-links. And he’ll be so hot at being arrested that he’ll + take his millions to Long Island and try to break into the Piping Rock + Club. And it will be your fault!” + </p> + <p> + The young justice of the peace was right. At least so far as Jimmie + Sniffen was concerned, the words of the war prophet had filled one mind + with unrest. In the past Jimmie’s idea of a holiday had been to + spend it scouting in the woods. In this pleasure he was selfish. He did + not want companions who talked, and trampled upon the dead leaves so that + they frightened the wild animals and gave the Indians warning. Jimmie + liked to pretend. He liked to fill the woods with wary and hostile + adversaries. It was a game of his own inventing. If he crept to the top of + a hill and, on peering over it, surprised a fat woodchuck, he pretended + the woodchuck was a bear, weighing two hundred pounds; if, himself + unobserved, he could lie and watch, off its guard, a rabbit, squirrel, or, + most difficult of all, a crow, it became a deer and that night at supper + Jimmie made believe he was eating venison. Sometimes he was a scout of the + Continental Army and carried despatches to General Washington. The rules + of that game were that if any man ploughing in the fields, or cutting + trees in the woods, or even approaching along the same road, saw Jimmie + before Jimmie saw him, Jimmie was taken prisoner, and before sunrise was + shot as a spy. He was seldom shot. Or else why on his sleeve was the badge + for “stalking”? But always to have to make believe became + monotonous. Even “dry shopping” along the Rue de la Paix, when + you pretend you can have anything you see in any window, leaves one just + as rich, but unsatisfied. So the advice of the war correspondent to seek + out German spies came to Jimmie like a day at the circus, like a week at + the Danbury Fair. It not only was a call to arms, to protect his flag and + home, but a chance to play in earnest the game in which he most delighted. + No longer need he pretend. No longer need he waste his energies in + watching, unobserved, a greedy rabbit rob a carrot field. The game now was + his fellow-man and his enemy; not only his enemy, but the enemy of his + country. + </p> + <p> + In his first effort Jimmie was not entirely successful. The man looked the + part perfectly; he wore an auburn beard, disguising spectacles, and he + carried a suspicious knapsack. But he turned out to be a professor from + the Museum of Natural History, who wanted to dig for Indian arrow-heads. + And when Jimmie threatened to arrest him, the indignant gentleman arrested + Jimmie. Jimmie escaped only by leading the professor to a secret cave of + his own, though on some one else’s property, where one not only + could dig for arrow-heads, but find them. The professor was delighted, but + for Jimmie it was a great disappointment. The week following Jimmie was + again disappointed. + </p> + <p> + On the bank of the Kensico Reservoir, he came upon a man who was acting in + a mysterious and suspicious manner. He was making notes in a book, and his + runabout which he had concealed in a wood road was stuffed with + blue-prints. It did not take Jimmie long to guess his purpose. He was + planning to blow up the Kensico dam, and cut off the water supply of New + York City. Seven millions of people without water! Without firing a shot, + New York must surrender! At the thought Jimmie shuddered, and at the risk + of his life, by clinging to the tail of a motor truck, he followed the + runabout into White Plains. But there it developed the mysterious + stranger, so far from wishing to destroy the Kensico dam, was the State + Engineer who had built it, and, also, a large part of the Panama Canal. + Nor in his third effort was Jimmie more successful. From the heights of + Pound Ridge he discovered on a hilltop below him a man working along upon + a basin of concrete. The man was a German-American, and already on Jimmie’s + list of “suspects.” That for the use of the German artillery + he was preparing a concrete bed for a siege gun was only too evident. But + closer investigation proved that the concrete was only two inches thick. + And the hyphenated one explained that the basin was built over a spring, + in the waters of which he planned to erect a fountain and raise goldfish. + It was a bitter blow. Jimmie became discouraged. Meeting Judge Van Vorst + one day in the road he told him his troubles. The young judge proved + unsympathetic. “My advice to you, Jimmie,” he said, “is + to go slow. Accusing everybody of espionage is a very serious matter. If + you call a man a spy, it’s sometimes hard for him to disprove it; + and the name sticks. So, go slow–very slow. Before you arrest any + more people, come to me first for a warrant.” + </p> + <p> + So, the next time Jimmie proceeded with caution. + </p> + <p> + Besides being a farmer in a small way, Jimmie’s father was a handy + man with tools. He had no union card, but, in laying shingles along a blue + chalk line, few were as expert. It was August, there was no school, and + Jimmie was carrying a dinner-pail to where his father was at work on a new + barn. He made a cross-cut through the woods, and came upon the young man + in the golf-cap. The stranger nodded, and his eyes, which seemed to be + always laughing, smiled pleasantly. But he was deeply tanned, and, from + the waist up, held himself like a soldier, so, at once, Jimmie mistrusted + him. Early the next morning Jimmie met him again. It had not been raining, + but the clothes of the young man were damp. Jimmie guessed that while the + dew was still on the leaves the young man had been forcing his way through + underbrush. The stranger must have remembered Jimmie, for he laughed and + exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my friend with the dinner-pail! It’s luck you haven’t + got it now, or I’d hold you up. I’m starving!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie smiled in sympathy. “It’s early to be hungry,” + said Jimmie; “when did you have your breakfast?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t,” laughed the young man. “I went out to + walk up an appetite, and I lost myself. But I haven’t lost my + appetite. Which is the shortest way back to Bedford?” + </p> + <p> + “The first road to your right,” said Jimmie. + </p> + <p> + “Is it far?” asked the stranger anxiously. That he was very + hungry was evident. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a half-hour’s walk,” said Jimmie. + </p> + <p> + “If I live that long,” corrected the young man; and stepped + out briskly. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie knew that within a hundred yards a turn in the road would shut him + from sight. So, he gave the stranger time to walk that distance, and then, + diving into the wood that lined the road, “stalked” him. From + behind a tree he saw the stranger turn and look back, and seeing no one in + the road behind him, also leave it and plunge into the woods. + </p> + <p> + He had not turned toward Bedford; he had turned to the left. Like a runner + stealing bases, Jimmie slipped from tree to tree. Ahead of him he heard + the stranger trampling upon dead twigs, moving rapidly as one who knew his + way. At times through the branches Jimmie could see the broad shoulders of + the stranger, and again could follow his progress only by the noise of the + crackling twigs. When the noises ceased, Jimmie guessed the stranger had + reached the wood road, grass-grown and moss-covered, that led to Middle + Patent. So, he ran at right angles until he also reached it, and as now he + was close to where it entered the main road, he approached warily. But he + was too late. There was a sound like the whir of a rising partridge, and + ahead of him from where it had been hidden, a gray touring-car leaped into + the highway. The stranger was at the wheel. Throwing behind it a cloud of + dust, the car raced toward Greenwich. Jimmie had time to note only that it + bore a Connecticut State license; that in the wheel-ruts the tires printed + little V’s, like arrow-heads. + </p> + <p> + For a week Jimmie saw nothing of the spy, but for many hot and dusty miles + he stalked arrow-heads. They lured him north, they lured him south, they + were stamped in soft asphalt, in mud, dust, and fresh-spread tarvia. + Wherever Jimmie walked, arrow-heads ran before. In his sleep as in his + copy-book, he saw endless chains of V’s. But not once could he catch + up with the wheels that printed them. A week later, just at sunset as he + passed below Round Hill, he saw the stranger on top of it. On the skyline, + in silhouette against the sinking sun, he was as conspicuous as a + flagstaff. But to approach him was impossible. For acres Round Hill + offered no other cover than stubble. It was as bald as a skull. Until the + stranger chose to descend, Jimmie must wait. And the stranger was in no + haste. The sun sank and from the west Jimmie saw him turn his face east + toward the Sound. A storm was gathering, drops of rain began to splash and + as the sky grew black the figure on the hilltop faded into the darkness. + And then, at the very spot where Jimmie had last seen it, there suddenly + flared two tiny flashes of fire. Jimmie leaped from cover. It was no + longer to be endured. The spy was signalling. The time for caution had + passed, now was the time to act. Jimmie raced to the top of the hill, and + found it empty. He plunged down it, vaulted a stone wall, forced his way + through a tangle of saplings, and held his breath to listen. Just beyond + him, over a jumble of rocks, a hidden stream was tripping and tumbling. + Joyfully it laughed and gurgled. Jimmie turned hot. It sounded as though + from the darkness the spy mocked him. Jimmie shook his fist at the + enshrouding darkness. Above the tumult of the coming storm and the tossing + tree-tops, he raised his voice. + </p> + <p> + “You wait!” he shouted. “I’ll get you yet! Next + time, I’ll bring a gun.” + </p> + <p> + Next time was the next morning. There had been a hawk hovering over the + chicken yard, and Jimmie used that fact to explain his borrowing the + family shotgun. He loaded it with buckshot, and, in the pocket of his + shirt buttoned his license to “hunt, pursue and kill, to take with + traps or other devices.” + </p> + <p> + He remembered that Judge Van Vorst had warned him, before he arrested more + spies, to come to him for a warrant. But with an impatient shake of the + head Jimmie tossed the recollection from him. After what he had seen he + could not possibly be again mistaken. He did not need a warrant. What he + had seen was his warrant–plus the shotgun. + </p> + <p> + As a “pathfinder” should, he planned to take up the trail + where he had lost it, but, before he reached Round Hill, he found a warmer + trail. Before him, stamped clearly in the road still damp from the rain of + the night before, two lines of little arrow-heads pointed the way. They + were so fresh that at each twist in the road, lest the car should be just + beyond him, Jimmie slackened his steps. After half a mile the scent grew + hot. The tracks were deeper, the arrow-heads more clearly cut, and Jimmie + broke into a run. Then, the arrow-heads swung suddenly to the right, and + in a clearing at the edge of a wood, were lost. But the tires had pressed + deep into the grass, and just inside the wood, he found the car. It was + empty. Jimmie was drawn two ways. Should he seek the spy on the nearest + hilltop, or, until the owner returned, wait by the car? Between lying in + ambush and action, Jimmie preferred action. But, he did not climb the hill + nearest the car; he climbed the hill that overlooked that hill. + </p> + <p> + Flat on the ground, hidden in the goldenrod, he lay motionless. Before + him, for fifteen miles stretched hills and tiny valleys. Six miles away to + his right rose the stone steeple, and the red roofs of Greenwich. Directly + before him were no signs of habitation, only green forests, green fields, + gray stone walls, and, where a road ran up-hill, a splash of white, that + quivered in the heat. The storm of the night before had washed the air. + Each leaf stood by itself. Nothing stirred; and in the glare of the August + sun every detail of the landscape was as distinct as those in a colored + photograph; and as still. + </p> + <p> + In his excitement the scout was trembling. + </p> + <p> + “If he moves,” he sighed happily, “I’ve got him!” + </p> + <p> + Opposite, across a little valley was the hill at the base of which he had + found the car. The slope toward him was bare, but the top was crowned with + a thick wood; and along its crest, as though establishing an ancient + boundary, ran a stone wall, moss-covered and wrapped in poison-ivy. In + places, the branches of the trees, reaching out to the sun, overhung the + wall and hid it in black shadows. Jimmie divided the hill into sectors. He + began at the right, and slowly followed the wall. With his eyes he took it + apart, stone by stone. Had a chipmunk raised his head, Jimmie would have + seen him. So, when from the stone wall, like the reflection of the sun + upon a window-pane, something flashed, Jimmie knew he had found his spy. A + pair of binoculars had betrayed him. Jimmie now saw him clearly. He sat on + the ground at the top of the hill opposite, in the deep shadow of an oak, + his back against the stone wall. With the binoculars to his eyes he had + leaned too far forward, and upon the glass the sun had flashed a warning. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie appreciated that his attack must be made from the rear. Backward, + like a crab he wriggled free of the goldenrod, and hidden by the contour + of the hill, raced down it and into the woods on the hill opposite. When + he came to within twenty feet of the oak beneath which he had seen the + stranger, he stood erect, and as though avoiding a live wire, stepped on + tiptoe to the wall. The stranger still sat against it. The binoculars hung + from a cord around his neck. Across his knees was spread a map. He was + marking it with a pencil, and as he worked he hummed a tune. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie knelt, and resting the gun on the top of the wall, covered him. + </p> + <p> + “Throw up your hands!” he commanded. + </p> + <p> + The stranger did not start. Except that he raised his eyes he gave no sign + that he had heard. His eyes stared across the little sun-filled valley. + They were half closed as though in study, as though perplexed by some deep + and intricate problem. They appeared to see beyond the sun-filled valley + some place of greater moment, some place far distant. + </p> + <p> + Then the eyes smiled, and slowly, as though his neck were stiff, but still + smiling, the stranger turned his head. When he saw the boy, his smile was + swept away in waves of surprise, amazement, and disbelief. These were + followed instantly by an expression of the most acute alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t point that thing at me!” shouted the stranger. + “Is it loaded?” With his cheek pressed to the stock and his + eye squinted down the length of the brown barrel, Jimmie nodded. The + stranger flung up his open palms. They accented his expression of amazed + incredulity. He seemed to be exclaiming, “Can such things be?” + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” commanded Jimmie. + </p> + <p> + With alacrity the stranger rose. + </p> + <p> + “Walk over there,” ordered the scout. “Walk backward. + Stop! Take off those field-glasses and throw them to me.” Without + removing his eyes from the gun the stranger lifted the binoculars from his + neck and tossed them to the stone wall. + </p> + <p> + “See here!” he pleaded, “if you’ll only point that + damned blunderbuss the other way, you can have the glasses, and my watch, + and clothes, and all my money; only don’t―” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie flushed crimson. “You can’t bribe me,” he + growled. At least, he tried to growl, but because his voice was changing, + or because he was excited the growl ended in a high squeak. With + mortification, Jimmie flushed a deeper crimson. But the stranger was not + amused. At Jimmie’s words he seemed rather the more amazed. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not trying to bribe you,” he protested. “If + you don’t want anything, why are you holding me up?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not,” returned Jimmie, “I’m arresting + you!” + </p> + <p> + The stranger laughed with relief. Again his eyes smiled. “Oh,” + he cried, “I see! Have I been trespassing?” + </p> + <p> + With a glance Jimmie measured the distance between himself and the + stranger. Reassured, he lifted one leg after the other over the wall. + “If you try to rush me,” he warned, “I’ll shoot + you full of buckshot.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger took a hasty step <i>backward</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t worry about that,” he exclaimed. “I’ll + not rush you. Why am I arrested?” + </p> + <p> + Hugging the shotgun with his left arm, Jimmie stopped and lifted the + binoculars. He gave them a swift glance, slung them over his shoulder, and + again clutched his weapon. His expression was now stern and menacing. + </p> + <p> + “The name on them,” he accused, “is ‘Weiss, + Berlin.’ Is that your name?” The stranger smiled, but + corrected himself, and replied gravely, “That’s the name of + the firm that makes them.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie exclaimed in triumph. “Hah!” he cried, “made in + Germany!” + </p> + <p> + The stranger shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand,” he said. “Where <i>would</i> + a Weiss glass be made?” With polite insistence he repeated, “Would + you mind telling me why I am arrested, and who <i>you</i> might happen to + be?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie did not answer. Again he stooped and picked up the map, and as he + did so, for the first time the face of the stranger showed that he was + annoyed. Jimmie was not at home with maps. They told him nothing. But the + penciled notes on this one made easy reading. At his first glance he saw, + “Correct range, 1,800 yards”; “this stream not fordable”; + “slope of hill 15 degrees inaccessible for artillery.” “Wire + entanglements here”; “forage for five squadrons.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmie’s eyes flashed. He shoved the map inside his shirt, and with + the gun motioned toward the base of the hill. “Keep forty feet ahead + of me,” he commanded, “and walk to your car.” The + stranger did not seem to hear him. He spoke with irritation. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he said, “I’ll have to explain to you + about that map.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to me, you won’t,” declared his captor. “You’re + going to drive straight to Judge Van Vorst’s, and explain to <i>him</i>!” + </p> + <p> + The stranger tossed his arms even higher. “Thank God!” he + exclaimed gratefully. + </p> + <p> + With his prisoner Jimmie encountered no further trouble. He made a willing + captive. And if in covering the five miles to Judge Van Vorst’s he + exceeded the speed limit, the fact that from the rear seat Jimmie held the + shotgun against the base of his skull was an extenuating circumstance. + </p> + <p> + They arrived in the nick of time. In his own car young Van Vorst and a bag + of golf clubs were just drawing away from the house. Seeing the car + climbing the steep driveway that for a half-mile led from his lodge to his + front door, and seeing Jimmie standing in the tonneau brandishing a gun, + the Judge hastily descended. The sight of the spy hunter filled him with + misgiving, but the sight of him gave Jimmie sweet relief. Arresting German + spies for a small boy is no easy task. For Jimmie the strain was great. + And now that he knew he had successfully delivered him into the hands of + the law, Jimmie’s heart rose with happiness. The added presence of a + butler of magnificent bearing and of an athletic looking chauffeur + increased his sense of security. Their presence seemed to afford a feeling + of security to the prisoner also. As he brought the car to a halt, he + breathed a sigh. It was a sigh of deep relief. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie fell from the tonneau. In concealing his sense of triumph, he was + not entirely successful. + </p> + <p> + “I got him!” he cried. “I didn’t make no mistake + about <i>this</i> one!” + </p> + <p> + “What one?” demanded Van Vorst. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie pointed dramatically at his prisoner. With an anxious expression + the stranger was tenderly fingering the back of his head. He seemed to + wish to assure himself that it was still there. + </p> + <p> + “<i>That</i> one!” cried Jimmie. “He’s a German + spy!” + </p> + <p> + The patience of Judge Van Vorst fell from him. In his exclamation was + indignation, anger, reproach. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + Jimmie thrust into his hand the map. It was his “Exhibit A.” + “Look what he’s wrote,” commanded the scout. “It’s + all military words. And these are his glasses. I took ’em off him. + They’re made in <i>Germany</i>! I been stalking him for a week. He’s + a spy!” + </p> + <p> + When Jimmie thrust the map before his face, Van Vorst had glanced at it. + Then he regarded it more closely. As he raised his eyes they showed that + he was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + But he greeted the prisoner politely. + </p> + <p> + “I’m extremely sorry you’ve been annoyed,” he + said. “I’m only glad it’s no worse. He might have shot + you. He’s mad over the idea that every stranger he sees―” + </p> + <p> + The prisoner quickly interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Please!” he begged, “don’t blame the boy. He + behaved extremely well. Might I speak with you–<i>alone</i>?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + Judge Van Vorst led the way across the terrace, and to the smoking-room, + that served also as his office, and closed the door. The stranger walked + directly to the mantelpiece and put his finger on a gold cup. + </p> + <p> + “I saw your mare win that at Belmont Park,” he said. “She + must have been a great loss to you?” + </p> + <p> + “She was,” said Van Vorst. “The week before she broke + her back, I refused three thousand for her. Will you have a cigarette?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger waved aside the cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + “I brought you inside,” he said, “because I didn’t + want your servants to hear; and because I don’t want to hurt that + boy’s feelings. He’s a fine boy; and he’s a damned + clever scout. I knew he was following me and I threw him off twice, but + to-day he caught me fair. If I really had been a German spy, I couldn’t + have got away from him. And I want him to think he <i>has</i> captured a + German spy. Because he deserves just as much credit as though he had, and + because it’s best he shouldn’t know whom he <i>did</i> + capture.” + </p> + <p> + Van Vorst pointed to the map. “My bet is,” he said, “that + you’re an officer of the State militia, taking notes for the fall + manœuvres. Am I right?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger smiled in approval, but shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You’re warm,” he said, “but it’s more + serious than manœuvres. It’s the Real Thing.” From his + pocketbook he took a visiting card and laid it on the table. “I’m + ‘Sherry’ McCoy,” he said, “Captain of Artillery in + the United States Army.” He nodded to the hand telephone on the + table. + </p> + <p> + “You can call up Governor’s Island and get General Wood or his + aide, Captain Dorey, on the phone. They sent me here. Ask <i>them</i>. I’m + not picking out gun sites for the Germans; I’m picking out positions + of defense for Americans when the Germans come!” + </p> + <p> + Van Vorst laughed derisively. + </p> + <p> + “My word!” he exclaimed. “You’re as bad as Jimmie!” + </p> + <p> + Captain McCoy regarded him with disfavor. + </p> + <p> + “And you, sir,” he retorted, “are as bad as ninety + million other Americans. You <i>won’t</i> believe! When the Germans + are shelling this hill, when they’re taking your hunters to pull + their cook-wagons, maybe, you’ll believe <i>then</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you serious?” demanded Van Vorst. “And you an army + officer?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s why I am serious,” returned McCoy. “<i>We</i> + know. But when we try to prepare for what is coming, we must do it + secretly–in underhand ways, for fear the newspapers will get hold of + it and ridicule us, and accuse us of trying to drag the country into war. + That’s why we have to prepare under cover. That’s why I’ve + had to skulk around these hills like a chicken thief. And,” he added + sharply, “that’s why that boy must not know who I am. If he + does, the General Staff will get a calling down at Washington, and I’ll + have my ears boxed.” + </p> + <p> + Van Vorst moved to the door. + </p> + <p> + “He will never learn the truth from me,” he said. “For I + will tell him you are to be shot at sunrise.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” laughed the Captain. “And tell me his name. If + ever we fight over Westchester County, I want that lad for my chief of + scouts. And give him this. Tell him to buy a new scout uniform. Tell him + it comes from you.” + </p> + <p> + But no money could reconcile Jimmie to the sentence imposed upon his + captive. He received the news with a howl of anguish. “You mustn’t,” + he begged; “I never knowed you’d <i>shoot</i> him! I wouldn’t + have caught him if I’d knowed that. I couldn’t sleep if I + thought he was going to be shot at sunrise.” At the prospect of + unending nightmares Jimmie’s voice shook with terror. “Make it + for twenty years,” he begged. “Make it for ten,” he + coaxed, “but, <i>please</i>, promise you won’t shoot him.” + </p> + <p> + When Van Vorst returned to Captain McCoy, he was smiling, and the butler + who followed, bearing a tray and tinkling glasses, was trying not to + smile. + </p> + <p> + “I gave Jimmie your ten dollars,” said Van Vorst, “and + made it twenty, and he has gone home. You will be glad to hear that he + begged me to spare your life, and that your sentence has been commuted to + twenty years in a fortress. I drink to your good fortune.