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diff --git a/old/51981-0.txt b/old/51981-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b005058..0000000 --- a/old/51981-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10090 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sandburrs and Other, by Alfred Henry Lewis - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Sandburrs and Others - -Author: Alfred Henry Lewis - -Illustrator: Horace Taylor and George B. Luks - -Release Date: May 3, 2016 [EBook #51981] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SANDBURRS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -SANDBURRS - -By Alfred Henry Lewis - -Author of “Wolfville,” etc. - -Illustrated by Horace Taylor and George B. Luks - -Second Edition - -New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company - -1898 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0008] - -[Illustration: 0009] - -TO - -JAMES ROBERT KEENE - - - - -PREFACE - -A SANDBURR is a foolish, small vegetable, irritating and grievously -useless. Therefore this volume of sketches is named Sandburrs. Some folk -there be who apologize for the birth of a book. There's scant propriety -of it. A book is but a legless, dormant creature. The public has but to -let it alone to be safe. And a book, withal! is its own punishment. Is -it a bad book? the author loses. Is it very bad? the publisher loses. -In any case the public is preserved. For all of which there will be no -apology for SAND-BURRS. Nor will I tell what I think of it. No; this -volume may make its own running, without the handicap of my apology, or -the hamstringing of my criticism. There should be more than one to -do the latter with the least of luck. The Bowery dialect--if it be -a dialect--employed in sundry of these sketches is not an exalted -literature. The stories told are true, however; so much may they have -defence. - -A. H. L. - -New York, Nov. 15, 1899. - - - - -SANDBURRS - - - - -SPOT AND PINCHER. - -Martin is the barkeeper of an East Side hotel--not a good hotel at -all--and flourishes as a sporting person of much emphasis. Martin, in -passing, is at the head of the dog-fighting brotherhood. I often talk -with Martin and love him very much. - -Last week I visited Martin's bar. There was “nothin' doin',” to quote -from Martin. We talked of fighting men, a subject near to Martin, he -having fought three prize-fights himself. Martin boasted himself as -still being “an even break wit' any rough-and-tumble scrapper in d' -bunch.” - -“Come here,” said Martin, in course of converse; “come here; I'll show -you a bute.” - -Martin opened a door to the room back of the bar. As we entered a -pink-white bull terrier, with black spots about the eyes, raced across -to fawn on Martin. The terrier's black toe-nails, bright and hard as -agate, made a vast clatter on the ash floor. - -“This is Spot,” said Martin. “Weighs thirty-three pounds, and he's a -hully terror! I'm goin' to fight him to-night for five hundred dollars.” - -I stooped to express with a pat on his smooth white head my approbation -of Spot. - -“Pick him up, and heft him,” said Martin. “He won't nip you,” 'he -continued, as I hesitated; “bulls is; d' most manful dogs there bees. -Bulls won't bite nobody.” - -Thereupon I picked up Spot “to heft him.” Spot smiled widely, wagged -his stumpy tail, tried to lick my face, and felt like a bundle of live -steel. - -“Spot's goin' to fight McDermott's Pincher,” said Martin. “And,” - addressing this to Spot, “you want to watch out, old boy! Pincher is -as hard as a hod of brick. And you want to look out for your Trilbys; -Pincher'll fight for your feet and legs. He's d' limit, Spot, Pincher -is! and you must tend to business when you're in d' pit wit' Pincher, or -he'll do you. Then McDermott would win me money, an' you an' me, Spot, -would look like a couple of suckers.” - -Spot listened with a pleased air, as if drinking in every word, and -wagged his stump reassuringly. He would remember Pincher's genius for -crunching feet and legs, and see to it fully in a general way that -Pincher did not “do” him. - -“Spot knows he's goin' to fight to-night as well as you and me,” said -Martin, as we returned to the bar. “Be d' way! don't you want to go?” - -* * * * * - -It was nine o'clock that evening. The pit, sixteen feet square, with -board walls three feet high, was built in the centre of an empty loft on -Bleecker street. Directly over the pit was a bunch of electric lights. -All about, raised six inches one above the other, were a dozen rows of -board seats like a circus. These were crowded with perhaps two hundred -sports. They sat close, and in the vague, smoky atmosphere, their faces, -row on row, tier above tier, put me in mind of potatoes in a bin. - -Fincher was a bull terrier, the counterpart of Spot, save for the -markings about the face which gave Spot his name. Pincher seemed very -sanguine and full of eager hope; and as he and Spot, held in the arms of -their handlers, lolled at each other across the pit, it was plain they -languished to begin. Neither, however, made yelp or cry or bark. Bull -terriers of true worth on the battle-field were, I learned, a tacit, -wordless brood, making no sound. - -Martin “handled” Spot and McDermott did kindly office for Pincher in -the same behalf. Martin and McDermott “tasted” Spot and Pincher -respectively; smelled and mouthed them for snuffs and poisons. Spot and -Pincher submitted to these examinations in a gentlemanly way, but were -glad when they ended. - -At the word of the referee, Spot and Pincher were loosed, each in his -corner. They went straight at each other's throats. They met in the -exact centre of the pit like two milk-white thunderbolts, and the battle -began. - -Spot and Pincher moiled and toiled bloodily for forty-five minutes -without halt or pause or space to breathe. Their handlers, who were -confined to their corners by quarter circles drawn in chalk so as to hem -them in, leaned forward toward the fray and breathed encouragement. - -What struck me as wonderful, withal, was a lack of angry ferocity on -the parts of Spot and Pincher. There was naught of growl, naught of -rage-born cry or comment. They simply blazed with a zeal for blood; -burned with a blind death-ardour. - -When Spot and Pincher began, all was so flash-like in their motions, I -could hardly tell what went on. They were in and out, down and up, -over and under, writhing like two serpents. Now and then a pair of jaws -clicked like castanets as they came together with a trap-like snap, -missing their hold. Now and then one or the other would get a half-grip -that would tear out. Then the blood flowed, painting both Spot and -Pincher crimson. - -As time went on my eyes began to follow better, and I noted some amazing -matters. It was plain, for one thing, that both Spot and Pincher were as -wise and expert as two boxers. They fought intelligently, and each had -a system. As Martin had said, Pincher fought “under,” in never-ending -efforts to seize Spot's feet and legs. Spot was perfectly aware of this, -and never failed to keep his fore legs well back and beneath him, out of -Pinchers reach. - -Spot, on his part, set his whole effort to the enterprise of getting -Pincher by the throat. A dog without breath means a dead dog, and Spot -knew this. Pincher appeared clear on the point, too; and would hold his -chin close to his breast, and shrug his head and shoulders well together -whenever Spot tried to work for a throat hold. - -Now and then Spot and Pincher stood up to each other like wrestlers, and -fenced with their muzzles for “holds” as might two Frenchmen with foils. -In the wrestling Spot proved himself a perfect Whistler, and never -failed to throw Pincher heavily. And, as I stated, from the beginning, -the two warriors battled on without cry. Silent, sedulous, indomitable; -both were the sublimation of courage and fell purpose. They were -fighting to the death; they knew it, joyed in it, and gave themselves to -their destiny without reserve. Each was eager only to kill, willing only -to die. It was a lesson to men. And, as I looked, I realised that both -were two of the happiest of created things. In the very heat of the -encounter, with throbbing hearts and heaving sides, and rending fangs -and flowing blood, they found a great content. - -All at once Spot and Pincher stood motionless. Their eyes were like -coals, and their respective stump tails stood stiffly, as indicating no -abatement of heart or courage. What was it that brought the halt? Spot -had set his long fangs through the side of Pinchers head in such fashion -that Pincher couldn't reach him nor retaliate with his teeth. Pincher, -discovering this, ceased to try, and stood there unconquered, resting -and awaiting developments. Spot, after the manner of his breed, kept his -grip like Death. They stood silent, motionless, while the blood dripped -from their gashes; a grim picture! They had fought, as I learned later, -to what is known in the great sport of dog fighting as “a turn.” - -“It's a turn!” decided the referee. - -At this Martin and McDermot seized each his dog and parted them -scientifically. Spot and Pincher were carried to their corners and -refreshed and sponged with cold water. At the end of one minute the -referee called: - -“Time!” - -At this point I further added to my learning touching the kingly pastime -of dog-fighting. When two dogs have “fought to a turn,” that is, locked -themselves in a grip, not deadly to either if persisted in, and which -still prevents further fighting,--as in the case of Spot and Pincher,--a -responsibility rests with the call of “Time” on the dog that “turns.” In -this instance, Pincher. At the call of “Time” Spot would be held by his -handler, standing in plain view of Pincher, but in his corner. It was -incumbent on Pincher--as a proof of good faith--to cross the pit to -get at him. If Pincher failed when released on call of “Time” to come -straight across to Spot, and come at once; if he looked to right or left -or hesitated even for the splinter of a second, he was a beaten dog. The -battle was against him. - -“Time!” called the referee. - -Just prior to the call I heard Martin whisper huskily over his shoulder -to a rough customer who sat just back of and above him, at Spot's corner -of the pit: - -“Stand by wit' that glim now!” Martin muttered without turning his head. - -At the call “Time!” McDermot released Pincher across in his corner. -Pincher's eyes were riveted on Spot, just over the way, and there's no -doubt of Pincher's full purpose to close with him at once. There was no -more of hesitation in his stout heart than in Spot's, who stood mouth -open and fire-eyed, waiting. - -But a strange interference occurred. At the word “Time!” the rough -customer chronicled slipped the slide of a dark lantern and threw the -small glare of it squarely in Pincher's eyes. It dazed Pincher; he lost -sight of Spot; forgot for a moment his great purpose. There stood poor -Pincher, irresolute, not knowing where to find his enemy; thrall to the -glare of the dark lantern. - -“Spot win!” declared the referee. - -At that moment the dark-lantern rough-customer closed the slide and -disappeared. - -Few saw the trick or its effects. Certainly the referee was guiltless. -But McDermot, who had had the same view of the dark lantern Pincher had, -and on whom for a moment it had similar effect, raised a great clamour. -But it was too late; Martin had claimed the thousand dollars from -the stake-holder, and with it in his pocket was already in a carriage -driving away, with Spot wrapped up in a lap robe occupying the front -seat. - -“Let McDermot holler!” said Martin, with much heat, when I mentioned -the subject the next day. “Am I goin' to lose a fight and five hundred -dollars, just because some bloke brings a dark lantern to d' pit and -takes to monkeyin' wit' it? Not on your life!” - - - - -MULBERRY MARY - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -Chucky d' Turk” was the _nom de guerre_ of my friend. Under this title -he fought the battles of life. If he had another name he never made me -his confidant concerning it. We had many talks, Chucky and I; generally -in a dingy little bar on Baxter Street, where, when I wearied of uptown -sights and smells, I was wont to meet with Chucky. Never did Chucky call -on me nor seek me. From first to last he failed not to conduct himself -towards me with an air of tolerant patronage. When together I did the -buying and the listening, and Chucky did the drinking and the talking. -It was on such occasion when Chucky told me the story of Mulberry Mary. - -“Mary was born in Kelly's Alley,” remarked Chucky, examining in a -thoughtful way his mug of mixed ale; “Mary was born in Kelly's Alley, -an' say! she wasn't no squealer, I don't t'ink. - -“When Mary grows up an' can chase about an' chin, she toins out a dead -good kid an' goes to d' Sisters' School. At this time I don't spot Mary -in p'ticler; she's nothin' but a sawed-off kid, an' I'm busy wit' me -graft. - -“D' foist I really knows of Mary is when she gets married. She hooks up -wit' Billy, d' moll-buzzard; an' say! he's bad. - -“He gets his lamps on Mary at Connorses spiel, Billy does; an' he's -stuck on her in a hully secont. It's no wonder; Mary's a peach. She's d' -belle of d' Bend, make no doubt. - -“Billy's graft is hangin' round d' Bowery bars, layin' for suckers. An' -he used to get in his hooks deep an' clever now an' then, an' most times -Billy could, if it's a case of crowd, flash quite a bit of dough. - -“So when Billy sees Mary at Connorses spiel, like I says, she's such a -bute he loses his nut. You needn't give it d' laugh! Say! I sees d' map -of a skirt--a goil, I means--on a drop curtain at a swell t'eatre onct, -an' it says under it she's Cleopatra. D' mark nex' me says, when I taps -for a tip, this Cleopatra's from Egypt, an' makes a hit in d' coochee -coochee line, wit' d' high push of d' old times, see! An' says this -gezeybo for a finish: 'This Cleopatra was a wonder for looks. She was d' -high-roller tart of her time, an' d' beauti-fulest.' - -“Now, all I got to say is,” continued Chucky, regarding me with a -challenging air of decision the while; “all I has to utter is, Mary -could make this Cleopatra look like seven cents! - -“Well,” resumed Chucky, as I made no comment, “Billy chases up to Mary -an' goes in to give her d' jolly of her life. An', say! she's pleased -all right, all right; I can see it be her mug. - -“An' Billy goes d' limit. He orders d' beers; an' when he pays, Billy -springs his wad on Mary an' counts d' bills off slow, Linkin' it'll -razzle-dazzle her. Then Billy tells Mary he's out to be her steady. - -“'I've got money to boin,' says Billy, 'an' what you wants you gets, -see!' An' Billy pulls d' long green ag'in to show Mary he's dead strong, -an 'd' money aint no dream. - -“But Mary says 'Nit! couple of times nit!' She says she's on d' level, -an' no steady goes wit' her. It's either march or marry wit' Mary. An' -so she lays it down. - -“That's how it stands, when d' nex' news we hears Billy an' she don't do -a t'ing but chase off to a w'ite-choker; followin' which dey grabs off a -garret in d' Astorbilt tenement, an' goes to keepin' house. - -“But Mary breaks in on Billy's graft. She says he's got to go to woik; -he'll get lagged if he don't; an' she won't stand for no husband who -spends half d' time wit' her an 'd' rest on d' Island. So he cuts -loose from d' fly mob an' leaves d' suckers alone, an' hires out for a -tinsmith, see! - -“An' here's d' luck Billy has. It's d' secont day an' he's fittin' in -d' tin flashin' round a chimbley on a five-story roof; an' mebby it's -because he aint used to woik, or mebby he gets funny in his cupolo, -bein' up so high; anyhow he dives down to d' pavement, an' when he -lands, you bet your life! Billy's d' deadest t'ing that ever happened. - -“Mary goes wild an' wrong after that. In half of no time Mary takes to -chasin' up to Mott Street an' hittin' d' pipe. There's a Chink up -there who can cook d' hop out o' sight, an' it aint long before Mary -is hangin' 'round his joint for good. It's then dey quits callin' her -Mulberry Mary, an' she goes be d' name of Mollie d' Dope. - -“Mary don't last in d' Chink swim more'n a year before there's bats in -her belfry for fair; any old stiff wit' lamps could see it; an' so folks -gets leary of Mary. - -[Illustration: 0027] - -“It runs on mebby two years after Billy does that stunt from d' roof, -see! when there's a fire an' all d' kids run an' screeched, an' all d' -folks hollered, an' all d' engines comes an' lams loose to put it out. -D' fire's in a tenement, an 'd' folks who was in it has skipped, so it's -just d' joint itself is boinin'. - -“All at onct a kid looks out d' fort' story window wit 'd' fire shinin' -behint him. You can see be d' little mark's mug he's got an awful scare -t'run into him, t'inkin' he's out to boin in d' buildin*. - -“'It's McManuses' Chamsey!' says one old Tommy, lettin' her hair down -her back an' givin' a yell, 'Somebody save McManuses' Chamsey!' - -“'Let me save him!' says Mary, at d' same time laughin' wild. 