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” protested Captain McCoy, “we will drink to Jimmie!” + </p> + <p> + When Captain McCoy had driven away, and his own car and the golf clubs had + again been brought to the steps, Judge Van Vorst once more attempted to + depart; but he was again delayed. + </p> + <p> + Other visitors were arriving. + </p> + <p> + Up the driveway a touring-car approached, and though it limped on a flat + tire, it approached at reckless speed. The two men in the front seat were + white with dust; their faces, masked by automobile glasses, were + indistinguishable. As though preparing for an immediate exit, the car + swung in a circle until its nose pointed down the driveway up which it had + just come. Raising his silk mask the one beside the driver shouted at + Judge Van Vorst. His throat was parched, his voice was hoarse and hot with + anger. + </p> + <p> + “A gray touring-car,” he shouted. “It stopped here. We + saw it from that hill. Then the damn tire burst, and we lost our way. + Where did he go?” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” demanded Van Vorst, stiffly, “Captain McCoy?” + </p> + <p> + The man exploded with an oath. The driver, with a shove of his elbow, + silenced him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Captain McCoy,” assented the driver eagerly. “Which + way did he go?” + </p> + <p> + “To New York,” said Van Vorst. + </p> + <p> + The driver shrieked at his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Then, he’s doubled back,” he cried. “He’s + gone to New Haven.” He stooped and threw in the clutch. The car + lurched forward. + </p> + <p> + A cold terror swept young Van Vorst. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with him?” he called. “Who <i>are</i> + you?” + </p> + <p> + Over one shoulder the masked face glared at him. Above the roar of the car + the words of the driver were flung back. + </p> + <p> + “We’re Secret Service from Washington,” he shouted. + “He’s from their embassy. He’s a German spy!” + </p> + <p> + Leaping and throbbing at sixty miles an hour, the car vanished in a + curtain of white, whirling dust. + </p> + <hr class="pb" /> + <h2> + <a id="link_3"></a>GALLEGHER + </h2> + <p class="tac tiz fs12 mb20"> + A NEWSPAPER STORY + </p> + <p class="tiz"> + We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher came among us that they + had begun to lose the characteristics of individuals, and became merged in + a composite photograph of small boys, to whom we applied the generic title + of “Here, you”; or “You, boy.” + </p> + <p> + We had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright, “smart” + boys, who became so familiar on so short an acquaintance that we were + forced to part with them to save our own self-respect. + </p> + <p> + They generally graduated into district-messenger boys, and occasionally + returned to us in blue coats with nickel-plated buttons, and patronized + us. + </p> + <p> + But Gallegher was something different from anything we had experienced + before. Gallegher was short and broad in build, with a solid, muscular + broadness, and not a fat and dumpy shortness. He wore perpetually on his + face a happy and knowing smile, as if you and the world in general were + not impressing him as seriously as you thought you were, and his eyes, + which were very black and very bright, snapped intelligently at you like + those of a little black-and-tan terrier. + </p> + <p> + All Gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets; not a very good school + in itself, but one that turns out very knowing scholars. And Gallegher had + attended both morning and evening sessions. He could not tell you who the + Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he name the thirteen original States, but + he knew all the officers of the twenty-second police district by name, and + he could distinguish the clang of a fire-engine’s gong from that of + a patrol-wagon or an ambulance fully two blocks distant. It was Gallegher + who rang the alarm when the Woolwich Mills caught fire, while the officer + on the beat was asleep, and it was Gallegher who led the “Black + Diamonds” against the “Wharf Rats,” when they used to + stone each other to their heart’s content on the coal-wharves of + Richmond. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid, now that I see these facts written down, that Gallegher was + not a reputable character; but he was so very young and so very old for + his years that we all liked him very much nevertheless. He lived in the + extreme northern part of Philadelphia, where the cotton and woollen mills + run down to the river, and how he ever got home after leaving the <i>Press</i> + building at two in the morning, was one of the mysteries of the office. + Sometimes he caught a night car, and sometimes he walked all the way, + arriving at the little house, where his mother and himself lived alone, at + four in the morning. Occasionally he was given a ride on an early + milk-cart, or on one of the newspaper delivery wagons, with its high piles + of papers still damp and sticky from the press. He knew several drivers of + “night hawks”–those cabs that prowl the streets at night + looking for belated passengers–and when it was a very cold morning + he would not go home at all, but would crawl into one of these cabs and + sleep, curled up on the cushions, until daylight. + </p> + <p> + Besides being quick and cheerful, Gallegher possessed a power of amusing + the <i>Press’s</i> young men to a degree seldom attained by the + ordinary mortal. His clog-dancing on the city editor’s desk, when + that gentleman was up-stairs fighting for two more columns of space, was + always a source of innocent joy to us, and his imitations of the comedians + of the variety halls delighted even the dramatic critic, from whom the + comedians themselves failed to force a smile. + </p> + <p> + But Gallegher’s chief characteristic was his love for that element + of news generically classed as “crime.” + </p> + <p> + Not that he ever did anything criminal himself. On the contrary, his was + rather the work of the criminal specialist, and his morbid interest in the + doings of all queer characters, his knowledge of their methods, their + present whereabouts, and their past deeds of transgression often rendered + him a valuable ally to our police reporter, whose daily feuilletons were + the only portion of the paper Gallegher deigned to read. + </p> + <p> + In Gallegher the detective element was abnormally developed. He had shown + this on several occasions, and to excellent purpose. + </p> + <p> + Once the paper had sent him into a Home for Destitute Orphans which was + believed to be grievously mismanaged, and Gallegher, while playing the + part of a destitute orphan, kept his eyes open to what was going on around + him so faithfully that the story he told of the treatment meted out to the + real orphans was sufficient to rescue the unhappy little wretches from the + individual who had them in charge, and to have the individual himself sent + to jail. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher’s knowledge of the aliases, terms of imprisonment, and + various misdoings of the leading criminals in Philadelphia was almost as + thorough as that of the chief of police himself, and he could tell to an + hour when “Dutchy Mack” was to be let out of prison, and could + identify at a glance “Dick Oxford, confidence man,” as “Gentleman + Dan, petty thief.” + </p> + <p> + There were, at this time, only two pieces of news in any of the papers. + The least important of the two was the big fight between the Champion of + the United States and the Would-be Champion, arranged to take place near + Philadelphia; the second was the Burrbank murder, which was filling space + in newspapers all over the world, from New York to Bombay. + </p> + <p> + Richard F. Burrbank was one of the most prominent of New York’s + railroad lawyers; he was also, as a matter of course, an owner of much + railroad stock, and a very wealthy man. He had been spoken of as a + political possibility for many high offices, and, as the counsel for a + great railroad, was known even further than the great railroad itself had + stretched its system. + </p> + <p> + At six o’clock one morning he was found by his butler lying at the + foot of the hall stairs with two pistol wounds above his heart. He was + quite dead. His safe, to which only he and his secretary had the keys, was + found open, and $200,000 in bonds, stocks, and money, which had been + placed there only the night before, was found missing. The secretary was + missing also. His name was Stephen S. Hade, and his name and his + description had been telegraphed and cabled to all parts of the world. + There was enough circumstantial evidence to show, beyond any question or + possibility of mistake, that he was the murderer. + </p> + <p> + It made an enormous amount of talk, and unhappy individuals were being + arrested all over the country, and sent on to New York for identification. + Three had been arrested at Liverpool, and one man just as he landed at + Sydney, Australia. But so far the murderer had escaped. + </p> + <p> + We were all talking about it one night, as everybody else was all over the + country, in the local room, and the city editor said it was worth a + fortune to any one who chanced to run across Hade and succeeded in handing + him over to the police. Some of us thought Hade had taken passage from + some one of the smaller seaports, and others were of the opinion that he + had buried himself in some cheap lodging-house in New York, or in one of + the smaller towns in New Jersey. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t be surprised to meet him out walking, right here + in Philadelphia,” said one of the staff. “He’ll be + disguised, of course, but you could always tell him by the absence of the + trigger finger on his right hand. It’s missing, you know; shot off + when he was a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “You want to look for a man dressed like a tough,” said the + city editor; “for as this fellow is to all appearances a gentleman, + he will try to look as little like a gentleman as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he won’t,” said Gallegher, with that calm + impertinence that made him dear to us. “He’ll dress just like + a gentleman. Toughs don’t wear gloves, and you see he’s got to + wear ’em. The first thing he thought of after doing for Burrbank was + of that gone finger, and how he was to hide it. He stuffed the finger of + that glove with cotton so’s to make it look like a whole finger, and + the first time he takes off that glove they’ve got him–see, + and he knows it. So what youse want to do is to look for a man with gloves + on. I’ve been a-doing it for two weeks now, and I can tell you it’s + hard work, for everybody wears gloves this kind of weather. But if you + look long enough you’ll find him. And when you think it’s him, + go up to him and hold out your hand in a friendly way, like a + bunco-steerer, and shake his hand; and if you feel that his forefinger ain’t + real flesh, but just wadded cotton, then grip to it with your right and + grab his throat with your left, and holler for help.” + </p> + <p> + There was an appreciative pause. + </p> + <p> + “I see, gentlemen,” said the city editor, dryly, “that + Gallegher’s reasoning has impressed you; and I also see that before + the week is out all of my young men will be under bonds for assaulting + innocent pedestrians whose only offense is that they wear gloves in + midwinter.” + </p> + <hr class="tb" /> + <p> + It was about a week after this that Detective Hefflefinger, of Inspector + Byrnes’s staff, came over to Philadelphia after a burglar, of whose + whereabouts he had been misinformed by telegraph. He brought the warrant, + requisition, and other necessary papers with him, but the burglar had + flown. One of our reporters had worked on a New York paper, and knew + Hefflefinger, and the detective came to the office to see if he could help + him in his so far unsuccessful search. + </p> + <p> + He gave Gallegher his card, and after Gallegher had read it, and had + discovered who the visitor was, he became so demoralized that he was + absolutely useless. + </p> + <p> + “One of Byrnes’s men” was a much more awe-inspiring + individual to Gallegher than a member of the Cabinet. He accordingly + seized his hat and overcoat, and leaving his duties to be looked after by + others, hastened out after the object of his admiration, who found his + suggestions and knowledge of the city so valuable, and his company so + entertaining, that they became very intimate, and spent the rest of the + day together. + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile the managing editor had instructed his subordinates to + inform Gallegher, when he condescended to return, that his services were + no longer needed. Gallegher had played truant once too often. Unconscious + of this, he remained with his new friend until late the same evening, and + started the next afternoon toward the <i>Press</i> office. + </p> + <hr class="tb" /> + <p> + As I have said, Gallegher lived in the most distant part of the city, not + many minutes’ walk from the Kensington railroad station, where + trains ran into the suburbs and on to New York. + </p> + <p> + It was in front of this station that a smoothly shaven, well-dressed man + brushed past Gallegher and hurried up the steps to the ticket office. + </p> + <p> + He held a walking-stick in his right hand, and Gallegher, who now + patiently scrutinized the hands of every one who wore gloves, saw that + while three fingers of the man’s hand were closed around the cane, + the fourth stood out in almost a straight line with his palm. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher stopped with a gasp and with a trembling all over his little + body, and his brain asked with a throb if it could be possible. But + possibilities and probabilities were to be discovered later. Now was the + time for action. + </p> + <p> + He was after the man in a moment, hanging at his heels and his eyes moist + with excitement. + </p> + <p> + He heard the man ask for a ticket to Torresdale, a little station just + outside of Philadelphia, and when he was out of hearing, but not out of + sight, purchased one for the same place. + </p> + <p> + The stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated himself at one end + toward the door. Gallegher took his place at the opposite end. + </p> + <p> + He was trembling all over, and suffered from a slight feeling of nausea. + He guessed it came from fright, not of any bodily harm that might come to + him, but of the probability of failure in his adventure and of its most + momentous possibilities. + </p> + <p> + The stranger pulled his coat collar up around his ears, hiding the lower + portion of his face, but not concealing the resemblance in his troubled + eyes and close-shut lips to the likenesses of the murderer Hade. + </p> + <p> + They reached Torresdale in half an hour, and the stranger, alighting + quickly, struck off at a rapid pace down the country road leading to the + station. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher gave him a hundred yards’ start, and then followed slowly + after. The road ran between fields and past a few frame-houses set far + from the road in kitchen gardens. + </p> + <p> + Once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder, but he saw only a + dreary length of road with a small boy splashing through the slush in the + midst of it and stopping every now and again to throw snowballs at belated + sparrows. + </p> + <p> + After a ten minutes’ walk the stranger turned into a side road which + led to only one place, the Eagle Inn, an old roadside hostelry known now + as the headquarters for pothunters from the Philadelphia game market and + the battleground of many a cock-fight. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher knew the place well. He and his young companions had often + stopped there when out chestnutting on holidays in the autumn. + </p> + <p> + The son of the man who kept it had often accompanied them on their + excursions, and though the boys of the city streets considered him a dumb + lout, they respected him somewhat owing to his inside knowledge of dog and + cock-fights. + </p> + <p> + The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher, reaching it a + few minutes later, let him go for the time being, and set about finding + his occasional playmate, young Keppler. + </p> + <p> + Keppler’s offspring was found in the woodshed. + </p> + <p> + “Tain’t hard to guess what brings you out here,” said + the tavern-keeper’s son, with a grin; “it’s the fight.” + </p> + <p> + “What fight?” asked Gallegher, unguardedly. + </p> + <p> + “What fight? Why, <i>the</i> fight,” returned his companion, + with the slow contempt of superior knowledge. “It’s to come + off here to-night. You knew that as well as me; anyway your sportin’ + editor knows it. He got the tip last night, but that won’t help you + any. You needn’t think there’s any chance of your getting a + peep at it. Why, tickets is two hundred and fifty apiece!” + </p> + <p> + “Whew!” whistled Gallegher, “where’s it to be?” + </p> + <p> + “In the barn,” whispered Keppler. “I helped ’em + fix the ropes this morning, I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Gosh, but you’re in luck,” exclaimed Gallegher, with + flattering envy. “Couldn’t I jest get a peep at it?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe,” said the gratified Keppler. “There’s a + winder with a wooden shutter at the back of the barn. You can get in by + it, if you have some one to boost you up to the sill.” + </p> + <p> + “Sa-a-y,” drawled Gallegher, as if something had but just that + moment reminded him. “Who’s that gent who come down the road + just a bit ahead of me–him with the cape-coat! Has he got anything + to do with the fight?” + </p> + <p> + “Him?” repeated Keppler in tones of sincere disgust. “No-oh, + he ain’t no sport. He’s queer, Dad thinks. He come here one + day last week about ten in the morning, said his doctor told him to go out + ’en the country for his health. He’s stuck up and citified, + and wears gloves, and takes his meals private in his room, and all that + sort of ruck. They was saying in the saloon last night that they thought + he was hiding from something, and Dad, just to try him, asks him last + night if he was coming to see the fight. He looked sort of scared, and + said he didn’t want to see no fight. And then Dad says, ‘I + guess you mean you don’t want no fighters to see you.’ Dad + didn’t mean no harm by it, just passed it as a joke; but Mr. + Carleton, as he calls himself, got white as a ghost an’ says, + ‘I’ll go to the fight willing enough,’ and begins to + laugh and joke. And this morning he went right into the bar-room, where + all the sports were setting, and said he was going into town to see some + friends; and as he starts off he laughs an’ says, ‘This don’t + look as if I was afraid of seeing people, does it?’ but Dad says it + was just bluff that made him do it, and Dad thinks that if he hadn’t + said what he did, this Mr. Carleton wouldn’t have left his room at + all.” + </p> + <p> + Gallegher had got all he wanted, and much more than he had hoped for–so + much more that his walk back to the station was in the nature of a + triumphal march. + </p> + <p> + He had twenty minutes to wait for the next train, and it seemed an hour. + While waiting he sent a telegram to Hefflefinger at his hotel. It read: + </p> + <div class="bquote"> + <p> + Your man is near the Torresdale station, on Pennsylvania Railroad; take + cab, and meet me at station. Wait until I come. + </p> + <p class="tar"> + Gallegher. + </p> + </div> + <!-- block quote --> + <p> + With the exception of one at midnight, no other train stopped at + Torresdale that evening, hence the direction to take a cab. + </p> + <p> + The train to the city seemed to Gallegher to drag itself by inches. It + stopped and backed at purposeless intervals, waited for an express to + precede it, and dallied at stations, and when, at last, it reached the + terminus, Gallegher was out before it had stopped and was in the cab and + off on his way to the home of the sporting editor. + </p> + <p> + The sporting editor was at dinner and came out in the hall to see him, + with his napkin in his hand. Gallegher explained breathlessly that he had + located the murderer for whom the police of two continents were looking, + and that he believed, in order to quiet the suspicions of the people with + whom he was hiding, that he would be present at the fight that night. + </p> + <p> + The sporting editor led Gallegher into his library and shut the door. + “Now,” he said, “go over all that again.” + </p> + <p> + Gallegher went over it again in detail, and added how he had sent for + Hefflefinger to make the arrest in order that it might be kept from the + knowledge of the local police and from the Philadelphia reporters. + </p> + <p> + “What I want Hefflefinger to do is to arrest Hade with the warrant + he has for the burglar,” explained Gallegher; “and to take him + on to New York on the owl train that passes Torresdale at one. It don’t + get to Jersey City until four o’clock, one hour after the morning + papers go to press. Of course, we must fix Hefflefinger so’s he’ll + keep quiet and not tell who his prisoner really is.” + </p> + <p> + The sporting editor reached his hand out to pat Gallegher on the head, but + changed his mind and shook hands with him instead. + </p> + <p> + “My boy,” he said, “you are an infant phenomenon. If I + can pull the rest of this thing off to-night it will mean the $5,000 + reward and fame galore for you and the paper. Now, I’m going to + write a note to the managing editor, and you can take it around to him and + tell him what you’ve done and what I am going to do, and he’ll + take you back on the paper and raise your salary. Perhaps you didn’t + know you’ve been discharged?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you ain’t a-going to take me with you?” + demanded Gallegher. + </p> + <p> + “Why, certainly not. Why should I? It all lies with the detective + and myself now. You’ve done your share, and done it well. If the man’s + caught, the reward’s yours. But you’d only be in the way now. + You’d better go to the office and make your peace with the chief.” + </p> + <p> + “If the paper can get along without me, I can get along without the + old paper,” said Gallegher, hotly. “And if I ain’t + a-going with you, you ain’t neither, for I know where Hefflefinger + is to be, and you don’t, and I won’t tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well, very well,” replied the sporting editor, + weakly capitulating. “I’ll send the note by a messenger; only + mind, if you lose your place, don’t blame me.” + </p> + <p> + Gallegher wondered how this man could value a week’s salary against + the excitement of seeing a noted criminal run down, and of getting the + news to the paper, and to that one paper alone. + </p> + <p> + From that moment the sporting editor sank in Gallegher’s estimation. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and scribbled off the following note: + </p> + <div class="bquote"> + <p> + I have received reliable information that Hade, the Burrbank murderer, + will be present at the fight to-night. We have arranged it so that he + will be arrested quietly and in such a manner that the fact may be kept + from all other papers. I need not point out to you that this will be the + most important piece of news in the country to-morrow. Yours, etc., + </p> + <p class="tar"> + Michael E. Dwyer. + </p> + </div> + <!-- block quote --> + <p> + The sporting editor stepped into the waiting cab, while Gallegher + whispered the directions to the driver. He was told to go first to a + district-messenger office, and from there up to the Ridge Avenue Road, out + Broad Street, and on to the old Eagle Inn, near Torresdale. + </p> + <hr class="tb" /> + <p> + It was a miserable night. The rain and snow were falling together, and + freezing as they fell. The sporting editor got out to send his message to + the <i>Press</i> office, and then lighting a cigar, and turning up the + collar of his great-coat, curled up in the corner of the cab. + </p> + <p> + “Wake me when we get there, Gallegher,” he said. He knew he + had a long ride, and much rapid work before him, and he was preparing for + the strain. + </p> + <p> + To Gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost criminal. From the + dark corner of the cab his eyes shone with excitement, and with the awful + joy of anticipation. He glanced every now and then to where the sporting + editor’s cigar shone in the darkness, and watched it as it gradually + burnt more dimly and went out. The lights in the shop windows threw a + broad glare across the ice on the pavements, and the lights from the + lamp-posts tossed the distorted shadow of the cab, and the horse, and the + motionless driver, sometimes before and sometimes behind them. + </p> + <p> + After half an hour Gallegher slipped down to the bottom of the cab and + dragged out a lap-robe, in which he wrapped himself. It was growing + colder, and the damp, keen wind swept in through the cracks until the + window-frames and woodwork were cold to the touch. + </p> + <p> + An hour passed, and the cab was still moving more slowly over the rough + surface of partly paved streets, and by single rows of new houses standing + at different angles to each other in fields covered with ash-heaps and + brick-kilns. Here and there the gaudy lights of a drug-store, and the + forerunner of suburban civilization, shone from the end of a new block of + houses, and the rubber cape of an occasional policeman showed in the light + of the lamp-post that he hugged for comfort. + </p> + <p> + Then even the houses disappeared, and the cab dragged its way between + truck farms, with desolate-looking glass-covered beds, and pools of water, + half-caked with ice, and bare trees, and interminable fences. + </p> + <p> + Once or twice the cab stopped altogether, and Gallegher could hear the + driver swearing to himself, or at the horse, or the roads. At last they + drew up before the station at Torresdale. It was quite deserted, and only + a single light cut a swath in the darkness and showed a portion of the + platform, the ties, and the rails glistening in the rain. They walked + twice past the light before a figure stepped out of the shadow and greeted + them cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “I am Mr. Dwyer, of the <i>Press</i>,” said the sporting + editor, briskly. “You’ve heard of me, perhaps. Well, there + shouldn’t be any difficulty in our making a deal, should there? This + boy here has found Hade, and we have reason to believe he will be among + the spectators at the fight to-night. We want you to arrest him quietly, + and as secretly as possible. You can do it with your papers and your badge + easily enough. We want you to pretend that you believe he is this burglar + you came over after. If you will do this, and take him away without any + one so much as suspecting who he really is, and on the train that passes + here at 1.20 for New York, we will give you $500 out of the $5,000 reward. + If, however, one other paper, either in New York or Philadelphia, or + anywhere else, knows of the arrest, you won’t get a cent. Now, what + do you say?” + </p> + <p> + The detective had a great deal to say. He wasn’t at all sure the man + Gallegher suspected was Hade; he feared he might get himself into trouble + by making a false arrest, and if it should be the man, he was afraid the + local police would interfere. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve no time to argue or debate this matter,” said + Dwyer, warmly. “We agree to point Hade out to you in the crowd. + After the fight is over you arrest him as we have directed, and you get + the money and the credit of the arrest. If you don’t like this, I + will arrest the man myself, and have him driven to town, with a pistol for + a warrant.” + </p> + <p> + Hefflefinger considered in silence and then agreed unconditionally. + “As you say, Mr. Dwyer,” he returned. “I’ve heard + of you for a thoroughbred sport. I know you’ll do what you say you’ll + do; and as for me I’ll do what you say and just as you say, and it’s + a very pretty piece of work as it stands.” + </p> + <p> + They all stepped back into the cab, and then it was that they were met by + a fresh difficulty, how to get the detective into the barn where the fight + was to take place, for neither of the two men had $250 to pay for his + admittance. + </p> + <p> + But this was overcome when Gallegher remembered the window of which young + Keppler had told him. + </p> + <p> + In the event of Hade’s losing courage and not daring to show himself + in the crowd around the ring, it was agreed that Dwyer should come to the + barn and warn Hefflefinger; but if he should come, Dwyer was merely to + keep near him and to signify by a prearranged gesture which one of the + crowd he was. + </p> + <p> + They drew up before a great black shadow of a house, dark, forbidding, and + apparently deserted. But at the sound of the wheels on the gravel the door + opened, letting out a stream of warm, cheerful light, and a man’s + voice said, “Put out those lights. Don’t youse know no better + than that?” This was Keppler, and he welcomed Mr. Dwyer with + effusive courtesy. + </p> + <p> + The two men showed in the stream of light, and the door closed on them, + leaving the house as it was at first, black and silent, save for the + dripping of the rain and snow from the eaves. + </p> + <p> + The detective and Gallegher put out the cab’s lamps and led the + horse toward a long, low shed in the rear of the yard, which they now + noticed was almost filled with teams of many different makes, from the + Hobson’s choice of a livery stable to the brougham of the man about + town. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Gallegher, as the cabman stopped to hitch the horse + beside the others, “we want it nearest that lower gate. When we + newspaper men leave this place we’ll leave it in a hurry, and the + man who is nearest town is likely to get there first. You won’t be + a-following of no hearse when you make your return trip.” + </p> + <p> + Gallegher tied the horse to the very gate-post itself, leaving the gate + open and allowing a clear road and a flying start for the prospective race + to Newspaper Row. + </p> + <p> + The driver disappeared under the shelter of the porch, and Gallegher and + the detective moved off cautiously to the rear of the barn. “This + must be the window,” said Hefflefinger, pointing to a broad wooden + shutter some feet from the ground. + </p> + <p> + “Just you give me a boost once, and I’ll get that open in a + jiffy,” said Gallegher. + </p> + <p> + The detective placed his hands on his knees, and Gallegher stood upon his + shoulders, and with the blade of his knife lifted the wooden button that + fastened the window on the inside, and pulled the shutter open. + </p> + <p> + Then he put one leg inside over the sill, and leaning down helped to draw + his fellow-conspirator up to a level with the window. “I feel just + like I was burglarizing a house,” chuckled Gallegher, as he dropped + noiselessly to the floor below and refastened the shutter. The barn was a + large one, with a row of stalls on either side in which horses and cows + were dozing. There was a haymow over each row of stalls, and at one end of + the barn a number of fence-rails had been thrown across from one mow to + the other. These rails were covered with hay. + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the floor was the ring. It was not really a ring, but a + square, with wooden posts at its four corners through which ran a heavy + rope. The space enclosed by the rope was covered with sawdust. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher could not resist stepping into the ring, and after stamping the + sawdust once or twice, as if to assure himself that he was really there, + began dancing around it, and indulging in such a remarkable series of + fistic manœuvres with an imaginary adversary that the unimaginative + detective precipitately backed into a corner of the barn. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then,” said Gallegher, having apparently vanquished his + foe, “you come with me.” His companion followed quickly as + Gallegher climbed to one of the hay-mows, and, crawling carefully out on + the fence-rail, stretched himself at full length, face downward. In this + position, by moving the straw a little, he could look down, without being + himself seen, upon the heads of whomsoever stood below. “This is + better’n a private box, ain’t it?” said Gallegher. + </p> + <p> + The boy from the newspaper office and the detective lay there in silence, + biting at straws and tossing anxiously on their comfortable bed. + </p> + <p> + It seemed fully two hours before they came. Gallegher had listened without + breathing, and with every muscle on a strain, at least a dozen times, when + some movement in the yard had led him to believe that they were at the + door. + </p> + <p> + And he had numerous doubts and fears. Sometimes it was that the police had + learnt of the fight, and had raided Keppler’s in his absence, and + again it was that the fight had been postponed, or, worst of all, that it + would be put off until so late that Mr. Dwyer could not get back in time + for the last edition of the paper. Their coming, when at last they came, + was heralded by an advance-guard of two sporting men, who stationed + themselves at either side of the big door. + </p> + <p> + “Hurry up, now, gents,” one of the men said with a shiver, + “don’t keep this door open no longer’n is needful.” + </p> + <p> + It was not a very large crowd, but it was wonderfully well selected. It + ran, in the majority of its component parts, to heavy white coats with + pearl buttons. The white coats were shouldered by long blue coats with + astrakhan fur trimmings, the wearers of which preserved a cliqueness not + remarkable when one considers that they believed every one else present to + be either a crook or a prize-fighter. + </p> + <p> + There were well-fed, well-groomed club-men and brokers in the crowd, a + politician or two, a popular comedian with his manager, amateur boxers + from the athletic clubs, and quiet, close-mouthed sporting men from every + city in the country. Their names if printed in the papers would have been + as familiar as the types of the papers themselves. + </p> + <p> + And among these men, whose only thought was of the brutal sport to come, + was Hade, with Dwyer standing at ease at his shoulder–Hade, white, + and visibly in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face beneath a cloth + travelling-cap, and with his chin muffled in a woollen scarf. He had dared + to come because he feared his danger from the already suspicious Keppler + was less than if he stayed away. And so he was there, hovering restlessly + on the border of the crowd, feeling his danger and sick with fear. + </p> + <p> + When Hefflefinger first saw him he started up on his hands and elbows and + made a movement forward as if he would leap down then and there and carry + off his prisoner single-handed. + </p> + <p> + “Lie down,” growled Gallegher; “an officer of any sort + wouldn’t live three minutes in that crowd.” + </p> + <p> + The detective drew back slowly and buried himself again in the straw, but + never once through the long fight which followed did his eyes leave the + person of the murderer. The newspaper men took their places in the + foremost row close around the ring, and kept looking at their watches and + begging the master of ceremonies to “shake it up, do.” + </p> + <p> + There was a great deal of betting, and all of the men handled the great + rolls of bills they wagered with a flippant recklessness which could only + be accounted for in Gallegher’s mind by temporary mental + derangement. Some one pulled a box out into the ring and the master of + ceremonies mounted it, and pointed out in forcible language that as they + were almost all already under bonds to keep the peace, it behooved all to + curb their excitement and to maintain a severe silence, unless they wanted + to bring the police upon them and have themselves “sent down” + for a year or two. + </p> + <p> + Then two very disreputable-looking persons tossed their respective + principals’ high hats into the ring, and the crowd, recognizing in + this relic of the days when brave knights threw down their gauntlets in + the lists as only a sign that the fight was about to begin, cheered + tumultuously. + </p> + <p> + This was followed by a sudden surging forward, and a mutter of admiration + much more flattering than the cheers had been, when the principals + followed their hats and, slipping out of their great-coats, stood forth in + all the physical beauty of the perfect brute. + </p> + <p> + Their pink skin was as soft and healthy-looking as a baby’s, and + glowed in the lights of the lanterns like tinted ivory, and underneath + this silken covering the great biceps and muscles moved in and out and + looked like the coils of a snake around the branch of a tree. + </p> + <p> + Gentleman and blackguard shouldered each other for a nearer view; the + coachmen, whose metal buttons were unpleasantly suggestive of police, put + their hands, in the excitement of the moment, on the shoulders of their + masters; the perspiration stood out in great drops on the foreheads of the + backers, and the newspaper men bit somewhat nervously at the ends of their + pencils. + </p> + <p> + And in the stalls the cows munched contentedly at their cuds and gazed + with gentle curiosity at their two fellow-brutes, who stood waiting the + signal to fall upon and kill each other, if need be, for the delectation + of their brothers. + </p> + <p> + “Take your places,” commanded the master of ceremonies. + </p> + <p> + In the moment in which the two men faced each other the crowd became so + still that, save for the beating of the rain upon the shingled roof and + the stamping of a horse in one of the stalls, the place was as silent as a + church. + </p> + <p> + “Time,” shouted the master of ceremonies. + </p> + <p> + The two men sprang into a posture of defense, which was lost as quickly as + it was taken, one great arm shot out like a piston-rod; there was the + sound of bare fists beating on naked flesh; there was an exultant indrawn + gasp of savage pleasure and relief from the crowd, and the great fight had + begun. + </p> + <p> + How the fortunes of war rose and fell, and changed and rechanged that + night, is an old story to those who listen to such stories; and those who + do not will be glad to be spared the telling of it. It was, they say, one + of the bitterest fights between two men that this country has ever known. + </p> + <p> + But all that is of interest here is that after an hour of this desperate, + brutal business the champion ceased to be the favorite; the man whom he + had taunted and bullied, and for whom the public had but little sympathy, + was proving himself a likely winner, and under his cruel blows, as sharp + and clean as those from a cutlass, his opponent was rapidly giving way. + </p> + <p> + The men about the ropes were past all control now; they drowned Keppler’s + petitions for silence with oaths and in inarticulate shouts of anger, as + if the blows had fallen upon them, and in mad rejoicings. They swept from + one end of the ring to the other, with every muscle leaping in unison with + those of the man they favored, and when a New York correspondent muttered + over his shoulder that this would be the biggest sporting surprise since + the Heenan-Sayers fight, Mr. Dwyer nodded his head sympathetically in + assent. + </p> + <p> + In the excitement and tumult it is doubtful if any heard the three quickly + repeated blows that fell heavily from the outside upon the big doors of + the barn. If they did, it was already too late to mend matters, for the + door fell, torn from its hinges, and as it fell a captain of police sprang + into the light from out of the storm, with his lieutenants and their men + crowding close at his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + In the panic and stampede that followed, several of the men stood as + helplessly immovable as though they had seen a ghost; others made a mad + rush into the arms of the officers and were beaten back against the ropes + of the ring; others dived headlong into the stalls, among the horses and + cattle, and still others shoved the rolls of money they held into the + hands of the police and begged like children to be allowed to escape. + </p> + <p> + The instant the door fell and the raid was declared Hefflefinger slipped + over the cross rails on which he had been lying, hung for an instant by + his hands, and then dropped into the centre of the fighting mob on the + floor. He was out of it in an instant with the agility of a pickpocket, + was across the room and at Hade’s throat like a dog. The murderer, + for the moment, was the calmer man of the two. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” he panted, “hands off, now. There’s no + need for all this violence. There’s no great harm in looking at a + fight, is there? There’s a hundred-dollar bill in my right hand; + take it and let me slip out of this. No one is looking. Here.” + </p> + <p> + But the detective only held him the closer. + </p> + <p> + “I want you for burglary,” he whispered under his breath. + “You’ve got to come with me now, and quick. The less fuss you + make, the better for both of us. If you don’t know who I am, you can + feel my badge under my coat there. I’ve got the authority. It’s + all regular, and when we’re out of this d–d row I’ll + show you the papers.” + </p> + <p> + He took one hand from Hade’s throat and pulled a pair of handcuffs + from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a mistake. This is an outrage,” gasped the + murderer, white and trembling, but dreadfully alive and desperate for his + liberty. “Let me go, I tell you! Take your hands off of me! Do I + look like a burglar, you fool?” + </p> + <p> + “I know who you look like,” whispered the detective, with his + face close to the face of his prisoner. “Now, will you go easy as a + burglar, or shall I tell these men who you are and what I <i>do</i> want + you for? Shall I call out your real name or not? Shall I tell them? Quick, + speak up; shall I?” + </p> + <p> + There was something so exultant–something so unnecessarily savage in + the officer’s face that the man he held saw that the detective knew + him for what he really was, and the hands that had held his throat slipped + down around his shoulders, or he would have fallen. The man’s eyes + opened and closed again, and he swayed weakly backward and forward, and + choked as if his throat were dry and burning. Even to such a hardened + connoisseur in crime as Gallegher, who stood closely by, drinking it in, + there was something so abject in the man’s terror that he regarded + him with what was almost a touch of pity. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake,” Hade begged, “let me go. Come + with me to my room and I’ll give you half the money. I’ll + divide with you fairly. We can both get away. There’s a fortune for + both of us there. We both can get away. You’ll be rich for life. Do + you understand–for life!” + </p> + <p> + But the detective, to his credit, only shut his lips the tighter. + </p> + <p> + “That’s enough,” he whispered, in return. “That’s + more than I expected. You’ve sentenced yourself already. Come!” + </p> + <p> + Two officers in uniform barred their exit at the door, but Hefflefinger + smiled easily and showed his badge. + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/i-128.jpg" id="img003" alt="" /> + <p class="center caption"> + “For God’s sake,” Hade begged, “let me go.” + </p> + </div> + <!-- figure --> + <p> + “One of Byrnes’s men,” he said, in explanation; “came + over expressly to take this chap. He’s a burglar; ‘Arlie’ + Lane, <i>alias</i> Carleton. I’ve shown the papers to the captain. + It’s all regular. I’m just going to get his traps at the hotel + and walk him over to the station. I guess we’ll push right on to New + York to-night.” + </p> + <p> + The officers nodded and smiled their admiration for the representative of + what is, perhaps, the best detective force in the world, and let him pass. + </p> + <p> + Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke to Gallegher, who still stood as + watchful as a dog at his side. “I’m going to his room to get + the bonds and stuff,” he whispered; “then I’ll march him + to the station and take that train. I’ve done my share; don’t + forget yours!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’ll get your money right enough,” said + Gallegher. “And, sa-ay,” he added, with the appreciative nod + of an expert, “do you know, you did it rather well.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the raid was settling down, as he had + been writing while waiting for the fight to begin. Now he walked over to + where the other correspondents stood in angry conclave. + </p> + <p> + The newspaper men had informed the officers who hemmed them in that they + represented the principal papers of the country, and were expostulating + vigorously with the captain, who had planned the raid, and who declared + they were under arrest. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be an ass, Scott,” said Mr. Dwyer, who was too + excited to be polite or politic. “You know our being here isn’t + a matter of choice. We came here on business, as you did, and you’ve + no right to hold us.” + </p> + <p> + “If we don’t get our stuff on the wire at once,” + protested a New York man, “we’ll be too late for to-morrow’s + paper, and―” + </p> + <p> + Captain Scott said he did not care a profanely small amount for to-morrow’s + paper, and that all he knew was that to the station-house the newspaper + men would go. There they would have a hearing, and if the magistrate chose + to let them off, that was the magistrate’s business, but that his + duty was to take them into custody. + </p> + <p> + “But then it will be too late, don’t you understand?” + shouted Mr. Dwyer. “You’ve got to let us go <i>now</i>, at + once.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do it, Mr. Dwyer,” said the captain, “and + that’s all there is to it. Why, haven’t I just sent the + president of the Junior Republican Club to the patrol-wagon, the man that + put this coat on me, and do you think I can let you fellows go after that? + You were all put under bonds to keep the peace not three days ago, and + here you’re at it–fighting like badgers. It’s worth my + place to let one of you off.” + </p> + <p> + What Mr. Dwyer said next was so uncomplimentary to the gallant Captain + Scott that that overwrought individual seized the sporting editor by the + shoulder, and shoved him into the hands of two of his men. + </p> + <p> + This was more than the distinguished Mr. Dwyer could brook, and he + excitedly raised his hand in resistance. But before he had time to do + anything foolish his wrist was gripped by one strong little hand, and he + was conscious that another was picking the pocket of his great-coat. + </p> + <p> + He slapped his hands to his sides, and, looking down, saw Gallegher + standing close behind him and holding him by the wrist. Mr. Dwyer had + forgotten the boy’s existence, and would have spoken sharply if + something in Gallegher’s innocent eyes had not stopped him. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher’s hand was still in that pocket in which Mr. Dwyer had + shoved his notebook filled with what he had written of Gallegher’s + work and Hade’s final capture, and with a running descriptive + account of the fight. With his eyes fixed on Mr. Dwyer, Gallegher drew it + out, and with a quick movement shoved it inside his waistcoat. Mr. Dwyer + gave a nod of comprehension. Then glancing at his two guardsmen, and + finding that they were still interested in the wordy battle of the + correspondents with their chief, and had seen nothing, he stooped and + whispered to Gallegher: “The forms are locked at twenty minutes to + three. If you don’t get there by that time it will be of no use, but + if you’re on time you’ll beat the town–and the country + too.” + </p> + <p> + Gallegher’s eyes flashed significantly, and, nodding his head to + show he understood, started boldly on a run toward the door. But the + officers who guarded it brought him to an abrupt halt, and, much to Mr. + Dwyer’s astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a torrent of + tears. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go to me father. I want me father,” the boy shrieked + hysterically. “They’ve ’rested father. Oh, daddy, daddy. + They’re a-goin’ to take you to prison.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is your father, sonny?” asked one of the guardians of the + gate. + </p> + <p> + “Keppler’s me father,” sobbed Gallegher. “They’re + a-goin’ to lock him up, and I’ll never see him no more.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you will,” said the officer, good-naturedly; “he’s + there in that first patrol-wagon. You can run over and say good night to + him, and then you’d better get to bed. This ain’t no place for + kids of your age.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” sniffed Gallegher, tearfully, as the two + officers raised their clubs, and let him pass out into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + The yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping, and plunging, and + backing the carriages into one another; lights were flashing from every + window of what had been apparently an uninhabited house, and the voices of + the prisoners were still raised in angry expostulation. + </p> + <p> + Three police patrol-wagons were moving about the yard, filled with + unwilling passengers, who sat or stood, packed together like sheep and + with no protection from the sleet and rain. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher stole off into a dark corner, and watched the scene until his + eyesight became familiar with the position of the land. + </p> + <p> + Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on the swinging light of a lantern with + which an officer was searching among the carriages, he groped his way + between horses’ hoofs and behind the wheels of carriages to the cab + which he had himself placed at the furthermost gate. It was still there, + and the horse, as he had left it, with its head turned toward the city. + Gallegher opened the big gate noiselessly, and worked nervously at the + hitching strap. The knot was covered with a thin coating of ice, and it + was several minutes before he could loosen it. But his teeth finally + pulled it apart, and with the reins in his hands he sprang upon the wheel. + And as he stood so, a shock of fear ran down his back like an electric + current, his breath left him, and he stood immovable, gazing with wide + eyes into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + The officer with the lantern had suddenly loomed up from behind a carriage + not fifty feet distant, and was standing perfectly still, with his lantern + held over his head, peering so directly toward Gallegher that the boy felt + that he must see him. Gallegher stood with one foot on the hub of the + wheel and with the other on the box waiting to spring. It seemed a minute + before either of them moved, and then the officer took a step forward, and + demanded sternly, “Who is that? What are you doing there?” + </p> + <p> + There was no time for parley then. Gallegher felt that he had been taken + in the act, and that his only chance lay in open flight. He leaped up on + the box, pulling out the whip as he did so, and with a quick sweep lashed + the horse across the head and back. The animal sprang forward with a + snort, narrowly clearing the gate-post, and plunged off into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” cried the officer. + </p> + <p> + So many of Gallegher’s acquaintances among the ’longshoremen + and mill hands had been challenged in so much the same manner that + Gallegher knew what would probably follow if the challenge was + disregarded. So he slipped from his seat to the footboard below, and + ducked his head. + </p> + <p> + The three reports of a pistol, which rang out briskly from behind him, + proved that his early training had given him a valuable fund of useful + miscellaneous knowledge. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you be scared,” he said, reassuringly, to the + horse; “he’s firing in the air.” + </p> + <p> + The pistol-shots were answered by the impatient clangor of a patrol-wagon’s + gong, and glancing over his shoulder Gallegher saw its red and green + lanterns tossing from side to side and looking in the darkness like the + side-lights of a yacht plunging forward in a storm. + </p> + <p> + “I hadn’t bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons,” + said Gallegher to his animal; “but if they want a race, we’ll + give them a tough tussle for it, won’t we?” + </p> + <p> + Philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up a faint yellow glow + to the sky. It seemed very far away, and Gallegher’s braggadocio + grew cold within him at the loneliness of his adventure and the thought of + the long ride before him. + </p> + <p> + It was still bitterly cold. + </p> + <p> + The rain and sleet beat through his clothes, and struck his skin with a + sharp, chilling touch that set him trembling. + </p> + <p> + Even the thought of the over-weighted patrol-wagon probably sticking in + the mud some safe distance in the rear, failed to cheer him, and the + excitement that had so far made him callous to the cold died out and left + him weaker and nervous. + </p> + <p> + But his horse was chilled with the long standing, and now leaped eagerly + forward, only too willing to warm the half-frozen blood in its veins. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a good beast,” said Gallegher, plaintively. + “You’ve got more nerve than me. Don’t you go back on me + now. Mr. Dwyer says we’ve got to beat the town.” Gallegher had + no idea what time it was as he rode through the night, but he knew he + would be able to find out from a big clock over a manufactory at a point + nearly three-quarters of the distance from Keppler’s to the goal. + </p> + <p> + He was still in the open country and driving recklessly, for he knew the + best part of his ride must be made outside the city limits. + </p> + <p> + He raced between desolate-looking cornfields with bare stalks and patches + of muddy earth rising above the thin covering of snow; truck farms and + brick-yards fell behind him on either side. It was very lonely work, and + once or twice the dogs ran yelping to the gates and barked after him. + </p> + <p> + Part of his way lay parallel with the railroad tracks, and he drove for + some time beside long lines of freight and coal cars as they stood resting + for the night. The fantastic Queen Anne suburban stations were dark and + deserted, but in one or two of the block-towers he could see the operators + writing at their desks, and the sight in some way comforted him. + </p> + <p> + Once he thought of stopping to get out the blanket in which he had wrapped + himself on the first trip, but he feared to spare the time, and drove on + with his teeth chattering and his shoulders shaking with the cold. + </p> + <p> + He welcomed the first solitary row of darkened houses with a faint cheer + of recognition. The scattered lamp-posts lightened his spirits, and even + the badly paved streets rang under the beats of his horse’s feet + like music. Great mills and manufactories, with only a night-watchman’s + light in the lowest of their many stories, began to take the place of the + gloomy farm-houses and gaunt trees that had startled him with their + grotesque shapes. He had been driving nearly an hour, he calculated, and + in that time the rain had changed to a wet snow, that fell heavily and + clung to whatever it touched. He passed block after block of trim work-men’s + houses, as still and silent as the sleepers within them, and at last he + turned the horse’s head into Broad Street, the city’s great + thoroughfare, that stretches from its one end to the other and cuts it + evenly in two. + </p> + <p> + He was driving noiselessly over the snow and slush in the street, with his + thoughts bent only on the clock-face he wished so much to see, when a + hoarse voice challenged him from the sidewalk. “Hey, you, stop + there, hold up!” said the voice. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that the voice came from + under a policeman’s helmet, his only answer was to hit his horse + sharply over the head with his whip and to urge it into a gallop. + </p> + <p> + This, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill whistle from the + policeman. Another whistle answered it from a street-corner one block + ahead of him. “Whoa,” said Gallegher, pulling on the reins. + “There’s one too many of them,” he added, in apologetic + explanation. The horse stopped, and stood, breathing heavily, with great + clouds of steam rising from its flanks. + </p> + <p> + “Why in hell didn’t you stop when I told you to?” + demanded the voice, now close at the cab’s side. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t hear you,” returned Gallegher, sweetly. + “But I heard you whistle, and I heard your partner whistle, and I + thought maybe it was me you wanted to speak to, so I just stopped.” + </p> + <p> + “You heard me well enough. Why aren’t your lights lit?” + demanded the voice. + </p> + <p> + “Should I have ’em lit?” asked Gallegher, bending over + and regarding them with sudden interest. + </p> + <p> + “You know you should, and if you don’t, you’ve no right + to be driving that cab. I don’t believe you’re the regular + driver, anyway. Where’d you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “It ain’t my cab, of course,” said Gallegher, with an + easy laugh. “It’s Luke McGovern’s. He left it outside + Cronin’s while he went in to get a drink, and he took too much, and + me father told me to drive it round to the stable for him. I’m + Cronin’s son. McGovern ain’t in no condition to drive. You can + see yourself how he’s been misusing the horse. He puts it up at + Bachman’s livery stable, and I was just going around there now.” + </p> + <p> + Gallegher’s knowledge of the local celebrities of the district + confused the zealous officer of the peace. He surveyed the boy with a + steady stare that would have distressed a less skilful liar, but Gallegher + only shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if from the cold, and waited with + apparent indifference to what the officer would say next. + </p> + <p> + In reality his heart was beating heavily against his side, and he felt + that if he was kept on a strain much longer he would give way and break + down. A second snow-covered form emerged suddenly from the shadow of the + houses. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Reeder?” it asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing much,” replied the first officer. “This kid + hadn’t any lamps lit, so I called to him to stop and he didn’t + do it, so I whistled to you. It’s all right, though. He’s just + taking it round to Bachman’s. Go ahead,” he added, sulkily. + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” chirped Gallegher. “Good night,” he + added, over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher gave a hysterical little gasp of relief as he trotted away from + the two policemen, and poured bitter maledictions on their heads for two + meddling fools as he went. + </p> + <p> + “They might as well kill a man as scare him to death,” he + said, with an attempt to get back to his customary flippancy. But the + effort was somewhat pitiful, and he felt guiltily conscious that a salt, + warm tear was creeping slowly down his face, and that a lump that would + not keep down was rising in his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Tain’t no fair thing for the whole police force to keep + worrying at a little boy like me,” he said, in shame-faced apology. + “I’m not doing nothing wrong, and I’m half froze to + death, and yet they keep a-nagging at me.” + </p> + <p> + It was so cold that when the boy stamped his feet against the footboard to + keep them warm, sharp pains shot up through his body, and when he beat his + arms about his shoulders, as he had seen real cabmen do, the blood in his + finger-tips tingled so acutely that he cried aloud with the pain. + </p> + <p> + He had often been up that late before, but he had never felt so sleepy. It + was as if some one was pressing a sponge heavy with chloroform near his + face, and he could not fight off the drowsiness that lay hold of him. + </p> + <p> + He saw, dimly hanging above his head, a round disk of light that seemed + like a great moon, and which he finally guessed to be the clock-face for + which he had been on the lookout. He had passed it before he realized + this; but the fact stirred him into wakefulness again, and when his cab’s + wheels slipped around the City Hall corner, he remembered to look up at + the other big clock-face that keeps awake over the railroad station and + measures out the night. + </p> + <p> + He gave a gasp of consternation when he saw that it was half-past two, and + that there was but ten minutes left to him. This, and the many electric + lights and the sight of the familiar pile of buildings, startled him into + a semi-consciousness of where he was and how great was the necessity for + haste. + </p> + <p> + He rose in his seat and called on the horse, and urged it into a reckless + gallop over the slippery asphalt. He considered nothing else but speed, + and looking neither to the left nor right dashed off down Broad Street + into Chestnut, where his course lay straight away to the office, now only + seven blocks distant. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher never knew how it began, but he was suddenly assaulted by shouts + on either side, his horse was thrown back on its haunches, and he found + two men in cabmen’s livery hanging at its head, and patting its + sides, and calling it by name. And the other cabmen who have their stand + at the corner were swarming about the carriage, all of them talking and + swearing at once, and gesticulating wildly with their whips. + </p> + <p> + They said they knew the cab was McGovern’s, and they wanted to know + where he was, and why he wasn’t on it; they wanted to know where + Gallegher had stolen it, and why he had been such a fool as to drive it + into the arms of its owner’s friends; they said that it was about + time that a cab-driver could get off his box to take a drink without + having his cab run away with, and some of them called loudly for a + policeman to take the young thief in charge. + </p> + <p> + Gallagher felt as if he had been suddenly dragged into consciousness out + of a bad dream, and stood for a second like a half-awakened somnambulist. + </p> + <p> + They had stopped the cab under an electric light, and its glare shone + coldly down upon the trampled snow and the faces of the men around him. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the horse with his whip. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go,” he shouted, as he tugged impotently at the reins. + “Let me go, I tell you. I haven’t stole no cab, and you’ve + got no right to stop me. I only want to take it to the <i>Press</i> + office,” he begged. “They’ll send it back to you all + right. They’ll pay you for the trip. I’m not running away with + it. The driver’s got the collar–he’s ’rested–and + I’m only a-going to the <i>Press</i> office. Do you hear me?” + he cried, his voice rising and breaking in a shriek of passion and + disappointment. “I tell you to let go those reins. Let me go, or I’ll + kill you. Do you hear me? I’ll kill you.” And leaning forward, + the boy struck savagely with his long whip at the faces of the men about + the horse’s head. + </p> + <p> + Some one in the crowd reached up and caught him by the ankles, and with a + quick jerk pulled him off the box, and threw him on to the street. But he + was up on his knees in a moment, and caught at the man’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let them stop me, mister,” he cried, “please + let me go. I didn’t steal the cab, sir. S’help me, I didn’t. + I’m telling you the truth. Take me to the <i>Press</i> office, and + they’ll prove it to you. They’ll pay you anything you ask + ’em. It’s only such a little ways now, and I’ve come so + far, sir. Please don’t let them stop me,” he sobbed, clasping + the man about the knees. “For Heaven’s sake, mister, let me + go!” + </p> + <hr class="tb" /> + <p> + The managing editor of the <i>Press</i> took up the india-rubber + speaking-tube at his side, and answered, “Not yet,” to an + inquiry the night editor had already put to him five times within the last + twenty minutes. + </p> + <p> + Then he snapped the metal top of the tube impatiently, and went up-stairs. + As he passed the door of the local room, he noticed that the reporters had + not gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and chairs, waiting. + They looked up inquiringly as he passed, and the city editor asked, + “Any news yet?” and the managing editor shook his head. + </p> + <p> + The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, and their + foreman was talking with the night editor. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said that gentleman, tentatively. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” returned the managing editor, “I don’t + think we can wait; do you?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a half-hour after time now,” said the night + editor, “and we’ll miss the suburban trains if we hold the + paper back any longer. We can’t afford to wait for a purely + hypothetical story. The chances are all against the fight’s having + taken place or this Hade’s having been arrested.” + </p> + <p> + “But if we’re beaten on it–” suggested the chief. + “But I don’t think that is possible. If there were any story + to print, Dwyer would have had it here before now.” + </p> + <p> + The managing editor looked steadily down at the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said, slowly, “we won’t wait any + longer. Go ahead,” he added, turning to the foreman with a sigh of + reluctance. The foreman whirled himself about, and began to give his + orders; but the two editors still looked at each other doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + As they stood so, there came a sudden shout and the sound of people + running to and fro in the reportorial rooms below. There was the tramp of + many footsteps on the stairs, and above the confusion they heard the voice + of the city editor telling some one to “run to Madden’s and + get some brandy, quick.” + </p> + <p> + No one in the composing-room said anything; but those compositors who had + started to go home began slipping off their overcoats, and every one stood + with his eyes fixed on the door. + </p> + <p> + It was kicked open from the outside, and in the doorway stood a cab-driver + and the city editor, supporting between them a pitiful little figure of a + boy, wet and miserable, and with the snow melting on his clothes and + running in little pools to the floor. “Why, it’s Gallegher,” + said the night editor, in a tone of the keenest disappointment. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher shook himself free from his supporters, and took an unsteady + step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly with the buttons of his + waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dwyer, sir,” he began faintly, with his eyes fixed + fearfully on the managing editor, “he got arrested–and I + couldn’t get here no sooner, ’cause they kept a-stopping me, + and they took me cab from under me–but–” he pulled the + notebook from his breast and held it out with its covers damp and limp + from the rain–“but we got Hade, and here’s Mr. Dwyer’s + copy.” + </p> + <p> + And then he asked, with a queer note in his voice, partly of dread and + partly of hope, “Am I in time, sir?” + </p> + <p> + The managing editor took the book, and tossed it to the foreman, who + ripped out its leaves and dealt them out to his men as rapidly as a + gambler deals out cards. + </p> + <p> + Then the managing editor stooped and picked Gallegher up in his arms, and, + sitting down, began to unlace his wet and muddy shoes. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher made a faint effort to resist this degradation of the managerial + dignity; but his protest was a very feeble one, and his head fell back + heavily oh the managing editor’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + To Gallegher the incandescent lights began to whirl about in circles, and + to burn in different colors; the faces of the reporters kneeling before + him and chafing his hands and feet grew dim and unfamiliar, and the roar + and rumble of the great presses in the basement sounded far away, like the + murmur of the sea. + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/i-156.jpg" id="img004" alt="" /> + <p class="center caption"> + “Why, it’s Gallegher,” said the night editor. + </p> + </div> + <!-- figure --> + <p> + And then the place and the circumstances of it came back to him again + sharply and with sudden vividness. + </p> + <p> + Gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, into the managing editor’s + face. “You won’t turn me off for running away, will you?” + he whispered. + </p> + <p> + The managing editor did not answer immediately. His head was bent, and he + was thinking, for some reason or other, of a little boy of his own, at + home in bed. Then he said quietly, “Not this time, Gallegher.” + </p> + <p> + Gallegher’s head sank back comfortably on the older man’s + shoulder, and he smiled comprehensively at the faces of the young men + crowded around him. “You hadn’t ought to,” he said, with + a touch of his old impudence, ’“cause–I beat the town.” + </p> + <hr class="pb" /> + <h2> + <a id="link_4"></a>BLOOD WILL TELL + </h2> + <p> + David Greene was an employee of the Burdett Automatic Punch Company. The + manufacturing plant of the company was at Bridgeport, but in the New York + offices there were working samples of all the punches, from the little + nickel-plated hand punch with which conductors squeezed holes in railroad + tickets, to the big punch that could bite into an iron plate as easily as + into a piece of pie. David’s duty was to explain these different + punches, and accordingly when Burdett Senior or one of the sons turned a + customer over to David he spoke of him as a salesman. But David called + himself a “demonstrator.” For a short time he even succeeded + in persuading the other salesmen to speak of themselves as demonstrators, + but the shipping clerks and bookkeepers laughed them out of it. They could + not laugh David out of it. This was so, partly because he had no sense of + humor, and partly because he had a great-great-grandfather. Among the + salesmen on lower Broadway, to possess a great-great-grandfather is + unusual, even a great-grandfather is a rarity, and either is considered + superfluous. But to David the possession of a great-great-grandfather was + a precious and open delight. He had possessed him only for a short time. + Undoubtedly he always had existed, but it was not until David’s + sister Anne married a doctor in Bordentown, New Jersey, and became + socially ambitious, that David emerged as a Son of Washington. + </p> + <p> + It was sister Anne, anxious to “get in” as a “Daughter” + and wear a distaff pin in her shirt-waist, who discovered the + revolutionary ancestor. She unearthed him, or rather ran him to earth, in + the graveyard of the Presbyterian church at Bordentown. He was no less a + person than General Hiram Greene, and he had fought with Washington at + Trenton and at Princeton. Of this there was no doubt. That, later, on + moving to New York, his descendants became peace-loving salesmen did not + affect his record. To enter a society founded on heredity, the important + thing is first to catch your ancestor, and having made sure of him, David + entered the Society of the Sons of Washington with flying colors. He was + not unlike the man who had been speaking prose for forty years without + knowing it. He was not unlike the other man who woke to find himself + famous. He had gone to bed a timid, near-sighted, underpaid salesman + without a relative in the world, except a married sister in Bordentown, + and he awoke to find he was a direct descendant of “Neck or Nothing” + Greene, a revolutionary hero, a friend of Washington, a man whose portrait + hung in the State House at Trenton. David’s life had lacked color. + The day he carried his certificate of membership to the big jewelry store + uptown and purchased two rosettes, one for each of his two coats, was the + proudest of his life. + </p> + <p> + The other men in the Broadway office took a different view. As Wyckoff, + one of Burdett’s flying squadron of travelling salesmen, said, + “All grandfathers look alike to me, whether they’re great, or + great-great-great. Each one is as dead as the other. I’d rather have + a live cousin who could loan me a five, or slip me a drink. What did your + great-great dad ever do for <i>you</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, for one thing,” said David stiffly, “he fought in + the War of the Revolution. He saved us from the shackles of monarchical + England; he made it possible for me and you to enjoy the liberties of a + free republic.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t try to tell <i>me</i> your grandfather did all that,” + protested Wyckoff, “because I know better. There were a lot of + others helped. I read about it in a book.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not grudging glory to others,” returned David; “I + am only saying I am proud that I am a descendant of a revolutionist.” + </p> + <p> + Wyckoff dived into his inner pocket and produced a leather photograph + frame that folded like a concertina. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to be a descendant,” he said; “I’d + rather be an ancestor. Look at those.” Proudly he exhibited + photographs of Mrs. Wyckoff with the baby and of three other little + Wyckoffs. David looked with envy at the children. + </p> + <p> + “When I’m married,” he stammered, and at the words he + blushed, “I hope to be an ancestor.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re thinking of getting married,” said Wyckoff, + “you’d better hope for a raise in salary.” + </p> + <p> + The other clerks were as unsympathetic as Wyckoff. At first when David + showed them his parchment certificate, and his silver gilt insignia with + on one side a portrait of Washington, and on the other a Continental + soldier, they admitted it was dead swell. They even envied him, not the + grandfather, but the fact that owing to that distinguished relative David + was constantly receiving beautifully engraved invitations to attend the + monthly meetings of the society; to subscribe to a fund to erect monuments + on battle-fields to mark neglected graves; to join in joyous excursions to + the tomb of Washington or of John Paul Jones; to inspect West Point, + Annapolis, and Bunker Hill; to be among those present at the annual + “banquet” at Delmonico’s. In order that when he opened + these letters he might have an audience, he had given the society his + office address. + </p> + <p> + In these communications he was always addressed as “Dear Compatriot,” + and never did the words fail to give him a thrill. They seemed to lift him + out of Burdett’s salesrooms and Broadway, and place him next to + things uncommercial, untainted, high, and noble. He did not quite know + what an aristocrat was, but he believed being a compatriot made him an + aristocrat. When customers were rude, when Mr. John or Mr. Robert was + overbearing, this idea enabled David to rise above their ill-temper, and + he would smile and say to himself: “If they knew the meaning of the + blue rosette in my button-hole, how differently they would treat me! How + easily with a word could I crush them!” + </p> + <p> + But few of the customers recognized the significance of the button. They + thought it meant that David belonged to the Y. M. C. A. or was a + teetotaler. David, with his gentle manners and pale, ascetic face, was + liable to give that impression. + </p> + <p> + When Wyckoff mentioned marriage, the reason David blushed was because, + although no one in the office suspected it, he wished to marry the person + in whom the office took the greatest pride. This was Miss Emily Anthony, + one of Burdett and Sons’ youngest, most efficient, and prettiest + stenographers, and although David did not cut as dashing a figure as did + some of the firm’s travelling men, Miss Anthony had found something + in him so greatly to admire that she had, out of office hours, accepted + his devotion, his theatre tickets, and an engagement ring. Indeed, so far + had matters progressed, that it had been almost decided when in a few + months they would go upon their vacations they also would go upon their + honeymoon. And then a cloud had come between them, and from a quarter from + which David had expected only sunshine. + </p> + <p> + The trouble befell when David discovered he had a great-great-grandfather. + With that fact itself Miss Anthony was almost as pleased as was David + himself, but while he was content to bask in another’s glory, Miss + Anthony saw in his inheritance only an incentive to achieve glory for + himself. + </p> + <p> + From a hard-working salesman she had asked but little, but from a + descendant of a national hero she expected other things. She was a + determined young person, and for David she was an ambitious young person. + She found she was dissatisfied. She found she was disappointed. The + great-great-grandfather had opened up a new horizon–had, in a way, + raised the standard. She was as fond of David as always, but his tales of + past wars and battles, his accounts of present banquets at which he sat + shoulder to shoulder with men of whom even Burdett and Sons spoke with + awe, touched her imagination. + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn’t be content to just wear a button,” she + urged. “If you’re a Son of Washington, you ought to act like + one.” + </p> + <p> + “I know I’m not worthy of you,” David sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean that, and you know I don’t,” Emily + replied indignantly. “It has nothing to do with me! I want you to be + worthy of yourself, of your grandpa Hiram!” + </p> + <p> + “But <i>how</i>?” complained David. “What chance has a + twenty-five dollar a week clerk―” + </p> + <p> + It was a year before the Spanish-American War, while the patriots of Cuba + were fighting the mother country for their independence. + </p> + <p> + “If I were a Son of the Revolution,” said Emily, “I’d + go to Cuba and help free it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk nonsense,” cried David. “If I did that + I’d lose my job, and we’d never be able to marry. Besides, + what’s Cuba done for me? All I know about Cuba is, I once smoked a + Cuban cigar and it made me ill.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Lafayette talk like that?” demanded Emily. “Did he + ask what have the American rebels ever done for me?” + </p> + <p> + “If I were in Lafayette’s class,” sighed David, “I + wouldn’t be selling automatic punches.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s your trouble,” declared Emily. “You lack + self-confidence. You’re too humble, you’ve got fighting blood + and you ought to keep saying to yourself, ‘Blood will tell,’ + and the first thing you know, it <i>will</i> tell! You might begin by + going into politics in your ward. Or, you could join the militia. That + takes only one night a week, and then, if we <i>did</i> go to war with + Spain, you’d get a commission, and come back a captain!” + </p> + <p> + Emily’s eyes were beautiful with delight. But the sight gave David + no pleasure. In genuine distress, he shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Emily,” he said, “you’re going to be awfully + disappointed in me.” + </p> + <p> + Emily’s eyes closed as though they shied at some mental picture. But + when she opened them they were bright, and her smile was kind and eager. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not,” she protested; “only I want a + husband with a career, and one who’ll tell me to keep quiet when I + try to run it for him.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve often wished you would,” said David. + </p> + <p> + “Would what? Run your career for you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, keep quiet. Only it didn’t seem polite to tell you so.