'Let me -save him; I want to save him! I'm only Mollie d' Dope--Mollie d' hop -fiend--an' if I gets it in d' neck it don't count, see!' - -“Mary goes up in d' smoke an 'd' fire, no one knows how, wit' d' water -pourin' from d' hose, an 'd' boards an' glass a-fallin' an' a-crashin', -an' she brings out McManuses' Chamsey, Saves him; on d' dead! she does; -an' boins all d' hair off her cocoa doin' it. - -“Well, of course d' fire push stan's in an' gives Mary all sorts of guff -an' praise. Mary only laughs an' says, while d' amb'lance guy is doin' -up her head, that folks ain't onto her racket; that she d' soonest frail -that ever walks in d' Bend.” - -At this juncture Chucky desired another mixed ale. He got it, and after -a long, damp pause he resumed his thread. - -“Now what do youse t'ink of this for a finish? It's weeks ago d' fire -is. Mary meets up wit' McManuses' Chamsey to-day--she's been followin' -him a good deal since she saves him--an' as Chamsey is only six years -old, he don't know nothin', an' falls to Mary's lead. It's an easy case -of bunk, an' Chamsey only six years old like that! - -“Mary gives Chamsey d' gay face an' wins him right off. She buys him -posies of one Dago an' sugar candy of another; an' then she passes -Chamsey a strong tip, he's missin' d' sights be not goin' down to d' -East River. - -“Here's what Mary does--she takes Chamsey down be d' docks--a -longshoreman loafin' hears what she says. Mary tells Chamsey to look at -all d' chimbleys an 'd' smoke comin' out! - -“'An' in every one there's fire makin 'd' smoke,' says Mary. 'T'ink of -all d' fires there must be, Chamsey! I'll bet Hell ain't got any more -fires in it than d' woild! Do youse remember, Chamsey, how d' fire was -goin' to boin you? Now, I'll tell you what we'll do, so d' fire never -will boin us; we'll jump in,--you an' me!' - -“An' wit' that, so d' longshoreman says, Mary nails Chamsey be d' neck -wit' her left hook an' hops into d' drink. Yes, dey was drowned--d' -brace of 'em. Dey's over to d' dead house now on a slab--Mary an' -McManuses' Chamsey. - -“What makes me so wet? I gets to d' dock a minute too late to save 'em, -but I'm right in time to dive up d' stiffs. So I dives 'em up. It's easy -money. That's what makes me cuffs look like ruffles an' me collar like a -corset string.” And here Chucky called for a third mixed ale, as a sign -that his talk was done. - - - - -SINGLETREE JENNINGS - - -It was evening in Jordan Hollow, and Singletree Jennings stood leaning -on his street gate. Singletree Jennings was a coloured man, and, to -win his bread, played many parts in life. He was a whitewasher; he sold -fish; he made gardens; and during the social season he was frequently -the “old family butler,” in white cotton gloves, at the receptions of -divers families. - -“I'm a pore man, honey!” Singletree Jennings was wont to say; “but dar -was a time when me an' my ole Delia was wuf $1,800. Kase why? Kase we -brought it at auction, when Marse Roundtree died--didn't we, Delia?” - -This was one of Singletree Jennings's jokes. - -“But pore man or no!” Singletree Jennings would conclude, “as de -Lamb looks down an' sees me, I never wronged a man outen so much as a -blue-laiged chicken in my life.” - -This evening Singletree Jennings was a prey to dejection. Nor could he -account for his gloom. His son opened the gate and went whistling up the -street. - -“Clambake Jennings, whar yo' gwine?” asked Singletree Jennings. - -“Gwine ter shoot craps.” - -“Have yo' got yer rabbit's foot? - -“Yassir.” - -“An' de snake's head outen de clock?” - -“Yassir.” - -Singletree Jennings relapsed into moody silence, and Clambake passed on -and away. - -The shouts and cries of some storm-rocked multitude was heard up the -street. The Columbia College boys were taking home their new eight-oared -boat. The shouts settled into something like the barking of a dog. It -was the crew emitting the college cry. - -“What's dat?” demanded Delia Jennings, coming to the door. - -“De Lawd save us ef I knows!” said Singletree Jennings; “onless it's one -of dem yar bond issues dey's so 'fraid'll happen.” - -The tones of Singletree Jennings showed that he was ill at ease. - -“What's de matter, Daddy Singletree?” demanded the observant Delia. - -“I've got a present'ment, I reckon!” said Singletree Jennings. “I'm -pow'ful feard dar'll somethin' bust loose wrong about dat Andrew Jackson -goat.” - -Singletree Jennings was the owner and business manager of a goat named -Andrew Jackson. In the winter Singletree Jennings never came home -without an armful of straw for Andrew Jackson. In the summer there was -no need of straw. Andrew Jackson then ate the shirts off the neighbour's -clothes-lines. Andrew Jackson had been known to eat the raiment off a -screaming child, and then lower his frontlet at the rescue party. Andrew -Jackson was a large, impressive goat; yet he never joked nor gave way to -mirth. Ordinarily, Andrew Jackson was a calm, placid goat; aroused, he -was an engine of destruction. - -All of these peculiarities were explained by Singletree Jennings when -Sam Hardtack and Backfence Randolph, a committee acting on behalf of the -Othello Dramatic Club, desired the loan of Andrew Jackson. The church -to which Singletree Jennings belonged was programming a social this -very night, and divers and sundry tableaux, under the direction of the -Othello Dramatic Club, were on the card. It was esteemed necessary by -those in control to present as a tableau Abraham slaying Isaac. There -was a paucity of sheep about, and Andrew Jackson, in this dearth of the -real thing, was cast to play the character of the Ram in the Bush. - -“An' Andrew Jackson is boun' to fetch loose,” reflected Singletree -Jennings, with a shake of his head; “an' when he does, he'll jes' go -knockin' 'round among de congregashun like a blind dog in a meat shop!” - ***** - -Singletree Jennings's worst fears were realised. It was nine o'clock -now, and he and Delia had come down to the social. Andrew Jackson had -been restrained of his liberty for the previous four hours and held -captive in a drygoods' box. He was now in a state of frenzy. When the -curtain went up on Abraham and Isaac, Andrew Jackson burst his bonds at -the rear of the stage and bore down on the Hebrew father and son like -the breath of destiny. Andrew Jackson came, dragging his bush with him. -The bush was, of course, a welcome addition. Abraham saw him coming, and -fled into the lap of a fiddler. Isaac, however, wasn't faced that way. -Andrew Jackson smote Isaac upon the starboard quarter. It was a follow -shot, rather than a carom, and Andrew Jackson and his prey landed in the -middle of the audience together. For two minutes Andrew Jackson mingled -freely with the people present, and then retired by the back door. - -“I knowed destrucshun was a-comin'!” murmured Singletree Jennings. “I -ain't felt dat pestered, Delia, since de day I concealed my 'dentity in -Marse Roundtree's smokehouse, an' dey cotched me at it.” - -“Singletree Jennings!” observed the Reverend Handout F. Johnson, in a -tone of solemn anger, while his pistol pocket still throbbed from the -visitation of Andrew Jackson, “Elder Shakedown Bixby is in pursuit of -dat goat of your'n with a razor. He has orders to immolate when cotched. -At de nex' conference dar'll be charges ag'in you for substitutin' a -deboshed goat for de Ram of Holy Writ. I keers nothin' for my pussonel -sufferin's, but de purity of de Word mus' be protected. De congregashun -will now join in singin' de pestilential Psalms, after which de social -will disperse.” - - - - -JESS - - -It was sunset at the Cross-K ranch. Four or five cowboys were gloomily -about outside the adobe ranch house, awaiting supper. The Mexican cook -had just begun his fragrant task, so a half hour would elapse before -these Arabs were fed. Their ponies were “turned” into the wire pasture, -their big Colorado saddles reposed astride the low pole fence which -surrounded the house, and it was evident their riding was over for the -day. - -Why were they gloomy? Not a boy of them could tell. They had been -partners and _campaneros_, and “worked” the Cross-K cattle together for -months, and nothing had come in misunderstanding or cloud. The ranch -house was their home, and theirs had been the unity of brothers. - -The week before, a pretty girl--the daughter she was of a statesman of -national repute--had come to the ranch from the East. Her name was Jess. - -Jess, the pretty girl, was protected in this venture by an old and -gnarled aunt, watchful as a ferret, sour as a lime. Not that Jess, the -pretty girl, needed watching; she was, indeed! propriety's climax. - -No soft nor dulcet reason wooed Jess, the pretty girl, to the West; she -came on no love errand. The visitor was elegantly tired of the East, -that was all; and longed for western air and western panorama. - -Jess, the pretty girl, had been at the Cross-K ranch a week, and the -boys had met her, everyone. The meeting or meetings were marked by -awkwardness as to the boys, indifference as to Jess, the pretty girl. -She encountered them as she did the ponies, cows, horned-toads and other -animals, domestic and _fero naturo_, indigenous to eastern Arizona. -While every cowboy was blushingly conscious of Jess, the pretty girl, -she was serenely guiltless of giving him a thought. - -Before Jess, the pretty girl, arrived, the cowboys were friends and the -tenor of their calm relations was rippleless as a mirror. Jess was not -there a day, before each drew himself insensibly from the others, while -a vague hostility shone dimly in his eyes. It was the instinct of the -fighting male animal aroused by the presence of Jess, the pretty girl. -Jess, however, proceeded on her dainty way, sweetly ignorant of the -sentiments she awakened. - -Men are mere animals. Women are, too, for that matter. But the latter -are different animals from men. The effort the race makes to be other, -better or different than the mere animal fails under pressure. It always -failed; it will always fail. Civilisation is the veriest veneer and -famously thin. A year on the plains cracks this veneer--this shell--and -the animal issues visibly forth. This shell-cracking comes by the -expanding growth of all that is animalish in man--attributes of the -physical being, fed and pampered by a plains' existence. - -To recur to the boys of the Cross-K. The dark, vague, impalpable -differences which cut off each of these creatures from his fellows, and -inspired him with an unreasoning hate, had flourished with the brief -week of their existence. A philosopher would have looked for near -trouble on the Cross-K. - -“Whatever did you take my saddle for, Bill?” said Jack Cook to one Bill -Watkins. - -“Which I allows I'll ride it some,” replied Watkins; “thought it might -like to pack a sure-'nough long-horn jest once for luck!” - -“Well, don't maverick it no more,” retorted Cook, moodily, and ignoring -the gay insolence of the other. “Leastwise, don't come a-takin' of it, -an' sayin' nothin'. You can _palaver Americano_, can't you? When you -aims to ride my saddle ag'in, ask for it; if you can't talk, make signs, -an' if you can't make signs, shake a bush; but don't go romancin' off in -silence with no saddle of mine no more.” - -“Whatever do you reckon is liable to happen if I pulls it ag'in -to-morry?” inquired Bill in high scorn. - -Watkins was of a more vivacious temper than the gloomy Cook. - -“Which if you takes it ag'in, I'll shorely come among you a whole lot. -An' some prompt!” replied Cook, in a tone of obstinate injury. - -These boys were brothers before Jess, the pretty girl, appeared. Either -would have gone afoot all day for the other. Going afoot, too, is the -last thing a cowboy will consent to. - -“Don't you-all fail to come among me none,” said Bill with cheerful -ferocity, “on account of it's bein' me. I crosses the trail of a hold-up -like you over in the Panhandle once, an' makes him dance, an' has a -chuck-waggon full of fun with him.” - -“Stop your millin' now, right yere!” said Tom Rawlins, the Cross-K range -boss, who was sitting close at hand. “You-alls spring trouble 'round -yere, an' you can gamble I'll be in it! Whatever's the matter with -you-alls anyway? Looks like you've been as _locoed_ as a passel of -sore-head dogs for more'n a week now. Which you're shorely too many for -me, an' I plumb gives you up!” And Rawlins shook his sage head foggily. - -The boys started some grumbling reply, but the cook called them to -supper just then, and, one animalism becoming overshadowed by another, -they forgot their rancour in thoughts of supplying their hunger. Towards -the last of the repast, Rawlins arose, and going to another room, began -overlooking some entries in the ranch books. - -Jess, the pretty girl, did not sit at the ranch table. She had small -banquets in her own room. Just then she was heard singing some tender -little song that seemed born of a sigh and a tear. The boys' resentment -of each other began again to burn in their eyes. None of these savages -was in the least degree in love with Jess, the pretty girl. - -The singing went on in a cooing, soft way that did not bring you the -words; only the music. - -“What I says about my saddle a while back, goes as it lays!” said Jack -Cook. - -The song had ceased. - -As Cook spoke he turned a dark look on Watkins. - -“See yere!” replied Watkins in an exasperated tone--he was as vicious as -Cook--“if you're p'intin' out for a war-jig with me, don't go stampin' -'round none for reasons. Let her roll! Come a-runnin' an' don't pester -none with ceremony.” - -“Which a gent don't have to have no reason for crawlin' you!” said Cook. -“Anyone's licenced to chase you 'round jest for exercise!” - -“You can gamble,” said Watkins, confidently, “any party as chases me -'round much, will regyard it as a thrillin' pastime. Which it won't grow -on him none as a habit.” - -“As you-all seem to feel that a-way,” said the darkly wrathful Cook, -“I'll sorter step out an' shoot with you right now!” - -“An' I'll shorely go you!” said Watkins. - -They arose and walked to the door. It was gathering dark, but it was -light enough to shoot by. The other cowboys followed in a kind of savage -silence. Not one word was said in comment or objection. They were grave, -but passive like Indians. It is not good form to interfere with other -people's affairs in Arizona. - -Jess, the pretty girl, began singing again. The strains fell softly -on the ears of the cowboys. Each, as he listened, whether onlooker or -principal, felt a licking, pleased anticipation of the blood to be soon -set flowing. - -Nothing was said of distance. Cook and Watkins separated to twenty paces -and turned to face each other. Each wore his six-shooter, the loose -pistol belt letting it rest low on his hip. Each threw down his big hat -and stood at apparent ease, with his thumbs caught in his belt. - -“Shall you give the word, or me?” asked Cook. - -“You says when!” retorted Watkins. “It'll be a funny passage in American -history if you-all gets your gun to the front any sooner than I do.” - -“Be you ready?” asked Cook. - -“Which I'm shorely ready!” - -“Then, go!” - -“Bang! Bang!! Bang!!!” went both pistols together. - -The reports came with a rapidity not to be counted. Cook got a crease -in the face--a mere wound of the flesh. Watkins blundered forward with a -bullet in his side. - -[Illustration: 0041] - -Rawlins ran out. His experience taught him all at a look. Hastily -examining Cook, he discovered that his hurt was nothing serious. The -others carried Watkins into the house. - -“Take my pony saddled at the fence, Jack,” said Rawlins, “an' pull your -freight. This yere Watkins is goin' to die. You've planted him.” - -“Which I shorely hopes I has!” said Cook, with bitter cheerfulness. “I -ain't got no use for cattle of his brand; none whatever!” - -Cook took Rawlins's pony. When he paused, the pony hung his head while -his flanks steamed and quivered. And no marvel! That pony was one -hundred miles from the last corn, as he cooled his nervous muzzle in the -Rio San Simon. - -“Some deviltry about their saddles, Miss; that's all!” reported Rawlins -to Jess, the pretty girl. - -“Isn't it horrible!” shuddered Jess, the pretty girl. - -The next morning Jess and the gnarled aunt paid the injured Watkins a -visit. This civility affected the other three cowboys invidiously. They -at once departed to a line of Cross-K camps in the Northwest. This on a -pretence of working cattle over on the Cochise Mesa. They looked black -enough as they galloped away. - -“Which it's shore a sin Jack Cook ain't no better pistol shot!” observed -one, as the acrid picture of Jess, the pretty girl, sympathising above -the wounded Watkins, arose before him. - -“That's whatever!” assented the others. - -Then, in moods of grim hatefulness, they bled their tired ponies with -the spur by way of emphasis. - - - - -THE HUMMING BIRD - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -NIT; I'm in a hurry to chase meself to-night,” quoth Chucky, having -first, however, taken his drink. “I'd like to stay an' chin wit' youse, -but I can't. D' fact is I've got company over be me joint; he's a dead -good fr'end of mine, see! Leastwise he has been; an' more'n onct, when -I'm in d' hole, he's reached me his mit an' pulled me out. Now he's -down on his luck I'm goin' to make good, an' for an even break on past -favours, see if I can't straighten up _his_ game.” - -“Who is your friend?” I asked. “Does he live here?” - -“Naw,” retorted Chucky; “he's a crook, an' don't live nowhere. -His name's Mollie Matches, an 'd' day was when Mollie's d' flyest -fine-woiker on Byrnes's books. An' say! that ain't no fake neither.” - -“What did he do?” I inquired. - -“Leathers, supers an' rocks,” replied Chucky. “Of course, d' supers has -to be yellow; d' w'ite kind don't pay; an' d' rocks has to be d' real -t'ing. In d' old day, Mollie was d' king of d' dips, for fair! Of all -d' crooks he was d' nob, an' many's d' time I've seen him come into d' -Gran' Central wit' his t'ree stalls an' a Sheeny kid to carry d' swag, -an' all as swell a mob as ever does time. - -“But he's fell be d' wayside now, an' don't youse forget it! Not only is -he broke for dough, but his healt' is busted, too.” - -“That's one of the strange things to me, Chucky,” I said, for I was -disposed to detain him if I could, and hear a bit more of his devious -friend; “one of the very strange things! Here's your friend Mollie, -who has done nothing, so you say, but steal watches, diamonds and -pocket-books all his life, and yet to-day he is without a dollar.” - -“Oh! as for that,” returned Chucky wisely, “a crook don't make so much. -In d' foist place, if he's nippin' leathers, nine out of ten of 'em's -bound to be readers--no long green in 'em at all; nothin' but poi-pers, -see! An' if he's pinchin' tickers an' sparks, a fence won't pay more'n -a fort' what dey's wort'--an' there you be, see! Then ag'in, it costs a -hundred plunks a day to keep a mob on d' road; an' what wit' puttin' up -to d' p'lice for protection, an' what wit' squarin' a con or brakey if -youse are graftin' on a train, there ain't, after his stalls has their -bits, much left for Mollie. Takin' it over all, Mollie's dead lucky to -get a hundred out of a t'ousand plunks; an' yet he's d' mug who has to -put his hooks on d' stuff every time; do d' woik an' take d' chances, -see! - -“But I'll tip it off to youse,” continued Chucky, at the same time -lowering his tone confidentially; “I'll put you on to what knocks -Mollie's eye out just now. He's only a week ago toined out of one of de -western pens, an' I reckon he was bad wit' 'em at d' finish--givin' -'em a racket. Anyhow, dey confers on Mollie d' Hummin' Boid, an dey -overplays. Mollie's gettin' old, and can't stand for what he could onct; -an', as I says, these prison marks gives him too much of 'd Hummin' Boid -and it breaks his noive. - -“Sure! Mollie's now what youse call hyster'cal; got bats in his steeple -half d' time. If it wasn't for d' hop I shoots into him wit' a dandy -little hypodermic gun me Rag's got, he'd be in d' booby house. An' all -for too much Hummin' Boid! Say! on d' level! there ought to be a law -ag'inst it.” - -“What in heaven's name is the Humming Bird?” I queried. - -“It's d' prison punishment,” replied Chucky. “Youse see, every pen has -its punishment. In some, it's d' paddles, an' some ag'in don't do a -t'ing but hang a guy up be a pair of handcuffs to his cell door so his -toes just scrapes d' floor. In others dey starves you; an' in others -still, dey slams you in d' dark hole. - -“Say! if youse are out to make some poor mark nutty for fair, just give -him d' dark hole for a week. There he is wit' nothin' in d' cell but -himself, see! an* all as black as ink. Mebby if d' guards is out to -keep him movin', dey toins d' hose in an' wets down d' floor before dey -leaves him. But honest to God! youse put a poor sucker in d' dark hole, -an' be d' end of ten hours it's apples to ashes he ain't onto it whether -he's been in a day or a week. Keep him there a week, an' away goes his -cupolo--he ain't onto nothin'. On d' square! at d' end of a week in d' -dark, a mut don't know lie's livin'. - -“D' cat-o'nine-tails, which dey has at Jeff City, ain't a marker to d' -dark hole! D' cat'll crack d' skin all right, all right, but d' dark -hole cracks a sucker's nut, see! His cocoa never is on straight ag'in, -after he's done a stunt or two in d' dark hole.” - -“But the Humming Bird?” I persisted. “What is it like?” - -“Why! as I relates,” retorted Chucky, “d' Hummin Boid is what dey does -to a guy in d' pen where Mollie was to teach him not to be too gay. It's -like this: Here's a gezebo doin' time, see! Well, he gets funny. Mebby -he soaks some other pris'ner; or mebby he toins loose and gives it to -some guard in d' neck; or mebby ag'in he kicks on d' lock-step. I've -seen a heap of mugs who does d' last. - -“Anyhow, whatever he does, it gets to be a case of Hummin' Boid, an' dey -brings me gay scrapper or kicker, whichever he is, out for punishment. -An' this is what he gets ag'inst: - -“Dey sets him in a high trough, same as dey waters a horse wit', see! -Foist dey shucks d' mark--peels off his make-up down to d' buff. An' -then dey sets him in d' trough, like I says, wit' mebby its eight inches -of water in it. - -“Then he's strapped be d' ankles, an' d' fins, and about his waist, -so he can't do nothin' but stay where he is. A sawbones gets him be d' -pulse, an' one of them 'lectrical stiffs t'rows a wire, which is one end -of d' battery, in d' water. D' wire, which is d' other end, finishes in -a wet sponge. An' say! hully hell! when dey touches a poor mark wit' d' -sponge end on d' shoulder, or mebby d' elbow, it completes d' circuit, -see! an' it'll fetch such a glory hallelujah yelp out of him as would -bring a deef an' dumb asylum into d' front yard to find out what d' -row's about. - -“It's d' same t'ing as d' chair at Sing Sing, only not so warm. It's -enough, though, to make d' toughest mug t'row a fit. No one stands for -a secont trip; one touch of d' Hummin' Boid! an' a duck'll welch on -anyt'ing you says--do anyt'ing, be anyt'ing; only so youse let up and -don't give him no more. D' mere name of Hummin' Boid's good enough to -t'run a scare into d' hardest an' d' woist of 'em, onct dey's had a -piece. - -“As I says about Mollie: it seems them Indians gives him d' Hummin' -Boid; an' dey gives him d' gaff too deep. But I've got to chase meself -now, and pump some dope into him. I ought to land Mollie right side up -in a week. An' then I'll bring him over to this boozin' ken of ours, an' -cap youse a knock-down to him. Ta! ta!” - - - - -GASSY THOMPSON, VILLAIN - - -WESTERN humour is being severely spoken of by the close personal -friends of Peter Dean. Less than a year ago, Peter Dean left the -paternal roof on Madison Avenue and plunged into the glowing West. On -the day of his departure he was twenty-three; not a ripe age. He had -studied mining and engineering, and knew in those matters all that -science could tell. His purpose in going West was to acquire the -practical part of his chosen profession. Peter Dean believed in knowing -it all; knowing it with the hands as well as with the head. - -Thus it befell that young Peter Dean, on a day to be remembered, tossed -a careless kiss to his companions and fled away into the heart of -the continent. Then his hair was raven black. Months later, when he -returned, it was silver white. Western humour had worked the change; -therefore the criticism chronicled. Peter Dean tells the following story -of the bleaching: - -“At Creede I met a person named Thompson; 'Gassy' Thompson he was called -by those about him, in testimony to his powers as a conversationist. -A barkeeper, who seemed the best-informed and most gentlemanly soul in -town, told me that Gassy Thompson was a miner full of practical skill, -and that he was then engaged in sinking a shaft. I might arrange with -Gassy and learn the business. At the barkeeper's hint, I proposed as -much to Gassy Thompson. - -“'All right!' said Gassy; 'come out to the shaft to-morrow.' - -“The next day I was at the place appointed. The shaft was already fifty -feet deep. Besides myself and this person, Gassy, who was to tutor me, -there was a creature named Jim. This made three of us. - -“At the suggestion of Gassy, he and I descended into the shaft; Jim was -left on the surface. We went down by means of a bucket, Jim unwinding us -from a rickety old windlass. - -“Once down, Gassy and I, with sledge and drill, perpetrated a hole in -the bottom of the shaft. I held the drill, Gassy wielding the sledge. -When the hole met the worshipful taste of my tutor, he put in a dynamite -cartridge, connected a long, five-minute fuse therewith, and carefully -thumbed it about and packed it in with wet clay. - -“At Gassy's word, I was then hauled up from the shaft by Jim. I added -my strength to the windlass, Gassy climbed into the bucket, lighted the -fuse, and was then swiftly wound to the surface by Jim and myself. We -then dragged the windlass aside, covered the mouth of the shaft, and -quickly scampered to a distance, to be out of harm's reach. - -“At the end of five minutes from the time that Gassy lighted the fuse, -and perhaps three minutes after we had cleared away, the shot exploded -with a deafening report. Tons of rock were shot up from the mouth of the -shaft, full fifty feet in the air. It was all very impressive, and gave -me a lesson in the tremendous power of dynamite. I was much pleased, and -felt as if I were learning. - -“Following the explosion Gassy and I again repaired to the bottom of the -shaft. After clearing away the débris and sending it up and out by the -bucket, we resumed the sledge and drill. We completed another hole and -were ready for a second shot. This was about noon. - -“It was at this point that the miscreant, Gassy, began to put into -action a plot he had formed against me, and to carry out which the -murderer, Jim, lent ready aid. You must remember that I had perfect -confidence in these two villains. - -“'I never seed no tenderfoot go along like you do at this business,' -said Gassy Thompson to me. - -“This was flattery. The miscreant was fattening me for the sacrifice. - -“'Looks like you was born to be a miner,' he went on. 'Now, I'm goin' to -let you fire the next shot. Usual, I wouldn't feel jestified in allowin' -a tenderfoot to fire a shot for plumb three months. But you has a genius -for minin'; it comes as easy to you as robbin' a bird's nest. I'd be -doin' wrong to hold you back.' - -“Of course, I naturally felt pleased. To be allowed to fire a dynamite -shot on my first day in the shaft I felt and knew to be an honour. I -determined to write home to my friends of this triumph. - -“Gassy said he'd put in the shot, and he selected one of giant size. -I saw the herculean explosive placed in the hole; then he attached the -fuse and thumbed the clay about it as before. He gave me a few last -words. - -“'After I gets up,' he said, 'an' me an' Jim's all ready, you climb into -the bucket an' light the fuse. Then raise the long yell to me an' Jim, -an' we'll yank ye out. But be shore an' light the fuse. There's -nothin' more discouragin' than for to wait half an* hour outside an' no -cartridge goin' off. Especial when it goes off after you comes back to -see what's the matter with her. So be shore an' light the fuse, an' then -Jim an' me'll run you up the second follerin'. This oughter be a great -day for you, young man! firin' a shot this away, the first six hours -you're a miner!' - -“Jim and Gassy were at the windlass and yelled: - -“'All ready below?' - -“I was in the bucket and at the word scratched a match and lit the fuse. -It sputtered with alarming ardour, and threw off a shower of sparks. - -“'Hoist away!' I called. - -“The villains ran me up about twenty-five feet, and came to a dead halt. -At this they seemed to get into an altercation. They both abandoned -the windlass, and I could hear them cursing, threatening, and shooting; -presumably at each other. - -“'I'll blow your heart out!' I heard Gassy say. - -“My alarm was without a limit. I'd seen one dynamite cartridge go off. -Here I was, swinging some twenty-five feet over a still heavier charge, -and about to be blown into eternity! Meanwhile the caitiffs, on whom my -life depended, were sacrificing me to settle some accursed feud of their -own. - -“I cannot tell you of my agony. The fuse was spitting fire like forty -fiends; the narrow shaft was choked with smoke. I swung helpless, -awaiting death, while the two monsters, Gassy and Jim, were trying to -murder each other above. Either from the smoke or the excitement, I -fainted. - -“When I came to myself I was outside the shaft, safe and sound, while -Gassy and his disreputable assistant were laughing at their joke. There -had been no shot placed in the drill-hole; the heartless Gassy had -palmed it and carried it with him to the surface. - -“At my very natural inquiry, made in a weak voice--for I was still sick -and broken--as to what it all meant, they said it was merely a Colorado -jest, and intended for the initiation of a tenderfoot. - -“'It gives 'em nerve!' said Gassy; 'it puts heart into 'em an' does 'em -good!' - -“As soon as I could walk I severed my relations with Gassy Thompson and -his outlaw adherent, Jim. The next morning my hair had turned the milky -sort you see. The Creede people with whom I discussed the crime, laughed -and said the drinks were on me. That was all the sympathy, all the -redress, I got. - -“After that I came East without delay. When I leave the city of New York -again it will not be for Creede. Nor will my next mining connection be -formed with such abandoned barbarians as Gassy Thompson and Jim.” - - - - -ONE MOUNTAIN LION - - -Pard! would you like to shoot at that lion?” - -Bob usually gave me no title at all. But when in any stress of our -companionship he was driven to it, I was hailed as “pard!” Once or twice -on some lighter occasion he had addressed me by the Spanish “_Amigo_.” - In business hours, however, my rank was “pard!” - -***** - -Sundown in the hills. The scene was a southeast spur of the Rockies; -call the region the Upper Red River or the Vermejo, whichever you will -for a name. Forty miles due west from the Spanish Peaks would stand one -on the very spot. - -I had been out all day, ransacking the canyons, taking a Winter's look -at the cattle to note how they were meeting the rigours of a season not -yet half over. I had witnessed nothing alarming; my horned folk of the -hills still made a smooth display as to ribs, and wore the air of cattle -who had prudently stored up tallow enough the autumn before to carry -them into the April grass. - -“Many a day have I dwelt in a wet saddle, only to crawl into a wetter -blanket at night; and all for cows!” It was Bob Ellis who fathered this -rather irrelevant observation. I had cut his trail an hour before, -and we were making company for each other back to camp. I put forth no -retort. Bob and I abode in the same small log hut, and I saw much of -him, and didn't feel obliged to reply to those random utterances which -fluttered from him like birds from a bush. - -It had been snowing for three days. This afternoon, however, had shaken -off the storm. It is worth while to see the snow come down in the hills; -flakes soft and clinging and silently cold; big as a baby's hand. Out in -the flat valleys free of the trees the snow was deep enough to jade and -distress our ponies. Therefore Bob and I were creeping home among the -thick sown pines which bristled on the Divide like spines on a pig's -back. There was very little snow under the trees. What would have made -an easy depth of two feet had it been evenly spread on the ground over -which our broncos picked their tired way, was above our heads in the -pines. That was the reason why the trees were so still and silent. -Your pine is a most garrulous vegetable in a sighing fashion, and its -complaining notes sing for ever in your ears; sometimes like a roar, -sometimes like a wail. But the three-days' snow in their green mouths -gagged them; and never a tree of them all drew so much as a breath as we -pushed on through their ranks. - -“Like the Winchester you're packin?” asked Bob. - -I confessed a weakness for the gun. - -“Had one of them magazine guns once myse'f,” Bob remarked. “Model of -'78. Never liked it, though; always shootin' over. As you pump the loads -outen 'em and empty the magazine, the weight shifts till toward the last -the muzzle's as light as a feather. Thar you be! shootin' over and still -over, every pull.” - -Having no interest in magazine guns beyond the act of firing them, I -paid no heed to Bob's assault on their merits. - -“Now a single-shot