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I’d like you better,” said Emily, “if you + weren’t so darned polite.” + </p> + <p> + A week later, early in the spring of 1897, the unexpected happened, and + David was promoted into the flying squadron. He now was a travelling + salesman, with a rise in salary and a commission on orders. It was a step + forward, but as going on the road meant absence from Emily, David was not + elated. Nor did it satisfy Emily. It was not money she wanted. Her + ambition for David could not be silenced with a raise in wages. She did + not say this, but David knew that in him she still found something + lacking, and when they said good-by they both were ill at ease and + completely unhappy. Formerly, each day when Emily in passing David in the + office said good-morning, she used to add the number of the days that + still separated them from the vacation which also was to be their + honeymoon. But, for the last month she had stopped counting the days–at + least she did not count them aloud. + </p> + <p> + David did not ask her why this was so. He did not dare. And, sooner than + learn the truth that she had decided not to marry him, or that she was + even considering not marrying him, he asked no questions, but in ignorance + of her present feelings set forth on his travels. Absence from Emily hurt + just as much as he had feared it would. He missed her, needed her, longed + for her. In numerous letters he told her so. But, owing to the frequency + with which he moved, her letters never caught up with him. It was almost a + relief. He did not care to think of what they might tell him. + </p> + <p> + The route assigned David took him through the South and kept him close to + the Atlantic seaboard. In obtaining orders he was not unsuccessful, and at + the end of the first month received from the firm a telegram of + congratulation. This was of importance chiefly because it might please + Emily. But he knew that in her eyes the great-great-grandson of Hiram + Greene could not rest content with a telegram from Burdett and Sons. A + year before she would have considered it a high honor, a cause for + celebration. Now, he could see her press her pretty lips together and + shake her pretty head. It was not enough. But how could he accomplish + more. He began to hate his great-great-grandfather. He began to wish Hiram + Greene had lived and died a bachelor. + </p> + <p> + And then Dame Fortune took David in hand and toyed with him and spanked + him, and pelted and petted him, until finally she made him her favorite + son. Dame Fortune went about this work in an abrupt and arbitrary manner. + </p> + <p> + On the night of the 1st of March, 1897, two trains were scheduled to leave + the Union Station at Jacksonville at exactly the same minute, and they + left exactly on time. As never before in the history of any Southern + railroad has this miracle occurred, it shows that when Dame Fortune gets + on the job she is omnipotent. She placed David on the train to Miami as + the train he wanted drew out for Tampa, and an hour later, when the + conductor looked at David’s ticket, he pulled the bell-cord and + dumped David over the side into the heart of a pine forest. If he walked + back along the track for one mile, the conductor reassured him, he would + find a flag station where at midnight he could flag a train going north. + In an hour it would deliver him safely in Jacksonville. + </p> + <p> + There was a moon, but for the greater part of the time it was hidden by + fitful, hurrying clouds, and, as David stumbled forward, at one moment he + would see the rails like streaks of silver, and the next would be + encompassed in a complete and bewildering darkness. He made his way from + tie to tie only by feeling with his foot. After an hour he came to a shed. + Whether it was or was not the flag station the conductor had in mind, he + did not know, and he never did know. He was too tired, too hot, and too + disgusted to proceed, and dropping his suit case he sat down under the + open roof of the shed prepared to wait either for the train or daylight. + So far as he could see, on every side of him stretched a swamp, silent, + dismal, interminable. From its black water rose dead trees, naked of bark + and hung with streamers of funereal moss. There was not a sound or sign of + human habitation. The silence was the silence of the ocean at night. David + remembered the berth reserved for him on the train to Tampa and of the + loathing with which he had considered placing himself between its sheets. + But now how gladly would he welcome it! For, in the sleeping-car, + ill-smelling, close and stuffy, he at least would have been surrounded by + fellow-sufferers of his own species. Here his companions were owls, + water-snakes, and sleeping buzzards. + </p> + <p> + “I am alone,” he told himself, “on a railroad + embankment, entirely surrounded by alligators.” + </p> + <p> + And then he found he was not alone. + </p> + <p> + In the darkness, illuminated by a match, not a hundred yards from him + there flashed suddenly the face of a man. Then the match went out and the + face with it. David noted that it had appeared at some height above the + level of the swamp, at an elevation higher even than that of the + embankment. It was as though the man had been sitting on the limb of a + tree. David crossed the tracks and found that on the side of the + embankment opposite the shed there was solid ground and what once had been + a wharf. He advanced over this cautiously, and as he did so the clouds + disappeared, and in the full light of the moon he saw a bayou broadening + into a river, and made fast to the decayed and rotting wharf an + ocean-going tug. It was from her deck that the man, in lighting his pipe, + had shown his face. At the thought of a warm engine-room and the company + of his fellow-creatures, David’s heart leaped with pleasure. He + advanced quickly. And then something in the appearance of the tug, + something mysterious, secretive, threatening, caused him to halt. No + lights showed from her engine-room, cabin, or pilot-house. Her decks were + empty. But, as was evidenced by the black smoke that rose from her funnel, + she was awake and awake to some purpose. David stood uncertainly, + questioning whether to make his presence known or return to the loneliness + of the shed. The question was decided for him. He had not considered that + standing in the moonlight he was a conspicuous figure. The planks of the + wharf creaked and a man came toward him. As one who means to attack, or + who fears attack, he approached warily. He wore high boots, riding + breeches, and a sombrero. He was a little man, but his movements were + alert and active. To David he seemed unnecessarily excited. He thrust + himself close against David. + </p> + <p> + “Who the devil are you?” demanded the man from the tug. + “How’d you get here?” + </p> + <p> + “I walked,” said David. + </p> + <p> + “Walked?” the man snorted incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “I took the wrong train,” explained David pleasantly. “They + put me off about a mile below here. I walked back to this flag station. I’m + going to wait here for the next train north.” + </p> + <p> + The little man laughed mockingly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no you’re not,” he said. “If you walked here, + you can just walk away again!” With a sweep of his arm, he made a + vigorous and peremptory gesture. + </p> + <p> + “You walk!” he commanded. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do just as I please about that,” said David. + </p> + <p> + As though to bring assistance, the little man started hastily toward the + tug. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll find some one who’ll make you walk!” he + called. “You <i>wait</i>, that’s all, you <i>wait</i>!” + </p> + <p> + David decided not to wait. It was possible the wharf was private property + and he had been trespassing. In any case, at the flag station the rights + of all men were equal, and if he were in for a fight he judged it best to + choose his own battleground. He recrossed the tracks and sat down on his + suit case in a dark corner of the shed. Himself hidden in the shadows he + could see in the moonlight the approach of any other person. + </p> + <p> + “They’re river pirates,” said David to himself, “or + smugglers. They’re certainly up to some mischief, or why should they + object to the presence of a perfectly harmless stranger?” + </p> + <p> + Partly with cold, partly with nervousness, David shivered. + </p> + <p> + “I wish that train would come,” he sighed. And instantly, as + though in answer to his wish, from only a short distance down the track he + heard the rumble and creak of approaching cars. In a flash David planned + his course of action. + </p> + <p> + The thought of spending the night in a swamp infested by alligators and + smugglers had become intolerable. He must escape, and he must escape by + the train now approaching. To that end the train must be stopped. His plan + was simple. The train was moving very, very slowly, and though he had no + lantern to wave, in order to bring it to a halt he need only stand on the + track exposed to the glare of the headlight and wave his arms. David + sprang between the rails and gesticulated wildly. But in amazement his + arms fell to his sides. For the train, now only a hundred yards distant + and creeping toward him at a snail’s pace, carried no headlight, and + though in the moonlight David was plainly visible, it blew no whistle, + tolled no bell. Even the passenger coaches in the rear of the sightless + engine were wrapped in darkness. It was a ghost of a train, a Flying + Dutchman of a train, a nightmare of a train. It was as unreal as the black + swamp, as the moss on the dead trees, as the ghostly tug-boat tied to the + rotting wharf. + </p> + <p> + “Is the place haunted!” exclaimed David. + </p> + <p> + He was answered by the grinding of brakes and by the train coming to a + sharp halt. And instantly from every side men fell from it to the ground, + and the silence of the night was broken by a confusion of calls and eager + greeting and questions and sharp words of command. + </p> + <p> + So fascinated was David in the stealthy arrival of the train and in her + mysterious passengers that, until they confronted him, he did not note the + equally stealthy approach of three men. Of these one was the little man + from the tug. With him was a fat, red-faced Irish-American. He wore no + coat and his shirt-sleeves were drawn away from his hands by garters of + pink elastic, his derby hat was balanced behind his ears, upon his right + hand flashed an enormous diamond. He looked as though but at that moment + he had stopped sliding glasses across a Bowery bar. The third man carried + the outward marks of a sailor. David believed he was the tallest man he + had ever beheld, but equally remarkable with his height was his beard and + hair, which were of a fierce brick-dust red. Even in the mild moonlight it + flamed like a torch. + </p> + <p> + “What’s your business?” demanded the man with the + flamboyant hair. + </p> + <p> + “I came here,” began David, “to wait for a train―-” + </p> + <p> + The tall man bellowed with indignant rage. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he shouted; “this is the sort of place any one + would pick out to wait for a train!” + </p> + <p> + In front of David’s nose he shook a fist as large as a catcher’s + glove. “Don’t you lie to <i>me</i>!” he bullied. “Do + you know who I am? Do you know <i>who</i> you’re up against? I’m―” + </p> + <p> + The barkeeper person interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind who you are,” he said. “We know that. Find + out who <i>he</i> is.” + </p> + <p> + David turned appealingly to the barkeeper. + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose I’d come here on purpose?” he protested. + “I’m a travelling man―” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t travel any to-night,” mocked the red-haired + one. “You’ve seen what you came to see, and all you want now + is to get to a Western Union wire. Well, you don’t do it. You don’t + leave here to-night!” + </p> + <p> + As though he thought he had been neglected, the little man in riding-boots + pushed forward importantly. + </p> + <p> + “Tie him to a tree!” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Better take him on board,” said the barkeeper, “and + send him back by the pilot. When we’re once at sea, he can’t + hurt us any.” + </p> + <p> + “What makes you think I want to hurt you?” demanded David. + “Who do you think I am?” + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/i-184.jpg" id="img005" alt="" /> + <p class="center caption"> + In front of David’s nose he shook a fist as large as a catcher’s + glove. + </p> + </div> + <!-- figure --> + <p> + “We know who you are,” shouted the fiery-headed one. “You’re + a blanketty-blank spy! You’re a government spy or a Spanish spy, and + whichever you are you don’t get away to-night!” + </p> + <p> + David had not the faintest idea what the man meant, but he knew his + self-respect was being ill-treated, and his self-respect rebelled. + </p> + <p> + “You have made a very serious mistake,” he said, “and + whether you like it or not, I <i>am</i> leaving here to-night, and <i>you</i> + can go to the devil!” + </p> + <p> + Turning his back David started with great dignity to walk away. It was a + short walk. Something hit him below the ear and he found himself curling + up comfortably on the ties. He had a strong desire to sleep, but was + conscious that a bed on a railroad track, on account of trains wanting to + pass, was unsafe. This doubt did not long disturb him. His head rolled + against the steel rail, his limbs relaxed. From a great distance, and in a + strange sing-song he heard the voice of the barkeeper saying, “Nine–ten–and + <i>out</i>!” + </p> + <p> + When David came to his senses his head was resting on a coil of rope. In + his ears was the steady throb of an engine, and in his eyes the glare of a + lantern. The lantern was held by a pleasant-faced youth in a golf cap who + was smiling sympathetically. David rose on his elbow and gazed wildly + about him. He was in the bow of the ocean-going tug, and he saw that from + where he lay in the bow to her stern her decks were packed with men. She + was steaming swiftly down a broad river. On either side the gray light + that comes before the dawn showed low banks studded with stunted + palmettos. Close ahead David heard the roar of the surf. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry to disturb you,” said the youth in the golf cap, + “but we drop the pilot in a few minutes and you’re going with + him.” + </p> + <p> + David moved his aching head gingerly, and was conscious of a bump as large + as a tennis ball behind his right ear. + </p> + <p> + “What happened to me?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “You were sort of kidnapped, I guess,” laughed the young man. + “It was a raw deal, but they couldn’t take any chances. The + pilot will land you at Okra Point. You can hire a rig there to take you to + the railroad.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” demanded David indignantly. “Why was I + kidnapped? What had I done? Who were those men who―” + </p> + <p> + From the pilot-house there was a sharp jangle of bells to the engine-room, + and the speed of the tug slackened. + </p> + <p> + “Come on,” commanded the young man briskly. “The pilot’s + going ashore. Here’s your grip, here’s your hat. The ladder’s + on the port side. Look where you’re stepping. We can’t show + any lights, and it’s dark as―” + </p> + <p> + But, even as he spoke, like a flash of powder, as swiftly as one throws an + electric switch, as blindingly as a train leaps from the tunnel into the + glaring sun, the darkness vanished and the tug was swept by the fierce, + blatant radiance of a search-light. + </p> + <p> + It was met by shrieks from two hundred throats, by screams, oaths, + prayers, by the sharp jangling of bells, by the blind rush of many men + scurrying like rats for a hole to hide in, by the ringing orders of one + man. Above the tumult this one voice rose like the warning strokes of a + fire-gong, and looking up to the pilot-house from whence the voice came, + David saw the barkeeper still in his shirt-sleeves and with his derby hat + pushed back behind his ears, with one hand clutching the telegraph to the + engine-room, with the other holding the spoke of the wheel. + </p> + <p> + David felt the tug, like a hunter taking a fence, rise in a great leap. + Her bow sank and rose, tossing the water from her in black, oily waves, + the smoke poured from her funnel, from below her engines sobbed and + quivered, and like a hound freed from a leash she raced for the open sea. + But swiftly as she fled, as a thief is held in the circle of a policeman’s + bull’s-eye, the shaft of light followed and exposed her and held her + in its grip. The youth in the golf cap was clutching David by the arm. + With his free hand he pointed down the shaft of light. So great was the + tumult that to be heard he brought his lips close to David’s ear. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the revenue cutter!” he shouted. “She’s + been laying for us for three weeks, and now,” he shrieked + exultingly, “the old man’s going to give her a race for it.” + </p> + <p> + From excitement, from cold, from alarm, David’s nerves were getting + beyond his control. + </p> + <p> + “But how,” he demanded, “how do I get ashore?” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t!” + </p> + <p> + “When he drops the pilot, don’t I―” + </p> + <p> + “How can he drop the pilot?” yelled the youth. “The + pilot’s got to stick by the boat. So have you.” + </p> + <p> + David clutched the young man and swung him so that they stood face to + face. + </p> + <p> + “Stick by what boat?” yelled David. “Who are these men? + Who are you? What boat is this?” + </p> + <p> + In the glare of the search-light David saw the eyes of the youth staring + at him as though he feared he were in the clutch of a madman. Wrenching + himself free, the youth pointed at the pilot-house. Above it on a blue + board in letters of gold-leaf a foot high was the name of the tug. As + David read it his breath left him, a finger of ice passed slowly down his + spine. The name he read was <i>The Three Friends</i>. + </p> + <p> + “<i>The Three Friends!</i>” shrieked David. “She’s + a filibuster! She’s a pirate! Where’re we going?” + </p> + <p> + “To Cuba!” + </p> + <p> + David emitted a howl of anguish, rage, and protest. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” he shrieked. + </p> + <p> + The young man regarded him coldly. + </p> + <p> + “To pick bananas,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t go to Cuba,” shouted David. “I’ve + got to work! I’m paid to sell machinery. I demand to be put ashore. + I’ll lose my job if I’m not put ashore. I’ll sue you! I’ll + have the law―” + </p> + <p> + David found himself suddenly upon his knees. His first thought was that + the ship had struck a rock, and then that she was bumping herself over a + succession of coral reefs. She dipped, dived, reared, and plunged. Like a + hooked fish, she flung herself in the air, quivering from bow to stern. No + longer was David of a mind to sue the filibusters if they did not put him + ashore. If only they had put him ashore, in gratitude he would have + crawled on his knees. What followed was of no interest to David, nor to + many of the filibusters, nor to any of the Cuban patriots. Their groans of + self-pity, their prayers and curses in eloquent Spanish, rose high above + the crash of broken crockery and the pounding of the waves. Even when the + search-light gave way to a brilliant sunlight the circumstance was + unobserved by David. Nor was he concerned in the tidings brought forward + by the youth in the golf cap, who raced the slippery decks and vaulted the + prostrate forms as sure-footedly as a hurdler on a cinder track. To David, + in whom he seemed to think he had found a congenial spirit, he shouted + joyfully, “She’s fired two blanks at us!” he cried; + “now she’s firing cannon-balls!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God,” whispered David; “perhaps she’ll sink + us!” + </p> + <p> + But <i>The Three Friends</i> showed her heels to the revenue cutter, and + so far as David knew hours passed into days and days into weeks. It was + like those nightmares in which in a minute one is whirled through + centuries of fear and torment. Sometimes, regardless of nausea, of his + aching head, of the hard deck, of the waves that splashed and smothered + him, David fell into broken slumber. Sometimes he woke to a dull + consciousness of his position. At such moments he added to his misery by + speculating upon the other misfortunes that might have befallen him on + shore. Emily, he decided, had given him up for lost and married–probably + a navy officer in command of a battle-ship. Burdett and Sons had cast him + off forever. Possibly his disappearance had caused them to suspect him; + even now they might be regarding him as a defaulter, as a fugitive from + justice. His accounts, no doubt, were being carefully overhauled. In + actual time, two days and two nights had passed; to David it seemed many + ages. + </p> + <p> + On the third day he crawled to the stern, where there seemed less motion, + and finding a boat’s cushion threw it in the lee scupper and fell + upon it. From time to time the youth in the golf cap had brought him food + and drink, and he now appeared from the cook’s galley bearing a bowl + of smoking soup. + </p> + <p> + David considered it a doubtful attention. + </p> + <p> + But he said, “You’re very kind. How did a fellow like you come + to mix up with these pirates?” + </p> + <p> + The youth laughed good-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + “They’re not pirates, they’re patriots,” he said, + “and I’m not mixed up with them. My name is Henry Carr and I’m + a guest of Jimmy Doyle, the captain.” + </p> + <p> + “The barkeeper with the derby hat?” said David. + </p> + <p> + “He’s not a barkeeper, he’s a teetotaler,” Carr + corrected, “and he’s the greatest filibuster alive. He knows + these waters as you know Broadway, and he’s the salt of the earth. I + did him a favor once; sort of mouse-helping-the-lion idea. Just through + dumb luck I found out about this expedition. The government agents in New + York found out I’d found out and sent for me to tell. But I didn’t, + and I didn’t write the story either. Doyle heard about that. So, he + asked me to come as his guest, and he’s promised that after he’s + landed the expedition and the arms I can write as much about it as I darn + please.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’re a reporter?” said David. + </p> + <p> + “I’m what we call a cub reporter,” laughed Carr. “You + see, I’ve always dreamed of being a war correspondent. The men in + the office say I dream too much. They’re always guying me about it. + But, haven’t you noticed, it’s the ones who dream who find + their dreams come true. Now this isn’t real war, but it’s a + near war, and when the real thing breaks loose, I can tell the managing + editor I served as a war correspondent in the Cuban-Spanish campaign. And + he may give me a real job!” + </p> + <p> + “And you <i>like</i> this?” groaned David. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t, if I were as sick as you are,” said Carr, + “but I’ve a stomach like a Harlem goat.” He stooped and + lowered his voice. “Now, here are two fake filibusters,” he + whispered. “The men you read about in the newspapers. If a man’s + a <i>real</i> filibuster, nobody knows it!” + </p> + <p> + Coming toward them was the tall man who had knocked David out, and the + little one who had wanted to tie him to a tree. + </p> + <p> + “All they ask,” whispered Carr, “is money and + advertisement. If they knew I was a reporter, they’d eat out of my + hand. The tall man calls himself Lighthouse Harry. He once kept a + lighthouse on the Florida coast, and that’s as near to the sea as he + ever got. The other one is a daredevil calling himself Colonel Beamish. He + says he’s an English officer, and a soldier of fortune, and that he’s + been in eighteen battles. Jimmy says he’s never been near enough to + a battle to see the red-cross flags on the base hospital. But they’ve + fooled these Cubans. The Junta thinks they’re great fighters, and it’s + sent them down here to work the machine guns. But I’m afraid the + only fighting they will do will be in the sporting columns, and not in the + ring.” + </p> + <p> + A half dozen sea-sick Cubans were carrying a heavy, oblong box. They + dropped it not two yards from where David lay, and with a screw-driver + Lighthouse Harry proceeded to open the lid. + </p> + <p> + Carr explained to David that <i>The Three Friends</i> was approaching that + part of the coast of Cuba on which she had arranged to land her + expedition, and that in case she was surprised by one of the Spanish + patrol boats she was preparing to defend herself. + </p> + <p> + “They’ve got an automatic gun in that crate,” said Carr, + “and they’re going to assemble it. You’d better move; + they’ll be tramping all over you.” + </p> + <p> + David shook his head feebly. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t move!” he protested. “I wouldn’t + move if it would free Cuba.” + </p> + <p> + For several hours with very languid interest David watched Lighthouse + Harry and Colonel Beamish screw a heavy tripod to the deck and balance + above it a quick-firing one-pounder. They worked very slowly, and to + David, watching them from the lee scupper, they appeared extremely + unintelligent. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe either of those thugs put an automatic gun + together in his life,” he whispered to Carr. “I never did, + either, but I’ve put hundreds of automatic punches together, and I + bet that gun won’t work.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s wrong with it?” said Carr. + </p> + <p> + Before David could summon sufficient energy to answer, the attention of + all on board was diverted, and by a single word. + </p> + <p> + Whether the word is whispered apologetically by the smoking-room steward + to those deep in bridge, or shrieked from the tops of a sinking ship it + never quite fails of its effect. A sweating stoker from the engine-room + saw it first. + </p> + <p> + “Land!” he hailed. + </p> + <p> + The sea-sick Cubans raised themselves and swung their hats; their voices + rose in a fierce chorus. + </p> + <p> + “Cuba libre!” they yelled. + </p> + <p> + The sun piercing the morning mists had uncovered a coast-line broken with + bays and inlets. Above it towered green hills, the peak of each topped by + a squat block-house; in the valleys and water courses like columns of + marble rose the royal palms. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>must</i> look!” Carr entreated David. “It’s + just as it is in the pictures!” + </p> + <p> + “Then I don’t have to look,” groaned David. + </p> + <p> + <i>The Three Friends</i> was making for a point of land that curved like a + sickle. On the inside of the sickle was Nipe Bay. On the opposite shore of + that broad harbor at the place of rendezvous a little band of Cubans + waited to receive the filibusters. The goal was in sight. The dreadful + voyage was done. Joy and excitement thrilled the ship’s company. + Cuban patriots appeared in uniforms with Cuban flags pinned in the brims + of their straw sombreros. From the hold came boxes of small-arm + ammunition, of Mausers, rifles, machetes, and saddles. To protect the + landing a box of shells was placed in readiness beside the one-pounder. + </p> + <p> + “In two hours, if we have smooth water,” shouted Lighthouse + Harry, “we ought to get all of this on shore. And then, all I ask,” + he cried mightily, “is for some one to kindly show me a Spaniard!” + </p> + <p> + His heart’s desire was instantly granted. He was shown not only one + Spaniard, but several Spaniards. They were on the deck of one of the + fastest gun-boats of the Spanish navy. Not a mile from <i>The Three + Friends</i> she sprang from the cover of a narrow inlet. She did not + signal questions or extend courtesies. For her the name of the ocean-going + tug was sufficient introduction. Throwing ahead of her a solid shell, she + raced in pursuit, and as <i>The Three Friends</i> leaped to full speed + there came from the gun-boat the sharp dry crackle of Mausers. + </p> + <p> + With an explosion of terrifying oaths Lighthouse Harry thrust a shell into + the breech of the quick-firing gun. Without waiting to aim it, he tugged + at the trigger. Nothing happened! He threw open the breech and gazed + impotently at the base of the shell. It was untouched. The ship was + ringing with cries of anger, of hate, with rat-like squeaks of fear. + </p> + <p> + Above the heads of the filibusters a shell screamed and within a hundred + feet splashed into a wave. + </p> + <p> + From his mat in the lee scupper David groaned miserably. He was far + removed from any of the greater emotions. + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use!” he protested. “They can’t do! + It’s not connected!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>What’s</i> not connected?” yelled Carr. He fell upon + David. He half-lifted, half-dragged him to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “If you know what’s wrong with that gun, you fix it! Fix it,” + he shouted, “or I’ll―” + </p> + <p> + David was not concerned with the vengeance Carr threatened. For, on the + instant a miracle had taken place. With the swift insidiousness of + morphine, peace ran through his veins, soothed his racked body, his + jangled nerves. <i>The Three Friends</i> had made the harbor, and was + gliding through water flat as a pond. But David did not know why the + change had come. He knew only that his soul and body were at rest, that + the sun was shining, that he had passed through the valley of the shadow, + and once more was a sane, sound young man. + </p> + <p> + With a savage thrust of the shoulder he sent Lighthouse Harry sprawling + from the gun. With swift, practised fingers he fell upon its mechanism. He + wrenched it apart. He lifted it, reset, readjusted it. + </p> + <p> + Ignorant themselves, those about him saw that he understood, saw that his + work was good. + </p> + <p> + They raised a joyous, defiant cheer. But a shower of bullets drove them to + cover, bullets that ripped the deck, splintered the superstructure, + smashed the glass in the air ports, like angry wasps sang in a continuous + whining chorus. Intent only on the gun, David worked feverishly. He swung + to the breech, locked it, and dragged it open, pulled on the trigger and + found it gave before his forefinger. + </p> + <p> + He shouted with delight. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got it working,” he yelled. + </p> + <p> + He turned to his audience, but his audience had fled. From beneath one of + the life-boats protruded the riding-boots of Colonel Beamish, the tall + form of Lighthouse Harry was doubled behind a water butt. A shell splashed + to port, a shell splashed to starboard. For an instant David stood staring + wide-eyed at the greyhound of a boat that ate up the distance between + them, at the jets of smoke and stabs of flame that sprang from her bow, at + the figures crouched behind her gunwale, firing in volleys. + </p> + <p> + To David it came suddenly, convincingly, that in a dream he had lived it + all before, and something like raw poison stirred in David, something + leaped to his throat and choked him, something rose in his brain and made + him see scarlet. He felt rather than saw young Carr kneeling at the box of + ammunition, and holding a shell toward him. He heard the click as the + breech shut, felt the rubber tire of the brace give against the weight of + his shoulder, down a long shining tube saw the pursuing gun-boat, saw her + again and many times disappear behind a flash of flame. A bullet gashed + his forehead, a bullet passed deftly through his forearm, but he did not + heed them. Confused with the thrashing of the engines, with the roar of + the gun he heard a strange voice shrieking unceasingly: + </p> + <p> + “Cuba libre!” it yelled. “To hell with Spain!” and + he found that the voice was his own. + </p> + <p> + The story lost nothing in the way Carr wrote it. + </p> + <p> + “And the best of it is,” he exclaimed joyfully, “it’s + true!” + </p> + <p> + For a Spanish gun-boat <i>had</i> been crippled and forced to run herself + aground by a tug-boat manned by Cuban patriots, and by a single gun served + by one man, and that man an American. It was the first sea-fight of the + war. Over night a Cuban navy had been born, and into the limelight a cub + reporter had projected a new “hero,” a ready-made, + warranted-not-to-run, popular idol. + </p> + <p> + They were seated in the pilot-house, “Jimmy” Doyle, Carr, and + David, the patriots and their arms had been safely dumped upon the coast + of Cuba, and <i>The</i> <i>Three Friends</i> was gliding swiftly and, + having caught the Florida straits napping, smoothly toward Key West. Carr + had just finished reading aloud his account of the engagement. + </p> + <p> + “You will tell the story just as I have written it,” commanded + the proud author. “Your being South as a travelling salesman was + only a blind. You came to volunteer for this expedition. Before you could + explain your wish you were mistaken for a secret-service man, and hustled + on board. That was just where you wanted to be, and when the moment + arrived you took command of the ship and single-handed won the naval + battle of Nipe Bay.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy Doyle nodded his head approvingly. “You certainly did, Dave,” + protested the great man, “I seen you when you done it!” + </p> + <p> + At Key West Carr filed his story and while the hospital surgeons kept + David there over one steamer, to dress his wounds, his fame and features + spread across the map of the United States. + </p> + <p> + Burdett and Sons basked in reflected glory. Reporters besieged their + office. At the Merchants Down-Town Club the business men of lower Broadway + tendered congratulations. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, it’s a great surprise to us,” Burdett and + Sons would protest and wink heavily. “Of course, when the boy asked + to be sent South we’d no idea he was planning to fight for Cuba! Or + we wouldn’t have let him go, would we?” Then again they would + wink heavily. “I suppose you know,” they would say, “that + he’s a direct descendant of General Hiram Greene, who won the battle + of Trenton. What I say is, ‘Blood will tell!’” And then + in a body every one in the club would move against the bar and exclaim: + “Here’s to Cuba libre!” + </p> + <p> + When the <i>Olivette</i> from Key West reached Tampa Bay every Cuban in + the Tampa cigar factories was at the dock. There were thousands of them + and all of the Junta, in high hats, to read David an address of welcome. + </p> + <p> + And, when they saw him at the top of the gang-plank with his head in a + bandage and his arm in a sling, like a mob of maniacs they howled and + surged toward him. But before they could reach their hero the courteous + Junta forced them back, and cleared a pathway for a young girl. She was + travel-worn and pale, her shirt-waist was disgracefully wrinkled, her best + hat was a wreck. No one on Broadway would have recognized her as Burdett + and Sons’ most immaculate and beautiful stenographer. + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/i-210.jpg" id="img006" alt="" /> + <p class="center caption"> + She dug the shapeless hat into David’s shoulder. + </p> + </div> + <!-- figure --> + <p> + She dug the shapeless hat into David’s shoulder, and clung to him. + “David!” she sobbed, “promise me you’ll never, + never do it again!” + </p> + <hr class="pb" /> + <h2> + <a id="link_5"></a>THE BAR SINISTER + </h2> + <p class="tac tiz fs12 mb20"> + Preface + </p> + <div class="bquote"> + <p class="tiz"> + When this story first appeared, the writer received letters of two + kinds, one asking a question and the other making a statement. The + question was, whether there was any foundation of truth in the story; + the statement challenged him to say that there was. The letters seemed + to show that a large proportion of readers prefer their dose of fiction + with a sweetening of fact. This is written to furnish that condiment, + and to answer the question and the statement. + </p> + <p> + In the dog world, the original of the bull-terrier in the story is known + as Edgewood Cold Steel and to his intimates as “Kid.” His + father was Lord Minto, a thoroughbred bull-terrier, well known in + Canada, but the story of Kid’s life is that his mother was a + black-and-tan named Vic. She was a lady of doubtful pedigree. Among her + offspring by Lord Minto, so I have been often informed by many Canadian + dog-fanciers, breeders, and exhibitors, was the only white puppy, Kid, + in a litter of black-and-tans. He made his first appearance in the show + world in 1900 in Toronto, where, under the judging of Mr. Charles H. + Mason, he was easily first. During that year, when he came to our + kennels, and in the two years following, he carried off many blue + ribbons and cups at nearly every first-class show in the country. The + other dog, “Jimmy Jocks,” who in the book was his friend and + mentor, was in real life his friend and companion, Woodcote Jumbo, or + “Jaggers,” an aristocratic son of a long line of English + champions. He has gone to that place where some day all good dogs must + go. + </p> + <p> + In this autobiography I have tried to describe Kid as he really is, and + this year, when he again strives for blue ribbons, I trust, should the + gentle reader see him at any of the bench-shows, he will give him a + friendly pat and make his acquaintance. He will find his advances met + with a polite and gentle courtesy. + </p> + <p class="tar"> + The Author. + </p> + </div> + <p class="tac tiz fs12 mb20 mt30"> + PART I + </p> + <p class="tiz"> + The Master was walking most unsteady, his legs tripping each other. After + the fifth or sixth round, my legs often go the same way. + </p> + <p> + But even when the Master’s legs bend and twist a bit, you mustn’t + think he can’t reach you. Indeed, that is the time he kicks most + frequent. So I kept behind him in the shadow, or ran in the middle of the + street. He stopped at many public houses with swinging doors, those doors + that are cut so high from the sidewalk that you can look in under them, + and see if the Master is inside. At night, when I peep beneath them, the + man at the counter will see me first and say, “Here’s the Kid, + Jerry, come to take you home. Get a move on you”; and the Master + will stumble out and follow me. It’s lucky for us I’m so + white, for, no matter how dark the night, he can always see me ahead, just + out of reach of his boot. At night the Master certainly does see most + amazing. Sometimes he sees two or four of me, and walks in a circle, so + that I have to take him by the leg of his trousers and lead him into the + right road. One night, when he was very nasty-tempered and I was coaxing + him along, two men passed us, and one of them says, “Look at that + brute!” and the other asks, “Which?” and they both + laugh. The Master he cursed them good and proper. + </p> + <p> + But this night, whenever we stopped at a public house, the Master’s + pals left it and went on with us to the next. They spoke quite civil to + me, and when the Master tried a flying kick, they gives him a shove. + “Do you want us to lose our money?” says the pals. + </p> + <p> + I had had nothing to eat for a day and a night, and just before we set out + the Master gives me a wash under the hydrant. Whenever I am locked up + until all the slop-pans in our alley are empty, and made to take a bath, + and the Master’s pals speak civil and feel my ribs, I know something + is going to happen. And that night, when every time they see a policeman + under a lamp-post, they dodged across the street, and when at the last one + of them picked me up and hid me under his jacket, I began to tremble; for + I knew what it meant. It meant that I was to fight again for the Master. + </p> + <p> + I don’t fight because I like fighting. I fight because if I didn’t + the other dog would find my throat, and the Master would lose his stakes, + and I would be very sorry for him, and ashamed. Dogs can pass me and I can + pass dogs, and I’d never pick a fight with none of them. When I see + two dogs standing on their hind legs in the streets, clawing each other’s + ears, and snapping for each other’s wind-pipes, or howling and + swearing and rolling in the mud, I feel sorry they should act so, and + pretend not to notice. If he’d let me, I’d like to pass the + time of day with every dog I meet. But there’s something about me + that no nice dog can abide. When I trot up to nice dogs, nodding and + grinning, to make friends, they always tell me to be off. “Go to the + devil!” they bark at me. “Get out!” And when I walk away + they shout “Mongrel!” and “Gutter-dog!” and + sometimes, after my back is turned, they rush me. I could kill most of + them with three shakes, breaking the backbone of the little ones and + squeezing the throat of the big ones. But what’s the good? They <i>are</i> + nice dogs; that’s why I try to make up to them: and, though it’s + not for them to say it, I <i>am</i> a street-dog, and if I try to push + into the company of my betters, I suppose it’s their right to teach + me my place. + </p> + <p> + Of course they don’t know I’m the best fighting bull-terrier + of my weight in Montreal. That’s why it wouldn’t be fair for + me to take notice of what they shout. They don’t know that if I once + locked my jaws on them I’d carry away whatever I touched. The night + I fought Kelley’s White Rat, I wouldn’t loosen up until the + Master made a noose in my leash and strangled me; and, as for that Ottawa + dog, if the handlers hadn’t thrown red pepper down my nose I <i>never</i> + would have let go of him. I don’t think the handlers treated me + quite right that time, but maybe they didn’t know the Ottawa dog was + dead. I did. + </p> + <p> + I learned my fighting from my mother when I was very young. We slept in a + lumber-yard on the river-front, and by day hunted for food along the + wharves. When we got it, the other tramp-dogs would try to take it off us, + and then it was wonderful to see mother fly at them and drive them away. + All I know of fighting I learned from mother, watching her picking the + ash-heaps for me when I was too little to fight for myself. No one ever + was so good to me as mother. When it snowed and the ice was in the St. + Lawrence, she used to hunt alone, and bring me back new bones, and she’d + sit and laugh to see me trying to swallow ’em whole. I was just a + puppy then; my teeth was falling out. When I was able to fight we kept the + whole river-range to ourselves. I had the genuine long “punishing” + jaw, so mother said, and there wasn’t a man or a dog that dared + worry us. Those were happy days, those were; and we lived well, share and + share alike, and when we wanted a bit of fun, we chased the fat old + wharf-rats! My, how they would squeal! + </p> + <p> + Then the trouble came. It was no trouble to me. I was too young to care + then. But mother took it so to heart that she grew ailing, and wouldn’t + go abroad with me by day. It was the same old scandal that they’re + always bringing up against me. I was so young then that I didn’t + know. I couldn’t see any difference between mother–and other + mothers. + </p> + <p> + But one day a pack of curs we drove off snarled back some new names at + her, and mother dropped her head and ran, just as though they had whipped + us. After that she wouldn’t go out with me except in the dark, and + one day she went away and never came back, and, though I hunted for her in + every court and alley and back street of Montreal, I never found her. + </p> + <p> + One night, a month after mother ran away, I asked Guardian, the old blind + mastiff, whose Master is the night watchman on our slip, what it all + meant. And he told me. + </p> + <p> + “Every dog in Montreal knows,” he says, “except you; and + every Master knows. So I think it’s time you knew.” + </p> + <p> + Then he tells me that my father, who had treated mother so bad, was a + great and noble gentleman from London. “Your father had twenty-two + registered ancestors, had your father,” old Guardian says, “and + in him was the best bull-terrier blood of England, the most ancientest, + the most royal; the winning ‘blue-ribbon’ blood, that breeds + champions. He had sleepy pink eyes and thin pink lips, and he was as white + all over as his own white teeth, and under his white skin you could see + his muscles, hard and smooth, like the links of a steel chain. When your + father stood still, and tipped his nose in the air, it was just as though + he was saying, ‘Oh, yes, you common dogs and men, you may well + stare. It must be a rare treat for you colonials to see real English + royalty.’ He certainly was pleased with hisself, was your father. He + looked just as proud and haughty as one of them stone dogs in Victoria + Park–them as is cut out of white marble. And you’re like him,” + says the old mastiff–“by that, of course, meaning you’re + white, same as him. That’s the only likeness. But, you see, the + trouble is, Kid–well, you see, Kid, the trouble is–your mother―” + </p> + <p> + “That will do,” I said, for then I understood without his + telling me, and I got up and walked away, holding my head and tail high in + the air. + </p> + <p> + But I was, oh, so miserable, and I wanted to see mother that very minute, + and tell her that I didn’t care. + </p> + <p> + Mother is what I am, a street-dog; there’s no royal blood in mother’s + veins, nor is she like that father of mine, nor–and that’s the + worst–she’s not even like me. For while I, when I’m + washed for a fight, am as white as clean snow, she–and this is our + trouble–she, my mother, is a black-and-tan. + </p> + <p> + When mother hid herself from me, I was twelve months old and able to take + care of myself, and as, after mother left me, the wharves were never the + same, I moved uptown and met the Master. Before he came, lots of other + men-folks had tried to make up to me, and to whistle me home. But they + either tried patting me or coaxing me with a piece of meat; so I didn’t + take to ’em. But one day the Master pulled me out of a street-fight + by the hind legs, and kicked me good. + </p> + <p> + “You want to fight, do you?” says he. “I’ll give + you all the <i>fighting</i> you want!” he says, and he kicks me + again. So I knew he was my Master, and I followed him home. Since that day + I’ve pulled off many fights for him, and they’ve brought dogs + from all over the province to have a go at me; but up to that night none, + under thirty pounds, had ever downed me. + </p> + <p> + But that night, so soon as they carried me into the ring, I saw the dog + was overweight, and that I was no match for him. It was asking too much of + a puppy. The Master should have known I couldn’t do it. Not that I + mean to blame the Master, for when sober, which he sometimes was–though + not, as you might say, his habit–he was most kind to me, and let me + out to find food, if I could get it, and only kicked me when I didn’t + pick him up at night and lead him home. + </p> + <p> + But kicks will stiffen the muscles, and starving a dog so as to get him + ugly-tempered for a fight may make him nasty, but it’s weakening to + his insides, and it causes the legs to wobble. + </p> + <p> + The ring was in a hall back of a public house. There was a red-hot + whitewashed stove in one corner, and the ring in the other. I lay in the + Master’s lap, wrapped in my blanket, and, spite of the stove, + shivering awful; but I always shiver before a fight: I can’t help + gettin’ excited. While the men-folks were a-flashing their money and + taking their last drink at the bar, a little Irish groom in gaiters came + up to me and give me the back of his hand to smell, and scratched me + behind the ears. + </p> + <p> + “You poor little pup,” says he; “you haven’t no + show,” he says. “That brute in the tap-room he’ll eat + your heart out.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what <i>you</i> think,” says the Master, + snarling. “I’ll lay you a quid the Kid chews him up.” + </p> + <p> + The groom he shook his head, but kept looking at me so sorry-like that I + begun to get a bit sad myself. He seemed like he couldn’t bear to + leave off a-patting of me, and he says, speaking low just like he would to + a man-folk, “Well, good luck to you, little pup,” which I + thought so civil of him that I reached up and licked his hand. I don’t + do that to many men. And the Master he knew I didn’t, and took on + dreadful. + </p> + <p> + “What ’ave you got on the back of your hand?” says he, + jumping up. + </p> + <p> + “Soap!” says the groom, quick as a rat. “That’s + more than you’ve got on yours. Do you want to smell of it?” + and he sticks his fist under the Master’s nose. But the pals pushed + in between ’em. + </p> + <p> + “He tried to poison the Kid!” shouts the Master. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, one fight at a time,” says the referee. “Get into + the ring, Jerry. We’re waiting.” So we went into the ring. + </p> + <p> + I never could just remember what did happen in that ring. He give me no + time to spring. He fell on me like a horse. I couldn’t keep my feet + against him, and though, as I saw, he could get his hold when he liked, he + wanted to chew me over a bit first. I was wondering if they’d be + able to pry him off me, when, in the third round, he took his hold; and I + begun to drown, just as I did when I fell into the river off the Red C + slip. He closed deeper and deeper on my throat, and everything went black + and red and bursting; and then, when I were sure I were dead, the handlers + pulled him off, and the Master give me a kick that brought me to. But I + couldn’t move none, or even wink, both eyes being shut with lumps. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a cur!” yells the Master, “a sneaking, + cowardly cur! He lost the fight for me,” says he, “because he’s + a ― ― ― cowardly cur.” And he kicks me again in + the lower ribs, so that I go sliding across the sawdust. “There’s + gratitude fer yer,” yells the Master. “I’ve fed that + dog, and nussed that dog and housed him like a prince; and now he puts his + tail between his legs and sells me out, he does. He’s a coward! I’ve + done with him, I am. I’d sell him for a pipeful of tobacco.” + He picked me up by the tail, and swung me for the men-folks to see. + “Does any gentleman here want to buy a dog,” he says, “to + make into sausage-meat?” he says. “That’s all he’s + good for.” + </p> + <p> + Then I heard the little Irish groom say, “I’ll give you ten + bob for the dog.” + </p> + <p> + And another voice says, “Ah, don’t you do it; the dog’s + same as dead–mebbe he is dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Ten shillings!” says the Master, and his voice sobers a bit; + “make it two pounds and he’s yours.” + </p> + <p> + But the pals rushed in again. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you be a fool, Jerry,” they say. “You’ll + be sorry for this when you’re sober. The Kid’s worth a fiver.” + </p> + <p> + One of my eyes was not so swelled up as the other, and as I hung by my + tail, I opened it, and saw one of the pals take the groom by the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to give ’im five pounds for that dog, mate,” + he says; “that’s no ordinary dog. That dog’s got good + blood in him, that dog has. Why, his father–that very dog’s + father―” + </p> + <p> + I thought he never would go on. He waited like he wanted to be sure the + groom was listening. + </p> + <p> + “That very dog’s father,” says the pal, “is Regent + Royal, son of Champion Regent Monarch, champion bull-terrier of England + for four years.” + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/i-230.jpg" id="img007" alt="" /> + <p class="center caption"> + “He’s a coward, I’ve done with him.” + </p> + </div> + <!-- figure --> + <p> + I was sore, and torn, and chewed most awful, but what the pal said sounded + so fine that I wanted to wag my tail, only couldn’t, owing to my + hanging from it. + </p> + <p> + But the Master calls out: “Yes, his father was Regent Royal; who’s + saying he wasn’t? but the pup’s a cowardly cur, that’s + what his pup is. And why? I’ll tell you why: because his mother was + a black-and-tan street-dog, that’s why!” + </p> + <p> + I don’t see how I got the strength, but, someway, I threw myself out + of the Master’s grip and fell at his feet, and turned over and + fastened all my teeth in his ankle, just across the bone. + </p> + <p> + When I woke, after the pals had kicked me off him, I was in the + smoking-car of a railroad-train, lying in the lap of the little groom, and + he was rubbing my open wounds with a greasy yellow stuff, exquisite to the + smell and most agreeable to lick off. + </p> + <p class="tac tiz fs12 mb20 mt30"> + PART II + </p> + <p class="tiz"> + “Well, what’s your name–Nolan? Well, Nolan, these + references are satisfactory,” said the young gentleman my new Master + called “Mr. Wyndham, sir.” “I’ll take you on as + second man. You can begin to-day.” + </p> + <p> + My new Master shuffled his feet and put his finger to his forehead. + “Thank you, sir,” says he. Then he choked like he had + swallowed a fish-bone. “I have a little dawg, sir,” says he. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t keep him,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” + very short. + </p> + <p> + “’E’s only a puppy, sir,” says my new Master; + “’e wouldn’t go outside the stables, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not that,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.” + “I have a large kennel of very fine dogs; they’re the best of + their breed in America. I don’t allow strange dogs on the premises.” + </p> + <p> + The Master shakes his head, and motions me with his cap, and I crept out + from behind the door. “I’m sorry, sir,” says the Master. + “Then I can’t take the place. I can’t get along without + the dawg, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” looked at me that fierce that I guessed he + was going to whip me, so I turned over on my back and begged with my legs + and tail. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you beat him!” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” very + stern. + </p> + <p> + “No fear!” the Master says, getting very red. “The party + I bought him off taught him that. He never learnt that from me!” He + picked me up in his arms, and to show “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” how + well I loved the Master, I bit his chin and hands. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” turned over the letters the Master had + given him. “Well, these references certainly are very strong,” + he says. “I guess I’ll let the dog stay. Only see you keep him + away from the kennels–or you’ll both go.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” says the Master, grinning like a cat when + she’s safe behind the area railing. + </p> + <p> + “He’s not a bad bull-terrier,” says “Mr. Wyndham, + sir,” feeling my head. “Not that I know much about the + smooth-coated breeds. My dogs are St. Bernards.” He stopped patting + me and held up my nose. “What’s the matter with his ears?” + he says. “They’re chewed to pieces. Is this a fighting dog?” + he asks, quick and rough-like. + </p> + <p> + I could have laughed. If he hadn’t been holding my nose, I certainly + would have had a good grin at him. Me the best under thirty pounds in the + Province of Quebec, and him asking if I was a fighting dog! I ran to the + Master and hung down my head modest-like, waiting for him to tell my list + of battles; but the Master he coughs in his cap most painful. “Fightin’ + dawg, sir!” he cries. “Lor’ bless you, sir, the Kid don’t + know the word. ’E’s just a puppy, sir, same as you see; a pet + dog, so to speak. ’E’s a regular old lady’s lap-dog, the + Kid is.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you keep him away from my St. Bernards,” says “Mr. + Wyndham, sir,” “or they might make a mouthful of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; that they might,” says the Master. But when we gets + outside he slaps his knee and laughs inside hisself, and winks at me most + sociable. + </p> + <p> + The Master’s new home was in the country, in a province they called + Long Island. There was a high stone wall about his home with big iron + gates to it, same as Godfrey’s brewery; and there was a house with + five red roofs; and the stables, where I lived, was cleaner than the + aërated bakery-shop. And then there was the kennels; but they was like + nothing else in this world that ever I see. For the first days I couldn’t + sleep of nights for fear some one would catch me lying in such a + cleaned-up place, and would chase me out of it; and when I did fall to + sleep I’d dream I was back in the old Master’s attic, + shivering under the rusty stove, which never had no coals in it, with the + Master flat on his back on the cold floor, with his clothes on. And I’d + wake up scared and whimpering, and find myself on the new Master’s + cot with his hand on the quilt beside me; and I’d see the glow of + the big stove, and hear the high-quality horses below-stairs stamping in + their straw-lined boxes, and I’d snoop the sweet smell of hay and + harness-soap and go to sleep again. + </p> + <p> + The stables was my jail, so the Master said, but I don’t ask no + better home than that jail. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Kid,” says he, sitting on the top of a bucket upside + down, “you’ve got to understand this. When I whistle it means + you’re not to go out of this ’ere yard. These stables is your + jail. If you leave ’em I’ll have to leave ’em too, and + over the seas, in the County Mayo, an old mother will ’ave to leave + her bit of a cottage. For two pounds I must be sending her every month, or + she’ll have naught to eat, nor no thatch over ’er head. I can’t + lose my place, Kid, so see you don’t lose it for me. You must keep + away from the kennels,” says he; “they’re not for the + likes of you. The kennels are for the quality. I wouldn’t take a + litter of them woolly dogs for one wag of your tail, Kid, but for all that + they are your betters, same as the gentry up in the big house are my + betters. I know my place and keep away from the gentry, and you keep away + from the champions.” + </p> + <p> + So I never goes out of the stables. All day I just lay in the sun on the + stone flags, licking my jaws, and watching the grooms wash down the + carriages, and the only care I had was to see they didn’t get gay + and turn the hose on me. There wasn’t even a single rat to plague + me. Such stables I never did see. + </p> + <p> + “Nolan,” says the head groom, “some day that dog of + yours will give you the slip. You can’t keep a street-dog tied up + all his life. It’s against his natur’.” The head groom + is a nice old gentleman, but he doesn’t know everything. Just as + though I’d been a street-dog because I liked it! As if I’d + rather poke for my vittles in ash-heaps than have ’em handed me in a + wash-basin, and would sooner bite and fight than be polite and sociable. + If I’d had mother there I couldn’t have asked for nothing + more. But I’d think of her snooping in the gutters, or freezing of + nights under the bridges, or, what’s worst of all, running through + the hot streets with her tongue down, so wild and crazy for a drink that + the people would shout “mad dog” at her and stone her. Water’s + so good that I don’t blame the men-folks for locking it up inside + their houses; but when the hot days come, I think they might remember that + those are the dog-days, and leave a little water outside in a trough, like + they do for the horses. Then we wouldn’t go mad, and the policemen + wouldn’t shoot us. I had so much of everything I wanted that it made + me think a lot of the days when I hadn’t nothing, and if I could + have given what I had to mother, as she used to share with me, I’d + have been the happiest dog in the land. Not that I wasn’t happy + then, and most grateful to the Master, too, and if I’d only minded + him, the trouble wouldn’t have come again. + </p> + <p> + But one day the coachman says that the little lady they called Miss + Dorothy had come back from school, and that same morning she runs over to + the stables to pat her ponies, and she sees me. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a nice little, white little dog!” said she. “Whose + little dog are you?” says she. + </p> + <p> + “That’s my dog, miss,” says the Master. “’Is + name is Kid.” And I ran up to her most polite, and licks her + fingers, for I never see so pretty and kind a lady. + </p> + <p> + “You must come with me and call on my new puppies,” says she, + picking me up in her arms and starting off with me. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but please, miss,” cries Nolan, “Mr. Wyndham give + orders that the Kid’s not to go to the kennels.” + </p> + <p> + “That’ll be all right,” says the little lady; “they’re + my kennels too. And the puppies will like to play with him.” + </p> + <p> + You wouldn’t believe me if I was to tell you of the style of them + quality-dogs. If I hadn’t seen it myself I wouldn’t have + believed it neither. The Viceroy of Canada don’t live no better. + There was forty of them, but each one had his own house and a yard–most + exclusive–and a cot and a drinking-basin all to hisself. They had + servants standing round waiting to feed ’em when they was hungry, + and valets to wash ’em; and they had their hair combed and brushed + like the grooms must when they go out on the box. Even the puppies had + overcoats with their names on ’em in blue letters, and the name of + each of those they called champions was painted up fine over his front + door just like it was a public house or a veterinary’s. They were + the biggest St. Bernards I ever did see. I could have walked under them if + they’d have let me. But they were very proud and haughty dogs, and + looked only once at me, and then sniffed in the air. The little lady’s + own dog was an old gentleman bull-dog. He’d come along with us, and + when he notices how taken aback I was with all I see, ’e turned + quite kind and affable and showed me about. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy Jocks,” Miss Dorothy called him, but, owing to his + weight, he walked most dignified and slow, waddling like a duck, as you + might say, and looked much too proud and handsome for such a silly name. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the runway, and that’s the trophy-house,” + says he to me, “and that over there is the hospital, where you have + to go if you get distemper, and the vet gives you beastly medicine.” + </p> + <p> + “And which of these is your ’ouse, sir?” asks I, wishing + to be respectful. But he looked that hurt and haughty. “I don’t + live in the kennels,” says he, most contemptuous. “I am a + house-dog. I sleep in Miss Dorothy’s room. And at lunch I’m + let in with the family, if the visitors don’t mind. They ’most + always do, but they’re too polite to say so. Besides,” says + he, smiling most condescending, “visitors are always afraid of me. + It’s because I’m so ugly,” says he. “I suppose,” + says he, screwing up his wrinkles and speaking very slow and impressive, + “I suppose I’m the ugliest bull-dog in America”; and as + he seemed to be so pleased to think hisself so, I said, “Yes, sir; + you certainly are the ugliest ever I see,” at which he nodded his + head most approving. + </p> + <p> + “But I couldn’t hurt ’em, as you say,” he goes on, + though I hadn’t said nothing like that, being too polite. “I’m + too old,” he says; “I haven’t any teeth. The last time + one of those grizzly bears,” said he, glaring at the big St. + Bernards, “took a hold of me, he nearly was my death,” says + he. I thought his eyes would pop out of his head, he seemed so wrought up + about it. “He rolled me around in the dirt, he did,” says + Jimmy Jocks, “an’ I couldn’t get up. It was low,” + says Jimmy Jocks, making a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth. + “Low, that’s what I call it–bad form, you understand, + young man, not done in my set–and–and low.” He growled + ’way down in his stomach, and puffed hisself out, panting and + blowing like he had been on a run. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a street fighter,” he says, scowling at a St. + Bernard marked “Champion.” “And when my rheumatism is + not troubling me,” he says, “I endeavor to be civil to all + dogs, so long as they are gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said I, for even to me he had been most affable. + </p> + <p> + At this we had come to a little house off by itself, and Jimmy Jocks + invites me in. “This is their trophy-room,” he says, “where + they keep their prizes. Mine,” he says, rather grand-like, “are + on the sideboard.” Not knowing what a sideboard might be, I said, + “Indeed, sir, that must be very gratifying.” But he only + wrinkled up his chops as much as to say, “It is my right.” + </p> + <p> + The trophy-room was as wonderful as any public house I ever see. On the + walls was pictures of nothing but beautiful St. Bernard dogs, and rows and + rows of blue and red and yellow ribbons; and when I asked Jimmy Jocks why + they was so many more of blue than of the others, he laughs and says, + “Because these kennels always win.” And there was many shining + cups on the shelves, which Jimmy Jocks told me were prizes won by the + champions. + </p> + <p> + “Now, sir, might I ask you, sir,” says I, “wot is a + champion?” + </p> + <p> + At that he panted and breathed so hard I thought he would bust hisself. + “My dear young friend!” says he, “wherever have you been + educated? A champion is a–a champion,” he says. “He must + win nine blue ribbons in the ‘open’ class. You follow me–that + is–against all comers. Then he has the title before his name, and + they put his photograph in the sporting papers. You know, of course, that + I am a champion,” says he. “I am Champion Woodstock Wizard + III, and the two other Woodstock Wizards, my father and uncle, were both + champions.” + </p> + <p> + “But I thought your name was Jimmy Jocks,” I said. + </p> + <p> + He laughs right out at that. + </p> + <p> + “That’s my kennel name, not my registered name,” he + says. “Why, certainly you know that every dog has two names. Now, + for instance, what’s your registered name and number?” says + he. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got only one name,” I says. “Just Kid.” + </p> + <p> + Woodstock Wizard puffs at that and wrinkles up his forehead and pops out + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Who are your people?” says he. “Where is your home?” + </p> + <p> + “At the stable, sir,” I said. “My Master is the second + groom.” + </p> + <p> + At that Woodstock Wizard III looks at me for quite a bit without winking, + and stares all around the room over my head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” says he at last, “you’re a very civil + young dog,” says he, “and I blame no one for what he can’t + help,” which I thought most fair and liberal. “And I have + known many bull-terriers that were champions,” says he, “though + as a rule they mostly run with fire-engines and to fighting. For me, I + wouldn’t care to run through the streets after a hose-cart, nor to + fight,” says he; “but each to his taste.” + </p> + <p> + I could not help thinking that if Woodstock Wizard III tried to follow a + fire-engine he would die of apoplexy, and seeing he’d lost his + teeth, it was lucky he had no taste for fighting; but, after his being so + condescending, I didn’t say nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Anyway,” says he, “every smooth-coated dog is better + than any hairy old camel like those St. Bernards, and if ever you’re + hungry down at the stables, young man, come up to the house and I’ll + give you a bone. I can’t eat them myself, but I bury them around the + garden from force of habit and in case a friend should drop in. Ah, I see + my mistress coming,” he says, “and I bid you good day. I + regret,” he says, “that our different social position prevents + our meeting frequent, for you’re a worthy young dog with a proper + respect for your betters, and in this country there’s precious few + of them have that.” Then he waddles off, leaving me alone and very + sad, for he was the first dog in many days that had spoke to me. But since + he showed, seeing that I was a stable-dog, he didn’t want my + company, I waited for him to get well away. It was not a cheerful place to + wait, the trophy-house. The pictures of the champions seemed to scowl at + me, and ask what right such as I had even to admire them, and the blue and + gold ribbons and the silver cups made me very miserable. I had never won + no blue ribbons or silver cups, only stakes for the old Master to spend in + the publics; and I hadn’t won them for being a beautiful + high-quality dog, but just for fighting–which, of course, as + Woodstock Wizard III says, is low. So I started for the stables, with my + head down and my tail between my legs, feeling sorry I had ever left the + Master. But I had more reason to be sorry before I got back to him. + </p> + <p> + The trophy-house was quite a bit from the kennels, and as I left it I see + Miss Dorothy and Woodstock Wizard III walking back toward them, and, also, + that a big St. Bernard, his name was Champion Red Elfberg, had broke his + chain and was running their way. When he reaches old Jimmy Jocks he lets + out a roar like a grain-steamer in a fog, and he makes three leaps for + him. Old Jimmy Jocks was about a fourth his size; but he plants his feet + and curves his back, and his hair goes up around his neck like a collar. + But he never had no show at no time, for the grizzly bear, as Jimmy Jocks + had called him, lights on old Jimmy’s back and tries to break it, + and old Jimmy Jocks snaps his gums and claws the grass, panting and + groaning awful. But he can’t do nothing, and the grizzly bear just + rolls him under him, biting and tearing cruel. The odds was all that + Woodstock Wizard III was going to be killed; I had fought enough to see + that: but not knowing the rules of the game among champions, I didn’t + like to interfere between two gentlemen who might be settling a private + affair, and, as it were, take it as presuming of me. So I stood by, though + I was shaking terrible, and holding myself in like I was on a leash. But + at that Woodstock Wizard III, who was underneath, sees me through the + dust, and calls very faint, “Help, you!” he says. “Take + him in the hind leg,” he says. “He’s murdering me,” + he says. And then the little Miss Dorothy, who was crying, and calling to + the kennel-men, catches at the Red Elfberg’s hind legs to pull him + off, and the brute, keeping his front pats well in Jimmy’s stomach, + turns his big head and snaps at her. So that was all I asked for, thank + you. I went up under him. It was really nothing. He stood so high that I + had only to take off about three feet from him and come in from the side, + and my long “punishing jaw,” as mother was always talking + about, locked on his woolly throat, and my back teeth met. I couldn’t + shake him, but I shook myself, and every time I shook myself there was + thirty pounds of weight tore at his wind-pipes. I couldn’t see + nothing for his long hair, but I heard Jimmy Jocks puffing and blowing on + one side, and munching the brute’s leg with his old gums. Jimmy was + an old sport that day, was Jimmy, or Woodstock Wizard III, as I should + say. When the Red Elfberg was out and down I had to run, or those + kennel-men would have had my life. They chased me right into the stables; + and from under the hay I watched the head groom take down a carriage-whip + and order them to the right about. Luckily Master and the young grooms + were out, or that day there’d have been fighting for everybody. + </p> + <p> + Well, it nearly did for me and the Master. “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” + comes raging to the stables. I’d half killed his best prize-winner, + he says, and had oughter be shot, and he gives the Master his notice. But + Miss Dorothy she follows him, and says it was his Red Elfberg what began + the fight, and that I’d saved Jimmy’s life, and that old Jimmy + Jocks was worth more to her than all the St. Bernards in the Swiss + mountains–wherever they may be. And that I was her champion, anyway. + Then, she cried over me most beautiful, and over Jimmy Jocks, too, who was + that tied up in bandages he couldn’t even waddle. So when he heard + that side of it, “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” told us that if Nolan put + me on a chain we could stay. So it came out all right for everybody but + me. I was glad the Master kept his place, but I’d never worn a chain + before, and it disheartened me. But that was the least of it. For the + quality-dogs couldn’t forgive my whipping their champion, and they + came to the fence between the kennels and the stables, and laughed through + the bars, barking most cruel words at me. I couldn’t understand how + they found it out, but they knew. After the fight Jimmy Jocks was most + condescending to me, and he said the grooms had boasted to the kennel-men + that I was a son of Regent Royal, and that when the kennel-men asked who + was my mother they had had to tell them that too. Perhaps that was the way + of it, but, however, the scandal got out, and every one of the + quality-dogs knew that I was a street-dog and the son of a black-and-tan. + </p> + <p> + “These misalliances will occur,” said Jimmy Jocks, in his + old-fashioned way; “but no well-bred dog,” says he, looking + most scornful at the St. Bernards, who were howling behind the palings, + “would refer to your misfortune before you, certainly not cast it in + your face. I myself remember your father’s father, when he made his + début at the Crystal Palace. He took four blue ribbons and three specials.” + </p> + <p> + But no sooner than Jimmy would leave me the St. Bernards would take to + howling again, insulting mother and insulting me. And when I tore at my + chain, they, seeing they were safe, would howl the more. It was never the + same after that; the laughs and the jeers cut into my heart, and the chain + bore heavy on my spirit. I was so sad that sometimes I wished I was back + in the gutter again, where no one was better than me, and some nights I + wished I was dead. If it hadn’t been for the Master being so kind, + and that it would have looked like I was blaming mother, I would have + twisted my leash and hanged myself. + </p> + <p> + About a month after my fight, the word was passed through the kennels that + the New York Show was coming, and such goings on as followed I never did + see. If each of them had been matched to fight for a thousand pounds and + the gate, they couldn’t have trained more conscientious. But perhaps + that’s just my envy. The kennel-men rubbed ’em and scrubbed + ’em, and trims their hair and curls and combs it, and some dogs they + fatted and some they starved. No one talked of nothing but the Show, and + the chances “our kennels” had against the other kennels, and + if this one of our champions would win over that one, and whether them as + hoped to be champions had better show in the “open” or the + “limit” class, and whether this dog would beat his own dad, or + whether his little puppy sister couldn’t beat the two of ’em. + Even the grooms had their money up, and day or night you heard nothing but + praises of “our” dogs, until I, being so far out of it, couldn’t + have felt meaner if I had been running the streets with a can to my tail. + I knew shows were not for such as me, and so all day I lay stretched at + the end of my chain, pretending I was asleep, and only too glad that they + had something so important to think of that they could leave me alone. + </p> + <p> + But one day, before the Show opened, Miss Dorothy came to the stables with + “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and seeing me chained up and so miserable, + she takes me in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “You poor little tyke!” says she. “It’s cruel to + tie him up so; he’s eating his heart out, Nolan,” she says. + “I don’t know nothing about bull-terriers,” says she, + “but I think Kid’s got good points,” says she, “and + you ought to show him. Jimmy Jocks has three legs on the Rensselaer Cup + now, and I’m going to show him this time, so that he can get the + fourth; and, if you wish, I’ll enter your dog too. How would you + like that, Kid?” says she. “How would you like to see the most + beautiful dogs in the world? Maybe you’d meet a pal or two,” + says she. “It would cheer you up, wouldn’t it, Kid?” + says she. But I was so upset I could only wag my tail most violent. + “He says it would!” says she, though, being that excited, I + hadn’t said nothing. + </p> + <p> + So “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” laughs, and takes out a piece of blue + paper and sits down at the head groom’s table. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the name of the father of your dog, Nolan?” says + he. And Nolan says: “The man I got him off told me he was a son of + Champion Regent Royal, sir. But it don’t seem likely, does it?” + says Nolan. + </p> + <p> + “It does not!” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” + short-like. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you sure, Nolan?” says Miss Dorothy. + </p> + <p> + “No, miss,” says the Master. + </p> + <p> + “Sire unknown,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and + writes it down. + </p> + <p> + “Date of birth?” asks “Mr. Wyndham, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I–I–unknown, sir,” says Nolan. And “Mr. + Wyndham, sir,” writes it down. + </p> + <p> + “Breeder?” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Unknown,” says Nolan, getting very red around the jaws, and I + drops my head and tail. And “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” writes that + down. + </p> + <p> + “Mother’s name?” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “She was a–unknown,” says the Master. And I licks his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Dam unknown,” says “Mr. Wyndham, sir,” and writes + it down. Then he takes the paper and reads out loud: “’Sire + unknown, dam unknown, breeder unknown, date of birth unknown.’ You’d + better call him the ‘Great Unknown,’” says he. “Who’s + paying his entrance fee?” + </p> + <p> + “I am,” says Miss Dorothy. + </p> + <p> + Two weeks after we all got on a train for New York, Jimmy Jocks and me + following Nolan in the smoking-car, and twenty-two of the St. Bernards in + boxes and crates and on chains and leashes. Such a barking and howling I + never did hear; and when they sees me going, too, they laughs fit to kill. + </p> + <p> + “Wot is this–a circus?” says the railroad man. + </p> + <p> + But I had no heart in it. I hated to go. I knew I was no “show” + dog, even though Miss Dorothy and the Master did their best to keep me + from shaming them. For before we set out Miss Dorothy brings a man from + town who scrubbed and rubbed me, and sandpapered my tail, which hurt most + awful, and shaved my ears with the Master’s razor, so you could + ’most see clear through ’em, and sprinkles me over with + pipe-clay, till I shines like a Tommy’s cross-belts. + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word!” says Jimmy Jocks when he first sees me. + “Wot a swell you are! You’re the image of your grand-dad when + he made his début at the Crystal Palace. He took four firsts and three + specials.” But I knew he was only trying to throw heart into me. + They might scrub, and they might rub, and they might pipe-clay, but they + couldn’t pipe-clay the insides of me, and they was black-and-tan. + </p> + <p> + Then we came to a garden, which it was not, but the biggest hall in the + world. Inside there was lines of benches a few miles long, and on them sat + every dog in America. If all the dog snatchers in Montreal had worked + night and day for a year, they couldn’t have caught so many dogs. + And they was all shouting and barking and howling so vicious that my heart + stopped beating. For at first I thought they was all enraged at my + presuming to intrude. But after I got in my place they kept at it just the + same, barking at every dog as he come in: daring him to fight, and + ordering him out, and asking him what breed of dog he thought he was, + anyway. Jimmy Jocks was chained just behind me, and he said he never see + so fine a show. “That’s a hot class you’re in, my lad,” + he says, looking over into my street, where there were thirty bull + terriers. They was all as white as cream, and each so beautiful that if I + could have broke my chain I would have run all the way home and hid myself + under the horse trough. + </p> + <p> + All night long they talked and sang, and passed greetings with old pals, + and the homesick puppies howled dismal. Them that couldn’t sleep + wouldn’t let no others sleep, and all the electric lights burned in + the roof, and in my eyes. I could hear Jimmy Jocks snoring peaceful, but I + could only doze by jerks, and when I dozed I dreamed horrible. All the + dogs in the hall seemed coming at me for daring to intrude, with their + jaws red and open, and their eyes blazing like the lights in the roof. + “You’re a street dog! Get out, you street dog!” they + yells. And as they drives me out, the pipe clay drops off me, and they + laugh and shriek; and when I looks down I see that I have turned into a + black-and-tan. + </p> + <p> + They was most awful dreams, and next morning, when Miss Dorothy comes and + gives me water in a pan, I begs and begs her to take me home; but she can’t + understand. “How well Kid is!” she says. And when I jumps into + the Master’s arms and pulls to break my chain, he says, “If he + knew all as he had against him, miss, he wouldn’t be so gay.” + And from a book they reads out the names of the beautiful high-bred + terriers which I have got to meet. And I can’t make ’em + understand that I only want to run away and hide myself where no one will + see me. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly men comes hurrying down our street and begins to brush the + beautiful bull-terriers; and the Master rubs me with a towel so excited + that his hands trembles awful, and Miss Dorothy tweaks my ears between her + gloves, so that the blood runs to ’em, and they turn pink and stand + up straight and sharp. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then, Nolan,” says she, her voice shaking just like his + fingers, “keep his head up–and never let the judge lose sight + of him.” When I hears that my legs breaks under me, for I knows all + about judges. Twice the old Master goes up before the judge for fighting + me with other dogs, and the judge promises him if he ever does it again he’ll + chain him up in jail. I knew he’d find me out. A judge can’t + be fooled by no pipe-clay. He can see right through you, and he reads your + insides. + </p> + <p> + The judging-ring, which is where the judge holds out, was so like a + fighting-pit that when I come in it, and find six other dogs there, I + springs into position, so that when they lets us go I can defend myself. + But the Master smooths down my hair and whispers, “Hold ’ard, + Kid, hold ’ard. This ain’t a fight,” says he. “Look + your prettiest,” he whispers. “Please, Kid, look your + prettiest”; and he pulls my leash so tight that I can’t touch + my pats to the sawdust, and my nose goes up in the air. There was millions + of people a-watching us from the railings, and three of our kennel-men, + too, making fun of the Master and me, and Miss Dorothy with her chin just + reaching to the rail, and her eyes so big that I thought she was a-going + to cry. It was awful to think that when the judge stood up and exposed me, + all those people, and Miss Dorothy, would be there to see me driven from + the Show. + </p> + <p> + The judge he was a fierce-looking man with specs on his nose, and a red + beard. When I first come in he didn’t see me, owing to my being too + quick for him and dodging behind the Master. But when the Master drags me + round and I pulls at the sawdust to keep back, the judge looks at us + careless-like, and then stops and glares through his specs, and I knew it + was all up with me. + </p> + <p> + “Are there any more?” asks the judge to the gentleman at the + gate, but never taking his specs from me. + </p> + <p> + The man at the gate looks in his book. “Seven in the novice class,” + says he. “They’re all here. You can go ahead,” and he + shuts the gate. + </p> + <p> + The judge he doesn’t hesitate a moment. He just waves his hand + toward the corner of the ring. “Take him away,” he says to the + Master, “over there, and keep him away”; and he turns and + looks most solemn at the six beautiful bull-terriers. I don’t know + how I crawled to that corner. I wanted to scratch under the sawdust and + dig myself a grave. The kennel-men they slapped the rail with their hands + and laughed at the Master like they would fall over. They pointed at me in + the corner, and their sides just shaked. But little Miss Dorothy she + presses her lips tight against the rail, and I see tears rolling from her + eyes. The Master he hangs his head like he had been whipped. I felt most + sorry for him than all. He was so red, and he was letting on not to see + the kennel-men, and blinking his eyes. If the judge had ordered me right + out it wouldn’t have disgraced us so, but it was keeping me there + while he was judging the high-bred dogs that hurt so hard. With all those + people staring, too. And his doing it so quick, without no doubt nor + questions. You can’t fool the judges. They see inside you. + </p> + <p> + But he couldn’t make up his mind about them high-bred dogs. He + scowls at ’em, and he glares at ’em, first with his head on + the one side and then on the other. And he feels of ’em, and orders + ’em to run about. And Nolan leans against the rails, with his head + hung down, and pats me. And Miss Dorothy comes over beside him, but don’t + say nothing, only wipes her eye with her finger. A man on the other side + of the rail he says to the Master, “The judge don’t like your + dog?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” says the Master. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever shown him before?” says the man. + </p> + <p> + “No,” says the Master, “and I’ll never show him + again. He’s my dog,” says the Master, “and he suits me! + And I don’t care what no judges think.” And when he says them + kind words, I licks his hand most grateful. + </p> + <p> + The judge had two of the six dogs on a little platform in the middle of + the ring, and he had chased the four other dogs into the corners, where + they was licking their chops, and letting on they didn’t care, same + as Nolan was. + </p> + <p> + The two dogs on the platform was so beautiful that the judge hisself + couldn’t tell which was the best of ’em, even when he stoops + down and holds their heads together. But at last he gives a sigh, and + brushes the sawdust off his knees, and goes to the table in the ring, + where there was a man keeping score, and heaps and heaps of blue and gold + and red and yellow ribbons. And the judge picks up a bunch of ’em + and walks to the two gentlemen who was holding the beautiful dogs, and he + says to each, “What’s his number?” and he hands each + gentleman a ribbon. And then he turned sharp and comes straight at the + Master. + </p> + <p> + “What’s his number?” says the judge. And Master was so + scared that he couldn’t make no answer. + </p> + <p> + But Miss Dorothy claps her hands and cries out like she was laughing, + “Three twenty-six,” and the judge writes it down and shoves + Master the blue ribbon. + </p> + <p> + I bit the Master, and I jumps and bit Miss Dorothy, and I waggled so hard + that the Master couldn’t hold me. When I get to the gate Miss + Dorothy snatches me up and kisses me between the ears, right before + millions of people, and they both hold me so tight that I didn’t + know which of them was carrying of me. But one thing I knew, for I + listened hard, as it was the judge hisself as said it. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see that puppy I gave first to?” says the judge to + the gentleman at the gate. + </p> + <p> + “I did. He was a bit out of his class,” says the gate + gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “He certainly was!” says the judge, and they both laughed. + </p> + <p> + But I didn’t care. They couldn’t hurt me then, not with Nolan + holding the blue ribbon and Miss Dorothy hugging my ears, and the + kennel-men sneaking away, each looking like he’d been caught with + his nose under the lid of the slop-can. + </p> + <p> + We sat down together, and we all three just talked as fast as we could. + They was so pleased that I couldn’t help feeling proud myself, and I + barked and leaped about so gay that all the bull-terriers in our street + stretched on their chains and howled at me. + </p> + <p> + “Just look at him!” says one of those I had beat. “What’s + he giving hisself airs about?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he’s got one blue ribbon!” says another of + ’em. “Why, when I was a puppy I used to eat ’em, and if + that judge could ever learn to know a toy from a mastiff, I’d have + had this one.” + </p> + <p> + But Jimmy Jocks he leaned over from his bench and says, “Well done, + Kid. Didn’t I tell you so?” What he ’ad told me was that + I might get a “commended,” but I didn’t remind him. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t I tell you,” says Jimmy Jocks, “that I saw + your grandfather make his début at the Crystal–” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, you did, sir,” says I, for I have no love for the + men of my family. + </p> + <p> + A gentleman with a showing-leash around his neck comes up just then and + looks at me very critical. “Nice dog you’ve got, Miss Wyndham,” + says he; “would you care to sell him?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s not my dog,” says Miss Dorothy, holding me tight. + “I wish he were.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s not for sale, sir,” says the Master, and I was <i>that</i> + glad. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s yours, is he?” says the gentleman, looking + hard at Nolan. “Well, I’ll give you a hundred dollars for him,” + says he, careless-like. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir; he’s not for sale,” says Nolan, but his + eyes get very big. The gentleman he walked away; but I watches him, and he + talks to a man in a golf-cap, and by and by the man comes along our + street, looking at all the dogs, and stops in front of me. + </p> + <p> + “This your dog?” says he to Nolan. “Pity he’s so + leggy,” says he. “If he had a good tail, and a longer stop, + and his ears were set higher, he’d be a good dog. As he is, I’ll + give you fifty dollars for him.” + </p> + <p> + But before the Master could speak, Miss Dorothy laughs and says: “You’re + Mr. Polk’s kennel-man, I believe. Well, you tell Mr. Polk from me + that the dog’s not for sale now any more than he was five minutes + ago, and that when he is, he’ll have to bid against me for him.” + </p> + <p> + The man looks foolish at that, but he turns to Nolan quick-like. “I’ll + give you three hundred for him,” he says. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed!” whispers Miss Dorothy, like she was talking to + herself. “That’s it, is it?” And she turns and looks at + me just as though she had never seen me before. Nolan he was a-gaping, + too, with his mouth open. But he holds me tight. + </p> + <p> + “He’s not for sale,” he growls, like he was frightened; + and the man looks black and walks away. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Nolan!” cries Miss Dorothy, “Mr. Polk knows more + about bull-terriers than any amateur in America. What can he mean? Why, + Kid is no more than a puppy! Three hundred dollars for a puppy!” + </p> + <p> + “And he ain’t no thoroughbred, neither!” cries the + Master. “He’s ‘Unknown,’ ain’t he? Kid can’t + help it, of course, but his mother, miss–” + </p> + <p> + I dropped my head. I couldn’t bear he should tell Miss Dorothy. I + couldn’t bear she should know I had stolen my blue ribbon. + </p> + <p> + But the Master never told, for at that a gentleman runs up, calling, + “Three twenty-six, three twenty-six!” And Miss Dorothy says, + “Here he is; what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The Winners’ class,” says the gentleman. “Hurry, + please; the judge is waiting for him.” + </p> + <p> + Nolan tries to get me off the chain on to a showing-leash, but he shakes + so, he only chokes me. “What is it, miss?” he says. “What + is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The Winners’ class,” says Miss Dorothy. “The + judge wants him with the winners of the other classes–to decide + which is the best. It’s only a form,” says she. “He has + the champions against him now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” says the gentleman, as he hurries us to the ring. + “I’m afraid it’s only a form for your dog, but the judge + wants all the winners, puppy class even.” + </p> + <p> + We had got to the gate, and the gentleman there was writing down my + number. + </p> + <p> + “Who won the open?” asks Miss Dorothy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, who would?” laughs the gentleman. “The old + champion, of course. He’s won for three years now. There he is. Isn’t + he wonderful?” says he; and he points to a dog that’s standing + proud and haughty on the platform in the middle of the ring. + </p> + <p> + I never see so beautiful a dog–so fine and clean and noble, so white + like he had rolled hisself in flour, holding his nose up and his eyes + shut, same as though no one was worth looking at. Aside of him we other + dogs, even though we had a blue ribbon apiece, seemed like lumps of mud. + He was a royal gentleman, a king, he was. His master didn’t have to + hold his head with no leash. He held it hisself, standing as still as an + iron dog on a lawn, like he knew all the people was looking at him. And so + they was, and no one around the ring pointed at no other dog but him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a picture!” cried Miss Dorothy. “He’s + like a marble figure by a great artist–one who loved dogs. Who is + he?” says she, looking in her book. “I don’t keep up + with terriers.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know him,” says the gentleman. “He is the + champion of champions, Regent Royal.” + </p> + <p> + The Master’s face went red. + </p> + <p> + “And this is Regent Royal’s son,” cries he, and he pulls + me quick into the ring, and plants me on the platform next my father. + </p> + <p> + I trembled so that I near fell. My legs twisted like a leash. But my + father he never looked at me. He only smiled the same sleepy smile, and he + still kept his eyes half shut, like as no one, no, not even his own son, + was worth his lookin’ at. + </p> + <p> + The judge he didn’t let me stay beside my father, but, one by one, + he placed the other dogs next to him and measured and felt and pulled at + them. And each one he put down, but he never put my father down. And then + he comes over and picks up me and sets me back on the platform, shoulder + to shoulder with the Champion Regent Royal, and goes down on his knees, + and looks into our eyes. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman with my father he laughs, and says to the judge, “Thinking + of keeping us here all day, John?” But the judge he doesn’t + hear him, and goes behind us and runs his hand down my side, and holds + back my ears, and takes my jaws between his fingers. The crowd around the + ring is very deep now, and nobody says nothing. The gentleman at the + score-table, he is leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees and his + eyes very wide, and the gentleman at the gate is whispering quick to Miss + Dorothy, who has turned white. I stood as stiff as stone. I didn’t + even breathe. But out of the corner of my eye I could see my father + licking his pink chops, and yawning just a little, like he was bored. + </p> + <p> + The judge he had stopped looking fierce and was looking solemn. Something + inside him seemed a-troubling him awful. The more he stares at us now, the + more solemn he gets, and when he touches us he does it gentle, like he was + patting us. For a long time he kneels in the sawdust, looking at my father + and at me, and no one around the ring says nothing to nobody. + </p> + <p> + Then the judge takes a breath and touches me sudden. “It’s + his,” he says. But he lays his hand just as quick on my father. + “I’m sorry,” says he. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman holding my father cries: + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me–” + </p> + <p> + And the judge he answers, “I mean the other is the better dog.” + He takes my father’s head between his hands and looks down at him + most sorrowful. “The king is dead,” says he. “Long live + the king! Good-by, Regent,” he says. + </p> + <p> + The crowd around the railings clapped their hands, and some laughed + scornful, and every one talks fast, and I start for the gate, so dizzy + that I can’t see my way. But my father pushes in front of me, + walking very daintily, and smiling sleepy, same as he had just been waked, + with his head high and his eyes shut, looking at nobody. + </p> + <p> + So that is how I “came by my inheritance,” as Miss Dorothy + calls it; and just for that, though I couldn’t feel where I was any + different, the crowd follows me to my bench, and pats me, and coos at me, + like I was a baby in a baby-carriage. And the handlers have to hold + ’em back so that the gentlemen from the papers can make pictures of + me, and Nolan walks me up and down so proud, and the men shake their heads + and says, “He certainly is the true type, he is!” And the + pretty ladies ask Miss Dorothy, who sits beside me letting me lick her + gloves to show the crowd what friends we is, “Aren’t you + afraid he’ll bite you?” And Jimmy Jocks calls to me, “Didn’t + I tell you so? I always knew you were one of us. Blood will out, Kid; + blood will out. I saw your grandfather,” says he, “make his + début at the Crystal Palace. But he was never the dog you are!” + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/i-282.jpg" id="img008" alt="" /> + <p class="center caption"> + For a long time he kneels in the sawdust. + </p> + </div> + <!-- figure --> + <p> + After that, if I could have asked for it, there was nothing I couldn’t + get. You might have thought I was a snow-dog, and they was afeard I’d + melt. If I wet my pats, Nolan gave me a hot bath and chained me to the + stove; if I couldn’t eat my food, being stuffed full by the cook–for + I am a house-dog now, and let in to lunch, whether there is visitors or + not,–Nolan would run to bring the vet. It was all tommy rot, as + Jimmy says, but meant most kind. I couldn’t scratch myself + comfortable, without Nolan giving me nasty drinks, and rubbing me outside + till it burnt awful; and I wasn’t let to eat bones for fear of + spoiling my “beautiful” mouth, what mother used to call my + “punishing jaw”; and my food was cooked special on a + gas-stove; and Miss Dorothy gives me an overcoat, cut very stylish like + the champions’, to wear when we goes out carriage-driving. + </p> + <p> + After the next Show, where I takes three blue ribbons, four silver cups, + two medals, and brings home forty-five dollars for Nolan, they gives me a + “registered” name, same as Jimmy’s. Miss Dorothy wanted + to call me “Regent Heir Apparent”; but I was <i>that</i> glad + when Nolan says, “No; Kid don’t owe nothing to his father, + only to you and hisself. So, if you please, miss, we’ll call him + Wyndham Kid.” And so they did, and you can see it on my overcoat in + blue letters, and painted top of my kennel. It was all too hard to + understand. For days I just sat and wondered if I was really me, and how + it all come about, and why everybody was so kind. But oh, it was so good + they was, for if they hadn’t been I’d never have got the thing + I most wished after. But, because they was kind, and not liking to deny me + nothing, they gave it me, and it was more to me than anything in the + world. + </p> + <p> + It came about one day when we was out driving. We was in the cart they + calls the dog-cart because it’s the one Miss Dorothy keeps to take + Jimmy and me for an airing. Nolan was up behind, and me, in my new + overcoat, was sitting beside Miss Dorothy. I was admiring the view, and + thinking how good it was to have a horse pull you about so that you needn’t + get yourself splashed and have to be washed, when I hears a dog calling + loud for help, and I pricks up my ears and looks over the horse’s + head. And I sees something that makes me tremble down to my toes. In the + road before us three big dogs was chasing a little old lady-dog. She had a + string to her tail, where some boys had tied a can, and she was dirty with + mud and ashes, and torn most awful. She was too far done up to get away, + and too old to help herself, but she was making a fight for her life, + snapping her old gums savage, and dying game. All this I see in a wink, + and then the three dogs pinned her down, and I can’t stand it no + longer, and clears the wheel and lands in the road on my head. It was my + stylish overcoat done that, and I cursed it proper, but I gets my pats + again quick, and makes a rush for the fighting. Behind me I hear Miss + Dorothy cry: “They’ll kill that old dog. Wait, take my whip. + Beat them off her! The Kid can take care of himself”; and I hear + Nolan fall into the road, and the horse come to a stop. The old lady-dog + was down, and the three was eating her vicious; but as I come up, + scattering the pebbles, she hears, and thinking it’s one more of + them, she lifts her head, and my heart breaks open like some one had sunk + his teeth in it. For, under the ashes and the dirt and the blood, I can + see who it is, and I know that my mother has come back to me. + </p> + <p> + I gives a yell that throws them three dogs off their legs. + </p> + <p> + “Mother!” I cries. “I’m the Kid,” I cries. + “I’m coming to you. Mother, I’m coming!” + </p> + <p> + And I shoots over her at the throat of the big dog, and the other two they + sinks their teeth into that stylish overcoat and tears it off me, and that + sets me free, and I lets them have it. I never had so fine a fight as + that! What with mother being there to see, and not having been let to mix + up in no fights since I become a prize-winner, it just naturally did me + good, and it wasn’t three shakes before I had ’em yelping. + Quick as a wink, mother she jumps in to help me, and I just laughed to see + her. It was so like old times. And Nolan he made me laugh, too. He was + like a hen on a bank, shaking the butt of his whip, but not daring to cut + in for fear of hitting me. + </p> + <p> + “Stop it, Kid,” he says, “stop it. Do you want to be all + torn up?” says he. “Think of the Boston Show,” says he. + “Think of Chicago. Think of Danbury. Don’t you never want to + be a champion?” How was I to think of all them places when I had + three dogs to cut up at the same time? But in a minute two of ’em + begs for mercy, and mother and me lets ’em run away. The big one he + ain’t able to run away. Then mother and me we dances and jumps, and + barks and laughs, and bites each other and rolls each other in the road. + There never was two dogs so happy as we. And Nolan he whistles and calls + and begs me to come to him; but I just laugh and play larks with mother. + </p> + <p> + “Now, you come with me,” says I, “to my new home, and + never try to run away again.” And I shows her our house with the + five red roofs, set on the top of the hill. But mother trembles awful, and + says: “They’d never let me in such a place. Does the Viceroy + live there, Kid?” says she. And I laugh at her. “No; I do,” + I says. “And if they won’t let you live there, too, you and me + will go back to the streets together, for we must never be parted no more.” + So we trots up the hill side by side, with Nolan trying to catch me, and + Miss Dorothy laughing at him from the cart. + </p> + <p> + “The Kid’s made friends with the poor old dog,” says + she. “Maybe he knew her long ago when he ran the streets himself. + Put her in here beside me, and see if he doesn’t follow.” + </p> + <p> + So when I hears that I tells mother to go with Nolan and sit in the cart; + but she says no–that she’d soil the pretty lady’s frock; + but I tells her to do as I say, and so Nolan lifts her, trembling still, + into the cart, and I runs alongside, barking joyful. + </p> + <p> + When we drives into the stables I takes mother to my kennel, and tells her + to go inside it and make herself at home. “Oh, but he won’t + let me!” says she. + </p> + <p> + “Who won’t let you?” says I, keeping my eye on Nolan, + and growling a bit nasty, just to show I was meaning to have my way. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Wyndham Kid,” says she, looking up at the name on my + kennel. + </p> + <p> + “But I’m Wyndham Kid!” says I. + </p> + <p> + “You!” cries mother. “You! Is my little Kid the great + Wyndham Kid the dogs all talk about?” And at that, she being very + old, and sick, and nervous, as mothers are, just drops down in the straw + and weeps bitter. + </p> + <p> + Well, there ain’t much more than that to tell. Miss Dorothy she + settled it. + </p> + <p> + “If the Kid wants the poor old thing in the stables,” says + she, “let her stay.” + </p> + <p> + “You see,” says she, “she’s a black-and-tan, and + his mother was a black-and-tan, and maybe that’s what makes Kid feel + so friendly toward her,” says she. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, for me,” says Nolan, “she can have the best + there is. I’d never drive out no dog that asks for a crust nor a + shelter,” he says. “But what will Mr. Wyndham do?” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll do what I say,” says Miss Dorothy, “and if + I say she’s to stay, she will stay, and I say–she’s to + stay!” + </p> + <p> + And so mother and Nolan and me found a home. Mother was scared at first–not + being used to kind people; but she was so gentle and loving that the + grooms got fonder of her than of me, and tried to make me jealous by + patting of her and giving her the pick of the vittles. But that was the + wrong way to hurt my feelings. That’s all, I think. Mother is so + happy here that I tell her we ought to call it the Happy Hunting Grounds, + because no one hunts you, and there is nothing to hunt; it just all comes + to you. And so we live in peace, mother sleeping all day in the sun, or + behind the stove in the head groom’s office, being fed twice a day + regular by Nolan, and all the day by the other grooms most irregular. And + as for me, I go hurrying around the country to the bench-shows, winning + money and cups for Nolan, and taking the blue ribbons away from father. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boy Scout and Other Stories for +Boys, by Richard Harding Davis + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY SCOUT AND OTHER STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 30953-h.htm or 30953-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/9/5/30953/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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