gun,” continued Bob, as he rode an oak shrub -underfoot to come abreast of me, “is the weepon for me. Never mind about -thar bein' jest one shot in her! Show me somethin' to shoot, an' I'll -sling the cartridges into her frequent enough for the most impatient -gent on earth. This rifle I'm packin' is all right--all except the hind -sight. That's too coarse; you could drag a dog through it.” - -Bob's dissertation on rifles was entertaining enough. My mood was -indifferent, and his wisdom ran through my wits like water through a -funnel, keeping them employed without filling them up. Bob had just -begun again--all about a day far away when muzzle loaders were many in -the hills--when my pony made sudden shy at something in the bushes. The -muzzle of my gun instantly pointed to it, as if by an instinct of its -own. Even as it did I became aware of the harmless cause of my pony's -devout breathings--one of those million tragedies of nature which makes -the wilderness a daily slaughter pen. It was the carcass of a blacktail -deer. Its torn throat and shoulders, as well as the tracks of the giant -cat in the snow, told how it died. The panther had leaped from the big -bough of that yellow pine. - -“Mountain lion!” observed Bob, sagely, as he con templated the torn -deer. “The deer come sa'nterin' down the slope yere, an' the lion jest -naturally jumps his game from that tree. This deer was a bigger fool -than most. You wouldn't ketch many of 'em as could come walkin' down the -wind where the brush and bushes is rank, and gives the cats a chance to -lay for 'em and bushwhack 'em!” - -It was becoming shadowy in among the pines by this time, and, having -enough of Bob's defence of the dead buck and apology for its errors, I -pushed on through the bushes for the camp. As we crossed a burnt strip -where the fires had made a meal of the trees, the sun was reluctantly -blinking his last before going to bed in the Sangre de Christo Range, -which rolled upward like some tremendous billow in an ocean of milk full -five scores of miles to the west. - -Bob and I were smoking our pipes in our log home that evening. Perhaps -it was nine o'clock. A pitch-pine fire--billets set up endwise in the -fireplace--roared in one corner. Our chimney was a vast success. Out -back of our log habitat the surveyors had peeled the base of a pine and -made a red-paint statement to the effect that even in the bottom of -our little valley we were over 8,000 feet above the sea. This rather -derogated from the pride of our chimney's performance; because, as Bob -with justice urged, “a chimney not to 'draw' at an altitude of 8,000 -feet would have to be flat on the ground.” - -I was sprawled on a blanket, softly taking in the smoke of a meerschaum. -My eyes, fascinated by the glaring, pitch-pine blaze, were boring away -at the fire as if it guarded a treasure. But neither the tobacco smoke -nor the flames were in my thoughts; the latter were idly going back to -the torn deer. - -As if in deference to a fashion of telepathy, Bob would have been -thinking of the deer, also. It's possible, however, he had the cat in -his meditations. - -Suddenly he broke into my quiet with the remark which opens this yarn. -Then he proceeded. - -“Because,” Bob continued, as I turned an eye on him through my tobacco -smoke, “you might get it easy. He's shorely due to go back to-night an' -eat up some of that black-tail, unless he's got an engagement. It's even -money he's right thar now.” - -I stepped to the door and looked out. The roundest of moons in the -clearest of skies shone down. Then there was the snow; altogether, one -might have read agate print by the light. I picked up my rifle and sent -my eye through the sights. - -“But how about it when we push in among the pines; it'll be darker in -there?” - -“Thar'll be plenty of light,” declared Bob. “You don't have to make a -tack-head shot. It ain't goin' to be like splittin' a bullet on a bowie. -This mountain lion will be as big as you or me. Thar'll be light enough -to hit a mark the size of him.” - -Our ponies were heartily scandalised at being resaddled so soon; but -they were powerless to enforce their views, and away we went, Indian -file, with souls bent to slay the lion. - -“Which I shorely undertakes the view that we'll get him,” observed Bob -as we rode along. - -“Did you ever hear the Eastern proverb which says, 'The man who sold -the lion's hide while yet upon the beast was killed in hunting him'?” I -asked banteringly. - -“Who says so?” demanded Bob, defiantly. - -“It is an Eastern proverb.” - -“Well, it may do for the East,” responded Bob, “but you can gamble it -ain't had no run west of the Mississippi. Why! I wouldn't be afraid to -bet that one of these panthers never killed a human in the world. They -do it in stories, but never in the hills. Why, shore! if you went right -up an' got one by his two y'ears an' wrastled him, he'd have to fight. -You could get a row out of a house cat, an' play that system. But you -can write alongside of the Eastern proverb, that 'Bob Ellis says that -the lion them parties complain of as killin' their friend, must have -been plumb _locoed_, an' it oughtn't to count.'” - -At the edge of the trees we left the ponies standing. They pointed -their ears forward as if wondering what all this mysterious night's work -meant. It was entirely beside their experience. We left them to unravel -the puzzle and passed as quietly among the trees as needles into cloth. - -Both Bob and I had served our apprenticeship at being noiseless, and -brought the noble trade of silence to a science. It wasn't distant now -to the field of the deer's death. Soon Bob pointed out the yellow pine. -Bob was a better woodsman than I. Even in the daylight I would have -owned trouble in picking out the tree at that distance among such a -piney throng. - -What little wind we had was breathing in our faces. Bob hadn't made the -black-tail's blunder of giving the lion the better of the breeze. Bob -took the lead after he pointed out the yellow pine. Perhaps it was -150 yards away when he identified it. We didn't cover five yards in -a minute. Bob was resolutely deliberate. Still, I had no thought of -complaint. I would have managed the case the same way had I been in the -lead. - -Every ten feet Bob would pause and listen. There was now and then the -sound of a clot of snow falling in the tops of the pines, as some bough -surrendered its burden to the influence of the slight breeze. That was -all my ears could detect of voices in the woods. - -We were within forty yards of the yellow pine, when Bob, after lingering -a moment, turned his face toward me and made a motion of caution. I bent -my ear to a profound effort. At last I heard it; the unctuous sound of -feeding jaws! - -The oak bushes grew thick in among the pine trees. It did not seem -possible to make out our game on account of this shrub-screen. At this -point, instead of going any nearer the yellow pine, Bob bore off to -the left. This flank movement not only held our title to the wind, -but brought the moon behind us. After each fresh step Bob turned for a -further survey of that region at the base of the yellow pine, where our -lion, or some one of his relatives, was busy at his new repast. - -Then the climax of search arrived. To give myself due credit, I saw -the panther as soon as did Bob. A fallen pine tree opened a lane in the -bushes. Along this aisle I could dimly make out the body of the beast. -His head and shoulders were protected by the trunk of the yellow pine, -from the limb of which he had ambuscaded the black-tail. A cat's mouth -serves vilely as a knife; the teeth are not arranged to cut well. His -inability to sever a morsel left nothing for our lion to do, but gnaw at -the carcass much as a dog might at a bone. This managed to keep his head -out of harm's way behind the tree. - -Nothing better was likely to offer, and I concluded to try what a bullet -would bring, on that part of the panther we could see. I found as I -raised my Winchester that there was to be a strong element of faith in -the shot. It was dim and shadowy in the woods, conditions which appeared -to increase the moment you tried to point a gun. The aid my aim received -from the gun-sights was of the vaguest. Indeed, for that one occasion -they might as well have been left off the rifle. But as I was as -familiar with the weapon as with the words I write, and could tell to -the breadth of a hair where to lay it against my face to make it point -directly at an object, there was nothing to gain by any elaboration -of aim. As if to speed my impulse in the matter, a far-off crashing -occurred in the bushes to the rear. A word suffices to read the riddle -of the interruption. Our ponies, tired of being left to themselves, were -coming sapiently forward to join us. - -With the first blundering rush of the ponies I unhooked my Winchester. -The panther had no chance to take stock of the ponies' careless -approach. If they had started five minutes earlier he might have owed -them something. - -With the crack of the Winchester, the panther gave such a scream as, -added to the jar of the gun--I was burning 120 grains of powder--served -to make my ears sing. There were fear, amazement and pain all braided -together in that yell. The flash of the discharge and the night shadows -so blinded me that I did not make a second shot. I pumped in the -cartridge with the instinct of precedent, but it was of no use. On -the heels of it, our ponies, as if taking the shot to be an urgent -invitation to make haste, came up on a canter, tearing through the -bushes in a way to lose a stirrup if persisted in. - -Bob had run forward. There was blood on the snow to a praiseworthy -extent. As we gazed along the wounded animal's line of flight there was -more of it. - -“He's too hard hit to go far,” said Bob. “We'll find him in the next -canyon, or that blood's a joke.” Bob walked along, looking at the -blood-stained snow as if it were a lesson. Suddenly he halted, where the -moonlight fell across it through the trees. - -“You uncoupled him,” he said. “Broke his back plumb in two. See where he -dragged his hind legs!” - -“He can't run far on those terms,” I suggested. - -“I don't know,” said Bob, doubtfully. “A mountain lion don't die easy. -Mountain lions is what an insurance sharp would call a good resk. But -I'll tell you how to carry on this campaign: I'll take the horses and -scout over to the left until I get into the canyon yonder. Then I'll -bear off up the canyon. If he crosses it--an' goin' on two legs that -away, I don't look for it--I'll signal with a yell. If he don't, I'll -circle him till I find the trail. Meanwhile you go straight ahead on -his track afoot. Take it slow an' easy, for he's likely to be layin' -somewhere.” - -The trail carried me a quarter of a mile. As nearly as I might infer -from the story the panther's passage had written in the snow, his speed -held out. This last didn't look much like weakness. Still, the course -was a splash of blood in red contradiction. The direction he took was -slightly uphill. - -The trail ended sharp at the edge of a wide canyon. There was a shelf of -scaly rock about twelve feet down the side. This had been protected from -the storm by the overhanging brink of the canyon, and there was no snow -on the shelf. That and the twelve feet of canyon side above it were the -yellow colour of the earth. - -Below the shelf the snow again was deep, as the sides took an easier -slope toward the bottom of the canyon. The panther had evidently -scrambled down to the shelf. It took me less than a second to follow his -wounded example. Once down I looked over the edge at the snow a few feet -below to catch the trail again. The unmarred snow voiced no report of -the game I hunted. I stepped to the left a few paces, still looking over -for signs in the snow. There were none. As the shelf came to an end in -this direction, I returned along the ledge, still keeping a hawk's eye -on the snow below for the trail. I heard Bob riding in the canyon. - -“Have you struck his trail?” I shouted. - -“Thar's been nothin' down yere!” shouted Bob in reply. “The snow's as -unbroken as the cream-cap on a pan of milk.” - -Where was my panther? I had begun to regard him as a chattel. As my eye -journeyed along the ledge the mystery cleared up. There lay my yellow -friend close in against the wall. I had walked within a yard of him, -looking the other way while earnestly reading the snow. - -The panther was sprawled flat like a rug, staring at me with green eyes. -I had broken his back, as Bob said. As I brought the Winchester to my -face, his gaze gave way. He turned his head as if to hide it between his -shoulder and the wall. I was too near to talk of missing, even in the -dim light, and the next instant he was hiccoughing with a bullet in -his brain. Six and one-half feet from nose to tip was the measurement; -whereof the tail, which these creatures grow foolishly long, furnished -almost one-half. - - - - -MOLLIE MATCHES - -(Annals of the Bend) - - -It was clear and cold and dry--excellent weather, indeed, for a -snowless Christmas. Everywhere one witnessed evidences of the season. -One met more gay clothes than usual, with less of anxiety and an -increase of smiling peace in the faces. Each window had its wreath of -glistening green, whereof the red ribbon bow, that set off the garland, -seemed than common a deeper and more ardent red. Or was the elevation in -the faces, and the greenness of the wreaths, and the vivid sort of -the ribbon, due to impressions, impalpable yet positive, of Christmas -everywhere? - -All about was Christmas. Even our Baxter Street doggery had attempted -something in the nature of a bowl of dark, suspicious drink, to -which the barkeeper--he was a careless man of his nomenclature, this -barkeeper--gave the name of “apple toddy.” Apple toddy it might have -been. - -When Chucky came in, an uncertain shuffle which was company to -his rather solid tread showed he was not alone. I looked up. Our -acquaintance, Mollie Matches, expert pickpocket,--now helpless and -broken, all his one time jauntiness of successful crime gone,--was with -him. - -“It was lonesome over be me joint,” vouchsafed Chucky, “wit' me Bundle -chased over to do her reg'lar anyooal confession to d' priest, see! an' -so I fought youse wouldn't mind an' I bring Mollie along. Me old pal is -still a bit shaky as to his hooks,” remarked Chucky, as he surveyed his -tremulous companion, “an' a sip of d' booze wouldn't do him no harm. -It ain't age; Mollie's only come sixty spaces; it's that Hum-min' Boid -about which I tells youse, that's knocked his noive.” - -Drinks were ordered; whiskey strong and straight for Matches. No; I've -no apology for buying these folk drink. “Drink,” observed Johnson to the -worthy Boswell, “drink, for one thing, makes a man pleased with himself, -which is no small matter.” Heaven knows! my shady companions, for the -reason announced by the sagacious doctor, needed something of the -sort. Besides, I never molest my fellows in their drinking. I've slight -personal use for breweries, distilleries, or wine presses; and gin -mills in any form or phase woo me not; yet I would have nothing of -interference with the cups of other men. In such behalf, I feel not -unlike that fat, well-living bishop of Westminster who refused to sign -a memorial to Parliament craving strict laws in behalf of total -abstinence. “No,” said that sound priest, stoutly, “I will sign no -such petition to Parliament. I want no such law. I would rather see -Englishmen free than sober.” - -It took five deep draughts of liquor, ardently raw, to put Matches in -half control of his hands. What with the chill of the day, and what with -the torn condition of his nerves, they shook like the oft-named aspen. - -“Them don't remind a guy,” said Matches, as he held up his quivering -fingers, “of a day, twenty-five years ago, when I was d' pick of d' -swell mob, an 'd' steadiest grafter that ever ringed a watch or weeded a -leather! It would be safe for d' Chief to take me mug out of d' gallery -now, an' rub d' name of Mollie Matches off d' books. Me day is done, an' -I'll graft no more.” - -There was plaintiveness in the man's tones as if he were mourning some -virtue, departed with his age and weakness. Clearly Matches, off his -guard and normal, found no peculiar fault with his past. - -“How came you to be a thief?” I asked Matches bluntly. I had counted the -sixth drink down his throat, which meant that he wouldn't be sensitive. - -“It's too far off to say,” retorted Matches. “I can't t'row back to -d' time when I wasn't a crook. Do youse want to know d' foist trick I -loined? Well, it wasn't t'ree blocks from here, over be d' Bowery. I -couldn't be more'n five. There was a fakir, sellin' soap. There was -spec'ments of d' long green all over his stand, wit' cakes of soap on -'em, to draw d' suckers. Standin' be me side was a kid; Danny d' Face -dey called him. He was bigger than me, an' so I falls to his tips, see!” - -“'When you see him toin round,' said Danny d' Face, 'swipe a bill, an' -chase yourself up d' alley wit' it.' - -“Danny goes behint, an' does a sneak on d' fakir's leg wit' a pin. Of -course, he toins an' cuts loose a bluff at Danny, who's ducked out -of reach. As he toins, up goes me small mit, an' d' nex' secont I'm -sprintin' up d' alley wit 'd' swag. - -“Nit; d' mug wit' d' soap don't chase. He never even makes a holler; I -don't t'ink he caught on. But Danny cuts in after me, an 'd' minute he -sees we ain't bein' followed, or piped, he gives me d' foot, t'rows me -in a heap, an' grabs off d' bill. I don't get a smell of it. An 'd' toad -skin's a fiver at that! - -“D' foist real graft I recalls,” continued Matches, as he took a -meditative sip of the grog, “I'm goin' along wit' an old fat skirt, -called Mother Worden, to Barnum's Museum down be Ann Street an' -Broadway. Mebbe I'm seven or eight then. Mother Worden used to make up -for d' respectable, see! an' our togs was out of sight. There was no -flies on us when me an' Mother Worden went fort' to graft. What was d' -racket? Pickin' women's pockets. Mother Worden would go to d' museum, or -wherever there was a crush, an' lead me about be me mit. She'd steer me -up to some loidy, an' let on she's lookin' at whatever d' other party -has her lamps on. Meanwhile, I'm shoved in between d' brace of 'em, -an' that's me cue to dip in wit' me free hook an' toin out d' loidy's -pocket, see! An' say! it was a peach of a play; an' a winner. We used to -take in funerals, an' theaytres, an' wherever there was a gang. Me an' -Mother Worden was d' whole t'ing; there was nobody's bit to split out; -just us. We was d' complete woiks. - -“Now an' then there was a squeal. Once in a while I'd bungle me stunt, -an' d' loidy I was friskin' would tumble an' raise d' yell. But Mother -Worden always 'pologised, an' acted like she's shocked, an' cuffed me -an' t'umped me, see! an' so she'd woik us free. I stood for d' t'umpin', -an' never knocked. Mother Worden always told me that if we was lagged, -d' p'lice guys would croak me. An' as d' wallopin's she gives me was d' -real t'ing,--bein' she was hot under d' collar for me failin' down wit' -me graft,--d' folks used to believe her, an' look on me fin in their -pocket, that way, as d' caper of a kid. Oh, d' old woman Worden was dead -flossy in her day, an' stood d' acid all right, all right, every time. - -“But like it always toins out, she finds her finish. One day she makes a -side-play on her own account, somethin' in d' shopliftin' line, I t'ink; -an' she's pinched, an' takes six mont's on d' Island. I never sees her -ag'in; at which I don't break no record for weeps. She's a boid, was -Mother Worden; an' dead tough at that. She don't give me none d' best of -it when I'm wit' her, an' I'm glad, in a kid fashion, when she gets put -away. - -“That's d' start I gets. Some other time I'll unfold to youse how I -takes me name of Mollie Matches. Youse can hock your socks! I've seen d' -hot end of many an alley! I never chases be Trinity buryin' ground, but -I t'inks of a day when I pitched coppers on one of d' tombstones, heads -or tails, for a saw-buck, wit' a party grown, before I was old enough -an' fly enough to count d' dough we was tossin' for. But we'll pass all -that up to-night. It's gettin' late an' I'll just put me frame outside -another hooker an' then I'll hunt me bunk. I can't set up, an' booze an' -gab like I onct could; I ain't neither d' owl nor d' tank I was.” - - - - -THE ST. CYRS - - - -CHAPTER I - -François St. Cyr is a Frenchman. He is absent two years from La Belle -France. He and his little wife, Bebe, live not far from Washington -Square. They love each other like birds. Yet François St. Cyr is gay, -and little Bebe is jealous. Once a year the Ball of France is held at -the Garden. Bebe turns up a nose and will not so belittle herself. So -François St. Cyr attends the Ball of France alone. However, he does not -repine. François St. Cyr is permitted to be more _de gage_; the ladies -more _abandon_. At least that is the way François St. Cyr explains it. - -It is the night of the Ball of France. François St. Cyr is there. The -Garden lights shine on fair women and brave men. It is a masque. The -costumes are fancy, some of them feverishly so. A railroad person -present says there isn't enough costume on some of the participants to -flag a hand-car. No one has any purpose, however, to flag a hand-car; -the deficiency passes unnoticed. Had the railroader spoken of flagging a -beer waggon--_mon Dieu!_ that would have been another thing! - -A prize, a casket of jewels, is to be given to the best dressed lady. A -bacchante in white satin trimmed with swans' down and diamonds the -size and lustre of salt-cellars is appointed the beneficiary by popular -acclaim. François St. Cyr, as one of the directors of the ball, presents -the jewels in a fiery speech. The music crashes, the mad whirl proceeds. -A supple young woman, whose trousseau would have looked lonely in a -collar-box, kicks off the hat of François St. Cyr. _Sapriste!_ how she -charms him! He drinks wine from her little shoe! - - - - -CHAPTER II - -The morning papers told of the beauty in swans' down; the casket of -jewels, and the presentation rhetoric of François St. Cyr, flowing -like a river of oral fire. Bebe read it with the first light of dawn. -_Peste!_ Later, when François St. Cyr came home, Bebe hurled the clock -at him from an upper window. Bebe followed it with other implements of -light housekeeping. François St. Cyr fled wildly. Then he wept and drank -beer and talked of his honour. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -The supple person who kicked the hat of François St. Cyr was a chorus -girl. The troop in whose outrages she assisted was billed to infuriate -Newark that evening. François St. Cyr would seek surcease in Newark. -He would bind a new love on the heart bruised and broken by the jealous -Bebe. _Mon Dieu!_ yes! - -The curtain went up. François St. Cyr inhabited a box. He was very -still; no mouse was more so. No one noticed François St. Cyr. At last -the chorus folk appeared. - -“Brava! mam'selle, brava!” shouted François St. Cyr, springing to his -feet, and performing with his hands as with cymbals. - -What merited this outburst? The chorus folk had done nothing; hadn't -slain a note, nor murdered a melody. The audience stared at the shouting -François St. Cyr. What ailed the man? At last the audience admonished -François St. Cyr. - -“Sit down! Shut up!” - -Those were the directions the public gave François St. Cyr. - -“I weel not sit down! I weel not close up!” shouted François St. Cyr, -bending over the box-rail and gesticulating like a monkey whose reason -was suffering a strain. Then again to the chorus girl: - -“Brava! mam'selle, brava!” - -The other chorus girls looked disdainfully at the chorus girl whom -François St. Cyr honoured, so as to identify her to the contempt of the -public. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -Francois St. Cyr suddenly discharged a bouquet at the stage. It was the -size of a butter tub. It mowed a swath through the chorus like a chain -shot. - -“Put him out!” commanded the public. - -“Poot heem out!” repeated François St. Cyr with a shriek of sneering -contempt. “_Canaille!_ I def-fy you! I am a Frenchman; I do not fee-ar -to die!” - -Wafted to his duty on the breath of general opinion, a _gend'arme_ of -Newark acquired François St. Cyr, and bore him vociferating from the -scene of his triumph. - -As he was carried through the foyer, he raised his voice heroically: - -“_Vive le Boulanger!_” - - - - -CHAPTER V - -The next public appearance of François St. Cyr was in the Newark Police -Court. He was pale and limp, and had thoughts of suicide. He was still -clothed in his dress suit, which clung to him as if it, too, felt -“_des-pond_.” - -François St. Cyr was fined $20. - -Bebe, the jealous, the faithful little Bebe, was there to pay the money. -_Mon Dieu!_ how he loved her! He would be her bird and sing to her all -her life! Never would he leave his Bebe more! As for the false one of -the chorus: François St. Cyr “des-spised” her. - -Also Bebe had brought the week-day suit of François St. Cyr. Could an -angel have had more forethought? François St. Cyr changed his clothes in -a jury room, and Bebe and he came home cooing like turtle doves. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -By virtue of the every-day suit, the St. Cyrs were home by 4 o'clock -in the afternoon. Otherwise, under the rules, being habited in a dress -suit, François St. Cyr could not have returned until 6, - -And they were happy! - - - - -McBRIDE'S DANDY - -Albert Edward Murphy is a high officer in one of the departments of the -city. He holds his position with credit to the administration, and to -his own celebration and renown. He has a wife and a family of children; -and sets up his Lares and Penates in a home of his own in Greenwich -Village. - -Among other possessions of a household sort, Albert Edward Murphy, until -lately, numbered one pug dog. It was a dog of vast spirit and but little -wit. Yet the children loved it, and its puggish imbecility only seemed -to draw it closer to their baby hearts. - -The pug's main delusion went to the effect that he could fight. Good -judges say that there wasn't a dog on earth the pug could whip. But he -didn't know this and held other views. As a result, he assailed every -dog he met, and got thrashed. The pug had taken a whirl at all the -canines in the neighbourhood, and been wickedly trounced in every -instance. This only made him dearer, and the children loved him for the -enemies he made. - -***** - -The pug's name was John. - -One day, John, the pug, fell heir to a frightful beating at the paws and -jaws of the dog next door. All that saved the life of John, the pug, on -this awful occasion, was the lucky fact that he could get between -the pickets of the line fence, and the neighbour's dog could not. The -neighbour's dog was many times the size and weight of John, the pug; -but, as has been suggested, what John didn't know about other dogs would -fill a book; and he had gone upon the neighbour's premises and pulled -off a fight. - -Now these divers sporting events in which John, the pug, took disastrous -part worried Albert Edward Murphy. They worried him because the children -took them to heart, and wept over the wounds of John, the pug, as they -bound them with tar and other medicaments. At last Albert Edward Murphy -resolved upon a campaign in favour of John, the pug. His future should -have a protector; his past should be avenged. - -***** - -There was a forty-pound bulldog resident of Philadelphia. He whipped -every dog to whom he was introduced. His name was Alexander McBride. -He was referred to as “McBride's Dandy” in his set, whenever his -identification became a conversational necessity. Of the many dogs he -had met and conquered, Alexander McBride had killed twenty-three. - -Albert Edward Murphy resolved to import Alexander McBride. He knew -the latter's owner. A letter adjusted the details. The proprietor of -Alexander McBride was willing his pet should come to the metropolis on -a visit. Alexander McBride had fought Philadelphia to a standstill, and -his owner's idea was that, if Alexander McBride were to go on a visit -and remain away for a few months, Philadelphia would forget him, and -on his return he might ring Alexander in on the town as a stranger, and -kill another dog with him. ***** - -Alexander McBride got off the cars in a chicken crate. The expressmen -were afraid of him. Albert Edward Murphy was notified. He hired a -coloured person, who looked on life as a failure, to convey Alexander -McBride to his new home. They tied him to a bureau when they got him -there. - -Alexander McBride was a gruesome-looking dog, with a wide, vacant head, -when his mouth was open, like unto an empty coal scuttle. Albert Edward -Murphy looked at Alexander McBride, and after saying that he “would do,” - went to dinner. During the prandial meal he explained to his family -the properties and attributes of Alexander McBride; and then he and the -children went over the long list of neighbour dogs who had oppressed -John, the pug, and settled which dog Alexander McBride should chew up -first. Alexander McBride should begin on the morrow to rend and destroy -the adjacent dogs, and assume toward John, the pug, the rôle of guide, -philosopher and friend. Albert Edward Murphy and his children were very -happy. - -After dinner they went back to take another look at Alexander McBride. -As they stood about that hero in an awed but admiring circle, John, the -pug, rushed wildly into the ring, and tackled Alexander McBride. The -coal-scuttle head opened and closed on John, the Pug. - -There was a moment of frozen horror, and then Albert Edward Murphy and -his household fell upon Alexander McBride in a body. - -It was too late. It took thirteen minutes and the family poker to open -the jaws of Alexander McBride. Then John, the pug, fell to the floor, -dead and limp as a wet bath towel. - -***** - -Alexander McBride had slain his twenty-fourth dog, and John, the pug, is -only a memory now. - - - - -RED MIKE - -(Annals of the Bend) - - -Say!” remarked Chucky as he squared himself before the greasy doggery -table, “I'm goin' to make it whiskey to-day, 'cause I ain't feelin' a -t'ing but good, see!” - -I asked the cause of Chucky's exaltation. Chucky's reason as given for -his high spirits was unusual. - -“Red Mike gets ten spaces in Sing Sing,” he said; “an' he does a dead -short stretch at that. He oughter get d' chair--that bloke had. - -“Red Mike croaks his kid,” vouchsafed Chucky in further elucidation. -“Say! it makes me tired to t'ink! She was as good a kid, this little -Emmer which Mike does up, as ever comes down d' Bend. An' only 'leven!” - -“Tell me the story,” I urged. - -“This Red Mike's a hod carrier,” continued Chucky, thus moved, “but -ain't out to hoit himself be hard woik at it; he don't woik overtime. -Hit! Not on your life insurance! - -“What Red Mike sooner do is bum Mulberry Street for drinks, an' hang -'round s'loons an' sling guff about d' wrongs of d' woikin'man. Then -he'd chase home, an' bein' loaded, he'd wallop his family. - -“On d' level! I ain't got no use ford' sort of a phylanthrofist who -goes chinnin' all night about d' wrongs of d' labour element an 'd' -oppressions of d* rich an' then goes home an' slugs his wife. Say! I -t'ink a bloke who'd soak a skirt, no matter what she does--no matter if -she is his wife! on d' square! I t'ink he's rotten.” And Chucky imbibed -deeply, looking virtuous. - -“Well, at last,” said Chucky, resuming his narrative, “Mike puts a crimp -too many in his Norah--that's his wife--an' d' city 'torities plants her -in Potters' Field.” - -“Did Mike kill her?” I queried, a bit horrified at this murderous -development of Chucky's tale. - -“Sure!” assented Chucky, “Mike kills her.” - -“Shoot her?” I suggested. - -“Nit!” retorted Chucky disgustedly. “Shoot her! Mike ain't got no gun. -If he had, he'd hocked it long before he got to croak anybody wit' it. -Naw, Mike does Norah be his constant abuse, see! Beats d' life out of -her be degrees. - -“When Norah's gone,” resumed Chucky, “Emmer, who's d' oldest of d' t'ree -kids, does d' mudder act for d' others. She's 'leven, like I says. An' -little!--she ain't bigger'n a drink of whiskey, Emmer ain't. - -“But youse should oughter see her hustle to line up an' take care of -them two young-ones. Only eight an' five dey be. Emmer washes d' duds -for 'em, and does all sorts of stunts to get grub, an' tries like an old -woman, night an' day, to bring 'em up. - -“D' neighbours helps, of course, like neighbours do when it's a case of -dead hard luck; an' I meself has t'run a quarter or two in Emmer's lap -when I'm a bit lushy. Say! I'm d' easiest mark when I've been hit-tin' -d' bottle!--I'd give d' nose off me face! - -“If d' neighbours don't chip in, Emmer an' them kids would lots of times -have had a hard graft; for mostly there ain't enough dough about d' -joint from one week's end to another to flag a bread waggon. - -“Finally Red Mike gets woise. After Norah goes flutterin' that time, -Mike's been goin' along as usual, talkin' about d' woikin'man, an' doin' -up Emmer an 'd' kids for a finish before he rolls in to pound his ear. - -“At foist it ain't so bad. He simply fetches one of d' young ones a -back-handed swipe across d' map wit' his mit to see it swap ends wit' -itself; or mebbe he soaks Emmer in d' lamp an' blacks it, 'cause she's -older. But never no woise. At least, not for long. - -“But as I says, finally Red Mike gets bad for fair. He lams loose -oftener, an' he licks Emmer an 'd' kids more to d' Queen's taste--more -like dey's grown-up folks an' can stan' for it. - -“Emmer, day after day chases 'round quiet as a rabbit, washin' d' kids -an' feedin' 'em when there's any-t'ing, an' she don't make no holler -about Mike's jumpin' on 'em for fear if she squeals d' cops'll pinch -Mike an' give him d' Island. - -“Yes, Emmer was a dead game all right. Not only she don't raise d' roar -on Mike about his soakin' 'em, but more'n onct she cuts in an' takes d' -smash Mike means for one of d' others. - -“But, of course, you can see poor Emmer's finish. She's little, an' -weak, an' t'in, not gettin' enough to chew--for she saws d' food off on -d' others as long as dey makes d' hungry front--an 'd' night Mike puts -d' boots to her an' breaks t'ree of her slats, that lets her out! She -croaks in four hours, be d' watch. - -“W'at does Red Mike do it for? Well, he never needs, much of a hunch to -pitch into Emmer an' d' rest. But I hears from me Rag who lives on d' -same floor that it's all 'cause Mike gets d' tip that Emmer's got two -bits, an' he wants it for booze. Mike comes in wit' a t'irst an' he -ain't got d' price, an' he puts it to Emmer she's got stuff. Mike wants -her to spring her plant an' chase d' duck. - -“But Emmer welched an' won't have it. She's dead stubborn an' says d' -kids must eat d' nex' day; and so Mike can't have d' money. Mike says -he'll kick d' heart out of her if he don't get it. Emmer stan's pat, an' -so Mike starts in. - -“It's 'most an hour before I gets there. D' poor baby--for that's all -Emmer is, even if she was dealin' d' game for d' joint--looks awful, all -battered to bits. One of d' city's jackleg sawbones is there, mendin' -Emmer wit' bandages. But he says himself he's on a dead card, an' that -Emmer's going to die. Mike is settin' on a stool keepin' mum an' lookin' -w'ite an' dopey, an' a cop is wit' him. Oh, yes! he gets d' collar long -before I shows up. - -“Say! d' scene ain't solemn, oh, no! nit! Emmer lays back on d' bed--she -twigs she's goin' to die; d' doctor puts her on. Emmer lays back an' as -good as she can, for her valves don't woik easy an' she breathes hard, -she tells 'em what to do. She says there's d' washboiler she borry's -from d' Meyers's family, an' to send it back. - -“'An' I owes Mrs. Lynch,' says Emmer--she's talkin' dead faint--'a dime -for sewin' me skirt, an' I ain't got d' dough. But when dey takes dad -to d' coop, tell her to run her lamps over d' plunder, an' she has her -pick, see! An' when I'm gone,' goes on Emmer, 'ast d' Gerries to take d' -kids. Dey tries to get their hooks on 'em before, but I wanted to keep -'em. Now I can't, an' d' Gerries is d' best I can do. D' Gerries ain't -so warm, but dey can lose nothin' in a walk. An' wit' dad pinched an' me -dead, poor Danny an' Jennie is up ag'inst it for fair.' - -“Nit; Emmer never sheds a weep. But say! you should a seen me Rag! She -was d' terror for tears! She does d' sob act for two, an' don't you -forget it. - -“Emmer just lays there when she's quit chinnin' an' gives Mike d' icy -eye. If ever a bloke goes unforgiven, it's Red Mike. - -“'Don't youse want d' priest, or mebby a preacher?' asts me Rag of Emmer -between sobs. Emmer's voice is most played when she comes back at her. - -“'W'at's d' use?' says Emmer. - -“Then she toins to d' two kids who's be d' bed cryin', an' tries to kiss -'em, but it's a move too many for her. She twists back wit 'd' pain, an' -bridges herself like you see a wrestler, an' when she sinks straight wit -'d' bed ag'in, d' red blood is comin' out of her face. Emmer's light is -out. - -“I tumbles to it d' foist. As I leads me Rag back to our room--for I can -see she's out to t'row a fit--d' cop takes Red Mike down be d' stairs.” - - - - -HAMILTON FINNERTY'S HEART - -(By the Office Boy) - - - - -CHAPTER I - -Far up in Harlem, on a dead swell street, the chance pedestrian as -he chases himself by the Ville Finnerty, may see a pale, wrung face -pressing itself against the pane. It is the map of Hamilton Finnerty. - -“W'at's d' matter wit' d' bloke?” whispered Kid Dugan, the gasman's son, -to his young companion, as they stood furtively piping off the Ville -Finnerty. “Is it 'D' Pris'ner of Zenda' down to date?” - -“Stash!” said his chum in a low tone. “Don't say a woid. That guy was -goin' to be hitched to a soubrette. At d' las' minute d' skirt goes back -on him--won't stan' for it; see! Now d' sucker's nutty. Dey's thrunning -dice for him at Bloomin'dale right now!” - -It was a sad, sad story of how two loving hearts were made to break -away; of how in their ignorance the police declared themselves in on a -play of which they wotted nit, and queered it. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -When the betrothal of Isabelle Imogene McSween to Hamilton Finnerty was -tipped off to their set, the élite of Harlem fairly quivered with the -glow and glory of it. The Four Hundred were agog. - -“It's d' swiftest deal of d' season!” said De Pygstyster. - -“Hammy won't do a t'ing to McSween's millions, I don't t'ink!” said Von -Pretselbok. - -“Hammy'll boin a wet dog. An' don't youse forget it, I'll be in on d' -incineration!” said Goosevelt. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -Hamilton Finnerty embarked for England. The beautiful Isabelle Imogene -McSween had been plunging on raiment in Paree. The wedding was to be -pulled off in two weeks at St. Paul's, London. It was to be a corker; -for the McSweens were hot potatoes and rolled high. Nor were the -Finnerties listed under the head of Has-beens. It is but justice to both -families to say, they were in it with both feet. - -When Hamilton Finnerty went ashore at Liverpool he communed with -himself. - -“It's five days ere dey spring d' weddin' march in me young affairs,” - soliloquised Hamilton Finnerty, “an' I might as well toin in an' do -d' village of Liverpool while I waits. A good toot will be d' t'ing to -allay me natural uneasiness.” - -Thus it was that Hamilton Finnerty went forth to tank, and spread red -paint, and plough a furrow through the hamlet of Liverpool. But Hamilton -was a dead wise fowl. He had been on bats before, and was aware that -they didn't do a thing to money. - -“For fear I'll blow me dough,” said Hamilton, still communing with -himself, “I'll buy meself an' chip d' retoin tickets, see! It's a -lead-pipe cinch then, we goes back.” - -And the forethoughtful Hamilton sprung his roll and went against the -agent, for return tickets. They were to be good on the very steamer -he chased over in. They were for him and the winsome Isabelle Imogene -McSween, soon to be Mrs. Finnerty. The paste-boards called for the -steamer's trip three weeks away. - -“There!” quoth Hamilton Finnerty, as he concealed the tickets in his -trousseau, “I've sewed buttons on the future. We don't walk back, see! I -can now relax an' toin meself to Gin, Dog's Head and a general whizz. I -won't have no picnic,--oh, no! not on your eyes!” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -It was early darkness on the second day. One after another the windows -were showing a glim. Liverpool was lighting up for the evening. A -limp figure stood holding to a lamp-post. The figure was loaded to the -guards. It was Hamilton Finnerty, and his light was out. He had just -been fired from that hostelry known as The Swan with the Four Legs. - -“I 'opes th' duffer won't croak on me doorstep,” said the blooming -barmaid, as she cast her lamps on Hamilton Finnerty from the safe -vantage of a window of The Swan with the Four Legs. - -There was no danger of Hamilton Finnerty dying, not in a thousand years. -But he was woozy and tumbled not to events about him. He knew neither -his name, nor his nativity, Nor could he speak, for his tongue was on a -spree with the Gin and the Dog's Head. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -As Hamilton Finnerty stood holding the lamp-post, and deeming it his -“only own,” two of the Queen's constabulary approached. - -[Illustration: 0085] - -“'Ere's a bloomin' gow, Jem!” said the one born in London. “Now '00 d' -ye tyke the gent to be?” - -They were good police people, ignorant but innocent; and disinclined to -give Hamilton Finnerty the collar. - -“Frisk 'un, Bill,” advised the one from Yorkshire; “it's loike th' naime -bees in 'uns pawkets.” - -The two went through the make-up of Hamilton Finnerty. Jagged as he -was, he heeded them not. They struck the steamer tickets and noted the -steamer's name, but not the day of sailing. - -As if anxious to aid in the overthrow of Hamilton Finnerty, the steamer -was still at her dock, with preparations all but complete for the return -slide to New York. - -“Now 'ere's a luvely mess!” said London Bill, looking at the tickets. -“The bloody bowt gows in twenty minutes, an' 'ere's this gent a-gettin' -'eeself left! An' th' tickets for 'ees missus, too! It's punds t' -peanuts, th' loidy's aboard th' bowt tearin' 'er blessed heyes out for -'im. Hy, say there, kebby! bear a 'and! This gent's got to catch a -bowt!” - -Hamilton Finnerty, dumb with Gin and Dog's Head, was tumbled into the -cab, and the vehicle, taking its hunch from the excited officers, made -the run of its life to the docks. They were in time. - -“It tak's th' droonken 'uns t'av th' loock!” remarked Yorkshire Jem -cheerfully to London Bill, as they stood wiping their honest faces on -the dock, while the majestic steamer, with Hamilton Finnerty aboard, -worked slowly out. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -When Hamilton Finnerty came to his senses he was one hundred miles on -his way to New York. For an hour he was off his trolley. It was six days -before he landed, and during that period he did naught but chew the rag. - -Hamilton Finnerty chased straight for Harlem and sought refuge in the -Ville Finnerty. He must think; he must reorganise his play! He would -compile a fake calculated to make a hit as an excuse with Isabelle -Imogene McSween, and cable it. All might yet be well. - -But alas! As Hamilton Finnerty opened the door of the Ville Finnerty -the butler sawed off a cablegram upon him. It was from Isabelle Imogene -McSween to Hamilton Finnerty's cable address of “Hamfinny.” - -As Hamilton Finnerty read the fatal words, he fell all over himself with -a dull, sickening thud. And well he might! The message threw the boots -into the last hope of Hamilton Finnerty. It read as follows: - -_Hamfinny:--Miscreant! Villain! A friend put me onto your skip from -Liverpool. It was a hobo trick. But I broke even with you. I was dead -aware that you might do a sneak at the last minute, and was organised -with a French Count up me sleeve; see! Me wedding came off just the -same. Me hubby's a bute! I call him Papa, and he's easy money. Hoping to -see you on me return, nit, and renew our acquaintance, nit, I am yours, -nit._ - -_Isabelle Imogene McSween-Marat de Rochetwister._ - -Outside the Ville Finnerty swept the moaning winds, dismal with -November's prophecy of snow. At intervals the election idiot blew his -proud horn in the neighbouring thoroughfare. It was nearly morning when -the doctor said, that, while Hamilton Finnerty's life would be spared, -he would be mentally dopey the balance of his blighted days. - - - - -SHORT CREEK DAVE - -(Wolfville) - - -Short Creek Dave was one of Wolfville's leading citizens. In fact his -friends would not have scrupled at the claim that Short Creek Dave was -a leading citizen of Arizona. Therefore when the news came over from -Tucson that Short Creek Dave, who had been paying that metropolis a -breezy visit, had, in an advertant moment, strolled within the radius -of a gospel meeting then and there prevailing, and suffered conversion, -Wolfville became spoil and prey to some excitement. - -“I tells him,” said Tutt, who brought the tidings, “not to go tamperin' -'round this yere meetin'. But he would have it. He simply keeps -pervadin' about the 'go-in' place, an' it looks like I can't herd him -away. Says I: 'Dave, you don't onderstand this yere game they're turnin' -inside. Which you keep out a whole lot, you'll be safer!' But warnin's -ain't no good; Short Creek don't regard 'em a little bit.” - -“This yere Short Creek is always speshul obstinate that a-way,” said Dan -Boggs, “an' he gets moods frequent when he jest won't stay where he -is nor go anywhere else. I don't marvel none you don't do nothin' with -him.” - -“Let it go as it lays!” observed Cherokee Hall, “I reckons Short Creek -knows his business, an* can protect himse'f in any game they opens on -him. I ain't my-se'f none astonished by these yere news. I knows him -to do some mighty _locoed_ things, sech as breakin' a pair to draw to -a three-flush; an' it seems like he's merely a pursooin' of his usual -system in this relig'ous lunge. However, he'll be in Wolfville to-morry, -an' then we'll know a mighty sight more about it; pendin' of which let's -irrigate. Barkeep, please inquire out the beverages for the band!” - -Those of Wolfville there present knew no cause to pursue the discussion -so pleasantly ended, and drew near the bar. The debate took place in the -Red Light, so, as one observed on the issuance of Cherokee's invitation: -“They weren't far from centres.” - -Cherokee himself was a suave suitor of fortune who presided behind his -own faro game. Reputed to possess a “straight” deal box, he held high -place in the Wolfville breast. - -Next day; and Wolfville began to suffer an increased exaltation. Feeling -grew nervous as the time for the coming of the Tucson stage approached. -An outsider might not have detected this fever. It found its evidence in -the unusual activity of monte, high ball, stud and kindred relaxations. -Faro, too, displayed some madness of spirit. - -At last out of the grey and heat-shimmer of the plains a cloud of dust -announced the coming of the stage. Chips were cashed and games cleaned -up, and presently the population of Wolfville stood in the street to -catch as early a glimpse as might be of the converted one. - -“I don't reckon now he's goin' to look sech a whole lot different -neither!” observed Faro Nell. She stood near Cherokee Hall, awaiting the -coming stage. - -“I wonder would it 'go' to ask Dave for to drink?” said Tutt, in a tone -of general inquiry. - -“Shore!” argued Dan Boggs; “an' why not?” - -“Oh, nothin' why not!” replied Tutt, as he watched the stage come up; -“only Dave's nacherally a peevish person that a-way, an' I don't -reckon now his enterin' the fold has redooced the restlessness of that -six-shooter of his'n, none whatever.” - -“All the same,” said Cherokee Hall, “p'litenes 'mong gents should be -observed. I asks this yere Short Creek to drink so soon as ever -he arrives; an' I ain't lookin' to see him take it none invidious, -neither.” With a rattle of chains and a creaking of straps the stage and -its six high-headed horses pulled up at the postoffice door. The mail -bags were kicked off, the express boxes tumbled into the street, and -in the general rattle and crash the eagerly expected Short Creek Dave -stepped upon the sidewalk. - -There was possibly a more eager scanning of his person in the thought -that the great inward change might have its outward evidences; a -more vigorous shaking of his hand, perhaps; but beyond these, curious -interest did not go. Not a word nor a look touching Short Creek's -religious exploits betrayed the question tugging at the Wolfville heart. -Wolfville was too polite. And, again, Wolfville was too cautious. Next -to horse-stealing, curiosity is the greatest crime. It's worse -than crime, it's a blunder. Wolfville merely expressed its polite -satisfaction in Short Creek Dave's return, and took it out in -handshaking. The only incident worth record was when Cherokee Hall -observed in a spirit of bland but experimental friendship: - -“I don't reckon, Dave, you-all is objectin' to whiskey none after your -ride?” - -“Which I ain't done so usual,” observed Dave cheerfully, “but this yere -time, Cherokee, I'll have to pass. Confidin' the trooth to you-all, I'm -some off on nose-paint now. I'm allowin' to tell you the win-an'-lose -tharof later on. Now, if you-alls will excuse me, I'll go wanderin' over -to the O. K. House an' feed myse'f a whole lot.” - -“I shore reckons he's converted!” said Tutt, and he shook his head -gloomily. “I wouldn't care none, only it's me as prevails on Dave to go -over to Tucson that time; an' so I feels responsible.” - -“Whatever of it?” responded Dan Boggs, with a burst of energy, “I don't -see no reecriminations comin', nor why this yere's to be regarded. If -Dave wants to be relig'ous an' sing them hymns a heap, you bet! that's -his American right! I'll gamble a hundred dollars, Dave splits even with -every deal, or beats it. I'm with Dave; his system does for me, every -time!” - -The next day the excitement began to subside. Late in the afternoon a -notice posted on the postoffice door caused it to rise again. The -notice announced that Short Creek Dave would preach that evening in the -warehouse of the New York Store. - -“I reckons we-alls better go!” said Cherokee Hall. “I'm goin' to turn up -my box an' close the game at first drink time this evenin', an' Hamilton -says he's out to shut up the dance hall, seein' as how several of the -ladies is due to sing a lot in the choir. We-alls might as well turn -loose an' give Short Creek the best whirl in the wheel--might as well -make the play to win, an* start him straight along the new trail.” - -“That's whatever!” agreed Dan Boggs. He had recovered from his first -amazement, and now entered into the affair with spirit. - -That evening the New York Store's warehouse was as brilliantly a-light -as a mad abundance of candles could make it. All Wolfville was there. -As a result of conferences held in private with Short Creek Dave, and by -that convert's request, Old Man Enright took a seat by the drygoods box -which was to serve as a pulpit. Doc Peets, also, was asked to assume a -place at the Evangelist's left. The congregation disposed itself about -on the improvised benches which the ardour of Boggs had provided. - -At 8 o'clock Short Creek Dave walked up the space in the centre reserved -as an aisle, carrying a giant Bible. This latter he placed on the -drygoods box. Old Man Enright, at a nod from Short Creek Dave, called -gently for attention, and addressed the meeting briefly. - -“This yere is a prayer meetin' of the camp,” said Enright, “an' I'm -asked by Dave to preside, which I accordin' do. No one need make any -mistake about the character of this gatherin', or its brand. This yere -is a relig'ous meetin'. I am not myse'f given that a-way, but I'm allers -glad to meet up with folks who be, an' see that they have a chance in -for their ante, an' their game is preserved. I'm one, too, who believes -a little religion wouldn't hurt this yere camp much. Next to a lynchin', -I don't know of a more excellent inflooence in a western camp than these -meetin's. I ain't expectin' to cut in on this play none myse'f, an' -only set yere, as does Peets, in the name of order, an' for the purposes -of a squar' deal. Which I now introdooces to you a gent who is liable to -be as good a preacher as ever thumps a Bible--your old pard, Short Creek -Dave.” - -“Mr. Pres'dent!” said Short Creek Dave, turning to Enright. - -“Short Creek Dave!” replied Enright sententiously, bowing gravely in -recognition. - -“An' ladies an' gents of Wolfville!” continued Dave, “I opens this -racket with a prayer.” - -The prayer proceeded. It was fervent and earnest; replete with unique -expression and personal allusion. In the last, the congregation took a -warm interest. - -Towards the close, Dave bent his energies in supplication for the -regeneration of Texas Thompson, whom he represented in his orisons as by -nature good, but living a misguided and vicious life. The audience was -listening with approving attention, when there came an interruption. It -was from Texas Thompson. - -“Mr. Pres'dent,” said Texas Thompson, “I rises to ask a question an' put -for'ard a protest.” - -“The gent will state his p'int,” responded Enright, rapping on the -drygoods box. - -“Which the same is this,” resumed Texas Thompson, drawing a long breath. -“I objects to Dave a-tacklin' the Redeemer for me. I protests ag'in him -makin' statements that I'm ornery enough to pillage a stage. This yere -talk is liable to queer me on High. I objects to it!” - -“Prayer is a device without rools or limit,” responded Enright. “Dave -makes his runnin' with the bridle off; an* the chair, tharfore, decides -ag'in the p'int of order.” - -“An' the same bein' the case,” rejoined Texas Thompson with heat, -“a-waivin' of the usual appeal to the house, all I've got to say is, I'm -a peaceful gent; I has allers been the friend of Short Creek Dave. Which -I even assists an' abets Boggs in packin' in these yere benches, an' -aids to promote this meetin'. But I gives notice now, if Short Creek -Dave persists in malignin' of me to the Great White Throne, as -yeretofore, I'll shore call on him to make them statements good with his -gun as soon as ever the contreebution box is passed.” - -“The chair informs the gent,” said Enright with cold dignity, “that -Dave, bein' now a Evangelist, can't make no gun plays, nor go canterin' -out to shoot as of a former day. However, the chair recognises the -rights of the gent, an', standin' as the chair does in the position of -lookout to this game, the chair nom'nates Dan'l Boggs, who's officiatin' -as deacon hereof, to back these yere orisons with his six-shooter as -soon as ever church is out, in person.” - -“It goes!” responded Boggs. “I proudly assoomes Dave's place.” - -[Illustration: 0097] - -“Mr. Pres'dent,” interrupted Short Creek Dave, “jest let me get my views -in yere. It's my turn all right, as I makes clear, easy. I've looked up -things some, an* I finds that the Apostle Peter, who was a great range -boss of them days, scroopled not to fight. Which I trails out after -Peter in this. I might add, too, that while it gives me pain to be -obleeged to shoot up brother Texas Thompson in the first half of the -first meetin' we holds in Wolfville, still the path of dooty is plain, -an' I shall shorely walk tharin, fearin' nothin'. I tharfore moves we -adjourn ten minutes, an' as thar is plenty of moon outside, if the -chair will lend me its gun--I'm not packin' of sech frivolities no more, -regyardin' of 'em in the light of sinful bluffs--I trusts to Providence -to convince brother Texas Thompson that he's followed off the wrong -waggon track. You-alls can gamble! I knows my business. I ain't -4-flushin' none when I lines out to pray!” - -“Onless objection is heard, this meetin' will stand adjourned for ten -minutes,” said Enright, at the same time passing Short Creek Dave his -pistol. - -Fifteen paces were stepped off, and the opponents faced up in the -moonlit street. Enright, Peets, Hall, Boggs, Tutt, Moore and the rest of -the congregation made a line of admiration on the sidewalk. - -“I counts one! two! three! an' then I drops the contreebution box,” said -Enright, “whereupon you-alls fires an' advances at will. Be you ready?” - -The shooting began on the word. When the smoke blew away, Texas Thompson -staggered to the sidewalk and sat down. There was a bullet in his hip, -and the wound, for the moment, brought a feeling of sickness. - -“The congregation will now take its seats in the sanctooary,” remarked -Enright, “an' play will be re-soomed. Tutt, two of you-alls carry Texas -over to the hotel, an' fix him up all right. Yereafter, I'll visit him -an' p'int out his errors. This shows concloosive that Short Creek Dave -is licensed from Above to pray any gait for whoever he deems meet, an' -I'm mighty pleased it occurs. It's shore goin' to promote confidence in -Dave's ministrations.” - -The concourse was duly in its seats when Short Creek Dave again reached -the pulpit. - -“I will now resoome my intercessions for our onfortunate brother, Texas -Thompson,” said Short Creek Dave. - -“I know'd he would,” commented Dan Boggs, as twenty dollars came over -addressed by the wounded Thompson to the contribution box. “Texas -Thompson is one of the reasonablest sports in Wolfville. Also you can -bet! relig'ous trooths allers assert themse'ves.” - - - - -CRIME THAT FAILED - -(Annals of the Bend) - - -Say! Matches,” said Chucky, removing his nose from his glass, “youse -remember d' Jersey Bank? I means d' time youse has to go to cover an -'d' whole mob is pinched in d' hole. Tell us d' story; it's dead -int'restin'.” - -This last was to me in a husky whisper. - -“That play was a case of fail,” remarked Mollie Matches thoughtfully. -Then turning to me as chief auditor, he continued. “It's over twenty -years ago; just on d' heels of d' Centenyul at Phil'delfy. D' graft was -fairly flossy durin 'd' Centenyul, an' I had quite a pot of dough. - -“One day a guy comes to me; he's a bank woiker, what d' fly people calls -'a gopher man'; he's a mug who's onto all d' points about safes an' -such. Well, as I says, this soon guy comes chasin' to me. - -“'Matches,' he says, 'don't say a woid; I'll put youse onto an easy -trick. Come wit' me to Jersey, an' I'll show you a bin what's all -organised to be cracked. Any old hobo could toin off d' play; it's a -walk-over.' - -“Wit' that, for I had confidence in this mark, see! We skins over to -Jersey, an' he steers me out to a nearby town an' points me out a bank. -What makes it a good t'ing is a vacant joint, wit' a 'To Rent' sign in -d' window, built dost ag'inst d' side of d' bank. - -“'Are youse on?' says d' goph, pointin' his main hook at d' empty house, -an' then at d' bank. - -“Bein' I'm no farmer meself, I takes no time to tumble. We screws our -nuts, me an' d' goph, to d' duck who owns d' house, an 'd' nex' news -is we rents it. D' duck who does d' rentin' says he can see we're on d' -level d' moment we floats in; but all d' same, if we can bring him a -tip or two on d' point of our bein' square people from one or two high -rollers whose names goes, he'll take it kindly. We says, suttenly; we -fills him to d' chin wit' all d' ref-runces he needs. - -“'We won't do a t'ing but send our pastor to youse,' puts in d' goph. - -“Good man, me pal was, as ever draws slide on a dark lantern, but always -out to be funny. - -“We rents d' joint, as I states, an' no more is said about refrunces. -Now, when it comes to d' real woik, I ain't goin' to do none, see! I -ain't down to dig an' pick; it spoils me hooks for dippin'. What I does -is furnish d' tools an 'd' dough. - -“I goes back an' gets a whole kit of bank tools--drills, centre-bits, -cold-chisels, jointed-jimmies, wedges, pullers, spreaders, fuse, powder, -mauls an' mufflers--I gets d' whole t'ing, see! Me pal knows a brace -of pards who'll stand in on d' play. He calls 'em in, an' one night -d' entire squeeze, wit 'd' tools, goes over an' plants themselfs in d -'empty house. Yes; dey takes grub an' blankets an' all dey needs. - -“Before this I goes ag'inst d' bank janitor; an' while he's a fairly -downy party, I wins him. D' janitor of d' bank gets a hundred bones, an' -I gets a map of d' bank, which shows where d* money is planted an' all -about it. - -“What's d' idee? Our racket is to tunnel from d' cellar of d' joint we -rents, under d' sidewall of d' bank, an' keep on until we reaches -d' stuff, see! We're out to do all d' woik we can wit'out lettin' d' -bank-crush twig d' graft. Then we waits till Saturday noon. D' bank -shuts up on Saturday noon, understan'! An' then we has till Monday at 9 -o'clock to finish d' woik. An' say! it's time plenty! It gives us time -to boin! - -“As I states, I don't do any of d' woik. D' gopher an' his two pals is -all d' job calls for. So I lays dead in d' town, ready to split out me -piece of d' plunder, an' waits results. - -“To hurry me yarn, everyt'ing woiks like it's greased to fit d' play. D' -mob gets d' tunnel as far as it'll go. Saturday noon comes an 'd' last -sucker who belongs to d' bank skips out. It's then me gopher an' his two -pals t'rows themselfs. - -“All t'rough Saturday afternoon an' all d' night till daylight Sunday -mornin', them gezebos woiks away like dogs. An' say! don't youse ever -doubt it! dey was winnin' in a walk. - -“But all this time d' pins was set up to do 'em. It was d' same -old story. There's always some little nogood bet a crook is sure to -overlook, an' it goes d' wrong way an' downs him. Here's what happens: - -“In d' foist place, we forgets to take d' 'To Rent' sign out of d' -window, see! That's d' beginnin'. Nex,' me goph an' his side-partners -digs so much dirt out of d' tunnel it fills d' cellar. Honest! it won't -hold no more. - -“At this last, dey takes to shovelin 'd' dirt into a bushel basket. Then -dey carries it up d' back stairs and dumps it on d' floor of a summer -kitchen. Be 7 o'clock Sunday, mebby dey dumps as many as six basketfuls; -dumps it, as I tells youse, in this lean-to, which is built on d' rear. - -“Now, right at this time there's an old Irish Moll who keeps a boardin' -house not far away who is flyin' along to early Mass, bein' dead -religious an' leary about her soul, see! This old goil, as she comes -sprintin' along, gets her bleary old lamps on d' 'To Rent' card. All at -onct d' idee fetches her a t'ump in d' cocoa that d' house would be out -of sight for a boardin' joint. Wit' that she steers herself in to take a -squint an' size up d' crib. - -“D' door is locked, so d' old goil can't come in. Wit' that she leads d' -nex' best card an' goes galumpin' round, pipin' off d' place t'rough d' -windows. An' say! she gets stuck on it. She t'inks if she can rent it, -she can run d' dandy boardin' house of d' ward in it. - -“As d' old frail goes round d' place, among all d' rest, she looks -t'rough d' windows into d' summer kitchen. She gets onto d' dirt that's -dumped, as I states, in one corner. But she don't see none of d' gang, -bein' dey's down in d' hole at d' time, so she don't fasten to nothin'. - -“At last she's seen enough an' sherries her nibs to d' cat'edral. - -“That's all right if it's only d' end; but it ain't. When it gets to -about 2 o'clock, this old skate in petticoats goes toinin' nutty ag'in -about d' empty house. Over she spins to grab another glimpse, see! When -she strikes d' summer kitchen she comes near to throwin' a faint. D' -pile of rubbidge is twenty times as big! - -“That settles it! d' joint is ha'nted! an' wit' that notion all tangled -up in her frizzes d' old mut makes a straight wake for d' priest. - -“'D' empty house nex' to d' bank is full of ghosts!' she shouts, an' -then she flings her apron over her nut an' comes a fit. - -“Now, this priest is about as sudden a party as ever comes over d' -ocean. Youse can't give him no stiff about spooks, see! Bein' nex' to d' -bank is a hot tip, an' he takes it. - -“Nit! he don't go surgin' round for his prayer-books an d' hully water. -It would have been a dead good t'ing if he had. Nixie weedin'! D' -long-coat sucker don't even come over to d' house. - -“What does he do? He sprints for d' nearest p'lice station at a 40 clip, -an' fills up d' captain in charge wit 'd' story till youse can't rest. -After that, it takes' d' p'lice captain about ten seconts to line up -his push; an' be coppin' a sneak, he pinches me gopher an' his two pals -right in d' hole. Dey was gettin' along beautiful at d' time, an' in ten -hours more dey would have had that bank on d' hog for fair. - -Dey was dead games at that. While dey gets d' collar, not one of 'em -coughs on me, an' me name ain't never in it from start to finish. Dey -was game, true pals from bell to bell, an' stayed d' distance. - -“It was d' bummest finish, all d' same, for what looked like d' biggest -trick, an' d' surest big money, that I ever goes near. Youse may well -peel your peeps! If it wasn't for that old Irish keener an' her ghost -stories, in less than ten hours more we wouldn't have got a t'ing but -complete action on more'n a million plunks! There was a hay-mow full of -money in that bin! - -“That's d' last round an' wind-up, as d' pugs puts it. Me gopher an' his -pals is handed out ten spaces each, an' I lose me kit of tools. Take it -over all, I'm out some four t'ousand dollars on d' deal. A tidy lump -of dough to be done out of be a priest, a p'liceman an' an old Irish -boardin' boss! D' old loidy lands wit' bot' her trilbys, though; d' bank -chucks her a bundle of fly-paper big enough to stan' for all her needs -until she croaks, forcuttin' in on our play, see!” - - - - -THE BETRAYAL - -The boys had resolved on revenge, and nothing could turn them from -their purpose. The trouble was this: Some one not otherwise engaged had -fed the furnace an overshoe which it did not need. As incident to its -consumption the overshoe had filled the building with an odour of -which nothing favourable could be said. The professor afterwards, in -denouncing the author of the outrage, had referred to it as “effluvia.” - It had as a perfume much force of character, and was stronger and more -devastating than the odour which goes with an egg in its old age, when -it has begun to hate the world and the future holds nothing but gloom. - -As stated, the schoolhouse reeked and reeled with this sublimated -overshoe. It all pleased the boys excessively. They made as much as -possible of the odour; they coughed, and sneezed, and worried the -professor by holding up their hands one after the other with the remark: - -“Teacher, may I go out?” - -The professor, after several destructive whiffs of the overshoe, made -a fiery speech. He said that could he once locate the boy who lavished -this overshoe on mankind in a gaseous form, that boy's person would -experience a rear-end collision. He would be so badly telescoped that -weeks would elapse before the boy could regard himself as being in -old-time form. The professor said the boy who founded the overshoe -odour was a “miscreant” and a “vandal.” He demanded his name of the boys -collectively; and failing to get it, the professor said they were all -miscreants and vandals, and that it would be as balm to his spirits were -he to wade in and larrup the entire outfit. - -After school the boys held a meeting. - -Frank Payne, aged fourteen, the boy who could lick any boy in school, -denounced the professor. He referred to the fact that his father was a -school trustee; and that under the rules the professor had no right to -bestow upon them the epithets of miscreants and vandals. Frank Payne -advised that they whip the professor; who must, he said, while a large, -muscular man, yield to mob violence. - -The proposition to whip the professor was carried unanimously under a -suspension of the rules. - -In the ardour of this crusade for their rights the boys did not feel as -if they could await the slow approach of trouble in the natural way. It -was decided by them to bring matters to a focus. It was planned to have -Tony Sanford stick a pin in John Dayton. That would be a splendid start! -John Dayton, thus stuck, would yell; and when the professor asked the -cause of his lamentations, John Dayton would point to Tony Sanford as -his assassin. When the professor laid corrective hands on Tony all of -the conspirators were to rush upon the professor and give him such a -rough-and-tumble experience that succeeding ages would date time from -the emeute. The boys were filled with glee; they regarded the business, -so they said, as “a pushover.” - -The hour for action had arrived. - -Tony Sanford had no pin. But Tony was a fertile boy; if there was a -picket off Tony's mental fence at all, it was his foresight. Lacking -a pin, the ingenious Tony stuck the small blade of his knife into John -Dayton. The victim howled like a dog at night. - -“Please, sir, Tony Sanford's stabbed me,” was John Dayton's explanation -of his shrieks. - -Tony Sanford was paraded for punishment. The cold-blooded enormity of -the crime seemed to strike the professor dumb. He did not know how to -take hold of the situation. But Tony pursued a course which not only -invited but suggested action. As Tony approached, he dealt the professor -an uppercut in the bread-basket, and with the cry, “Come on, boys!” - closed doughtily with the foe. - -The boys beheld the deeds of the intrepid Tony; they heard his cry and -knew it for their cue. Nevertheless, notwithstanding, not a boy moved. -They sat in their seats and gazed fixedly at Tony and the professor. -With the call of Tony to his fellow-conspirators the professor saw it -all. - -“Tony Sanford,” quoth the professor, “we will adjourn to the library. -When I get through, you will be of no further use to science.” - -The door closed on Tony Sanford, and a professor weighing 211 pounds. -The sounds which came welling from the library showed that some strong, -emotional work was being done within. Tony and the professor sounded -at times like a curlew at night, and anon like unto a man falling -downstairs with a stove. Tony Sanford said afterward that he would never -again attach himself to a plot which did not show two green lights on -the rear platform of its caboose. - - - - -FOILED - -(By the Office Boy) - - - - -CHAPTER I - -DARLING, I fear that man! The cruel guy can from his place as umpire do -you up.” - -It was Gwendolin O'Toole who spoke. She was a beautiful blonde angel, -and as she clung to her lover, Marty O'Malley, they were a picture from -which a painter would have drawn an inspiration. - -“Take courage, love!” said Marty O'Malley tenderly; “I'm too swift for -the duck.” - -“I know, dearest,” murmured the fair Gwendolin, “but think what's up -on the game! Me brother, you know him well! the rooter prince, the -bleachers' uncrowned king! he is the guardian of me vast estates. If I -do not marry as he directs, me lands and houses go to found an asylum -for decrepit ball tossers. And to-day me brother Godfrey swore by the -Banshee of the O'Tooles that me hand should belong to the man who made -the best average in to-morrow's game. Can you win me, love?” - -“I will win you or break the bat!” said Marty O'Malley, as he folded his -dear one in his arms. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -WHEN that villain, O'Malley, goes to bat to-morrow, pitch the ball ten -feet over his head. No matter where it goes I'll call a 'strike.'” - -It was Dennis Mulcahey who spoke; the man most feared by Gwendolin -O'Toole. He was to be the next day's umpire, and as he considered how -securely his rival was in his grasp, he laughed the laugh of a fiend. - -Dennis Mulcahey, too, loved the fair Gwendolin, but the dear girl -scorned his addresses. His heart was bitter; he would be revenged on his -rival. - -“You've got it in for the mug!” replied Terry Devine, to whom Dennis -Mulcahey had spoken. Devine was the pitcher of the opposition, and like -many of his class, a low, murdering scoundrel. “But, say! Denny, if -you wants to do the sucker, why don't youse give him a poke in d' face? -See!” - -“Such suggestions are veriest guff,” retorted Dennis Mulcahey. “Do as I -bid you, caitiff, an' presume not to give d' hunch to such as I! A wild -pitch is what I want whenever Marty O'Malley steps to the plate. I'll do -the rest.” - -“I'll t'row d' pigskin over d' grand stand,” said Terry Devine as he and -his fellow-plotter walked away. - -As the conspirators drifted into the darkness a dim form arose from -behind a shrub. It was Marty O'Malley. - -“Ah! I'll fool you yet!” he hissed between his clinched teeth, and -turning in the opposite direction he was soon swallowed by the darkness. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -You'll not fail me, Jack!” said Marty O'Malley to Jack, the barkeeper -of the Fielders' Rest. - -“Not on your sweater!” said Jack, “Leave it to me. If that snoozer -pitches this afternoon I hopes d' boss'll put in a cash-register!” - -Marty O'Malley hastened to the side of his love. Jack, the faithful -barkeeper, went on cleaning his glasses. - -“That hobo, Devine, will be here in a minute,” said Jack at last, “an' I -must organise for him.” - -Jack took a shell glass and dipped it in the tank behind the bar. Taking -his cigar from between his finely chiselled lips, he blew the smoke into -the moistened interior of the glass. This he did several times. - -“I'll smoke a glass on d' stiff,” said Jack softly. “It's better than a -knockout drop.” - -It was a moment later when Terry Devine came in. With a gleam of almost -human intelligence in his eye Jack, the barkeeper, set up the smoked -glass. Terry Devine tossed off the fiery potation, staggered to a chair, -and sat there glaring. A moment later his head fell on the table, while -a stertorous snore proclaimed him unconscious. - -“That fetched d' sucker,” murmured Jack, the barkeeper, and he went on -cleaning his glasses. “His light's gone out for fourteen hours, an' he -don't make no wild pitches at Marty O'Malley to-day, see!” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -Ten thousand people gathered to witness the last great contest between -the Shamrocks and the Shantytowns. - -Gwendolin O'Toole, pale but resolute, occupied her accustomed seat in -the grand stand. Far away, and high above the tumult of the bleachers -she heard the hoarse shouts of her brother, Godfrey O'Toole, the -bleachers' king. - -“Remember, Gwendolin!” he had said, as they parted just before the game, -“the mug who-makes the best average to-day wins your hand. I've sworn -it, and the word of an O'Toole is never broken.” - -“Make it the best fielding average, oh, me brother!” pleaded Gwendolin, -while the tears welled to her glorious eyes. - -“Never!” retorted Godfrey O'Toole, with a scowl; “I'm on to your -curves! You want to give Marty O'Malley a better show. But if the -butter-fingered muffer wants you, he must not only win you with his -fielding, but with the stick.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - -Terry Devine wasn't in the box for the Shantytowns. With his head on -the seven-up table, he snored on, watched over by the faithful barboy -Jack. He still yielded to smoked glass and gave no sign of life. - -“Curse him!” growled Umpire Mulcahey hoarsely beneath his breath “has he -t'run me down? If I thought so, the world is not wide enough to save him -from me vengeance.” - -And the change pitcher took the box for the Shantytowns. - -Marty O'Malley, the great catcher of the Shamrocks, stepped to the -plate. Dennis Mulcahey girded up his false heart, and registered a -black, hellish oath to call everything a strike. - -“Never! never shall he win Gwendolin O'Toole while I am umpire!” he -whispered, and his face was dark as a cloud. - -It was the last word that issued from the clam-shell of Dennis Mulcahey -for many a long and bitter hour; the last crack he made. Just as he -offered his bluff, the first ball was pitched. It was as wild and high -as a bird, as most first balls are. But Marty O'Malley was ready. He, -too, had been plotting; he would fight Satan with fire! - -As the ball sped by, far above his head, Marty O'Malley leaped twenty -feet in the air. As he did this he swung his unerring timber. Just as -he had planned, the flying, whizzing sphere struck the under side of his -bat, and glancing downward with fearful force, went crashing into the -dark, malignant visage of Dennis Mulcahey, upturned to mark its flight. -The fragile mask was broken; the features were crushed into complete -confusion with the awful inveteracy of the ball. - -Dennis Mulcahey fell as one dead. As he was borne away another umpire -was sent to his post. Marty O'Malley bent a glance of intelligence on -the change pitcher of the Shantytowns, who had taken the place of the -miscreant Dermis, and whispered loud enough to resell from plate to box: - -“Now, gimme a fair ball!” - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -And so the day was won; the Shamrocks basted the Shantytowns by the -score of 15 to 2. As for Marty O'Malley, his score stood: - - Ab. R. H. Po. A. E. - - O'Malley, c,....4 4 4 10 14 0 - -No such record had ever been made on the grounds. With four times at -bat, Marty O'Malley did so well, withal, that he scored a base hit, two -three-baggers and a home-run. - -That night Marty O'Malley wedded the rich and beautiful Gwendolin -O'Toole. Jack, the faithful bar-boy of the Fielders' Rest, officiated as -groomsman. Godfrey O'Toole, haughty and proud, was yet a square sport, -and gave the bride away. - -The rich notes of the wedding bells, welling and swelling, drifted -into the open windows of the Charity Hospital, and smote on the ears of -Dennis Mulcahey, where he lay with his face. - -“Curse 'em!” he moaned. - -Then came a horrible rattle in his throat, and the guilty spirit of -Dennis Mulcahey passed away. - -Death caught him off his base. - - - - -POLITICS - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -Nixie! I ain't did nothin', but all de same I'm feelin' like a mut, -see!” - -Chucky was displeased with some chapter in his recent past. I could tell -as much by the shifty, deprecatory way in which he twiddled and fiddled -with his beer-stein. - -“This is d' way it all happens,” exclaimed Chucky. “Over be Washin'ton -Square there's an old soak, an' he's out to go into pol'tics--wants to -hold office; Congress, I t'inks, is what this gezeybo is after. Anyhow -he's nutty to hold office. - -“Of course, I figgers that a guy who wants to hold office is a sucker; -for meself, I'd sooner hold a baby. Still, when some such duck comes -chasin' into pol'tics, I'm out for his dough like all d' rest of d' -gang. - -“So I goes an' gets nex' to this mucker an' jollies his game. I tells -him all he's got to do is to fix his lamps on d' perch that pleases him, -blow in his stuff an' me push'll toin loose, an' we'll win out d' whole -box of tricks in a walk, see! - -“That's all right; d' Washin'ton Square duck is of d' same views. -An' some of it ain't no foolish talk at that. I'm dead strong wit' d' -Dagoes, an' d' push about d' Bend, an' me old chum--if he starts--is -goin' to get a run for his money. - -“It ain t this, however, what wilts me d' way you sees to-night. It's -that I'm 'shamed, see! In d' foist place, I'm bashful. That's -straight stuff; I'm so bashful that if I'm in some other geezer's -joint--par-tic'ler if he's a high roller an' t'rowin' on social lugs, -like this Washin'ton Square party--I feels like creep-in' under d' door -mat. - -“D' other night this can'date for office says, says he, 'Chucky, I'm -goin to begin my money-boinin' be givin' a dinner over be me house, an' -youse are in it, see! in it wit' bot' feet.* - -“'Be I comin' to chew at your joint?' I asts; 'is that d' bright idee?' - -“'That's d' stuff,' he says; 'youse are comin' to eat wit' me an' me -friends. An' you can gamble your socks me friends is a flossy bunch at -that.' - -“I says I'll assemble wit' 'em. - -“Nit, I ain't stuck on d' play. I'd sooner eat be meself. But if I'm -goin' to catch up wit' his Whiskers an' sep'rate him from some of d' -long green, I've got to stay dost to his game, see! - -“It's at d' table me troubles begins. I does d' social double-shuffle in -d' hall all right. D' crush parts to let me t'rough, an' I woiks me -way up to me can'date--who, of course, is d' main hobo, bein' he's d' -architect of d' blowout--an' gives him d' joyful mit; what you calls d' -glad hand. - -“'Glad to see youse, Chucky,' says d' old mark. 'Tummas, steer Chucky to -his stool be d' table.' - -“It's at d' table I'm rattled, wit' all d' glasses an' dishes an 'd' -lights overhead. But I'm cooney all d' same. I ain't onto d' graft -meself, but I puts it up on d' quiet I'll pick out some student who -knows d' ropes an' string me bets wit' his. - -“As I sets there, I flashes me lamps along d' line, an' sort o' stacks -up d' blokes, for to pick out d' fly guys from d' lobsters, see! - -“Over'cross'd table I lights on an old stiff who looks like he could -teach d' game. T'inks I to meself, 'There's a mut who's been t'rough d' -mill many a time an' oft. All I got to do now is to pipe his play an' -never let him out o' me sight. If I follows his smoke, I'll finish in d' -front somewheres, an' none of these mugs 'll tumble to me ignorance.' - -“Say! on d' level! there was no flies on that for a scheme, was there? -An' it would have been all right, me system would; only this old galoot -I goes nex' to don't have no more sense than me. Why! he was d' ass of -d' evening! d' prize pig of d' play, he was! Let me tell youse. - -“D' foist move, he spreads a little table clot' across his legs. I ain't -missin' no tricks, so I gets me hooks on me own little table clot' and -spreads it over me legs also. - -“'This is good enough for a dog, I t'inks, an' easy money! Be keepin' me -eye on Mr. Goodplayer over there I can do this stunt all right.' - -“An' so I does. I never lets him lose me onct. - -“'How be youse makin' it, Chucky?' shouts me can'date from up be d' end -of d' room. - -“'Out o' sight!' I says. 'I'm winner from d' jump; I'm on velvet.' - -“'Play ball!' me can'date shouts back to encourage me, I suppose because -he's dead on I ain't no Foxy Quiller at d' racket we're at; 'play ball, -Chucky, an' don't let 'em fan youse out. When you can't bat d' ball, -bunt it,' says me can'date. - -“Of course gettin 'd' gay face that way from d' boss gives me -confidence, an' as a result it ain't two seconts before I'm all but -caught off me base. It's in d' soup innin's an 'd' flunk slams down d' -consomme in a tea cup. It's a new one on me for fair! I don't at d' -time have me lamps on d' mark 'cross d' way, who I'm understudyin', bein' -busy, as I says, slingin 'd' bit of guff I tells of wit' me can'date. -An' bein' off me guard, I takes d' soup for tea or some such dope, an' -is layin' out to sugar it. - -“'Stan' your hand!' says a dub who's organised be me right elbow, an' -who's feedin' his face wit' both mits; 'set a brake!' he says. 'That's -soup. Did youse t'ink it was booze?' - -“After that I fastens to d' old skate across d' table to note where he's -at wit' his game. He's doin' his toin on d' consomme wit' a spoon, so I -gets a spoon in me hooks, goes to mixin' it up wit 'd' soup as fast as -ever, an' follows him out. - -“An' say! I'm feelin' dead grateful to this snoozer, see! He was d' -ugliest mug I ever meets, at that. Say! he was d' limit for looks, an' -don't youse doubt it. As I sizes him up I was t'inking to meself, what -a wonder he is! Honest! if I was a lion an' that old party comes into -me cage, do youse know what I'd do? Nit; you don't. Well, I'll tip it to -youse straight. If any such lookin' monster showed up in me cage, if d' -door was open, I'd get out. That's on d' square, I'd simply give him -d' cage an' go an' board in d' woods. An' if d' door was locked an' I -couldn't get out, I'd t'row a fit from d' scare. Oh! he was a dream! -He's one of them t'ings a mark sees after he's been hittin' it up wit -'d' lush for a mont'. - -“'But simply because he looks like a murderer,' I reflects, 'that's no -reason why he ain't wise. He knows his way t'rough this dinner like a -p'liceman does his beat, an' I'll go wit' him.' - -“It's a go! When he plays a fork, I plays a fork; when he boards a -shave, I'm only a neck behint him. When he shifts his brush an' tucks -his little table clot' over his t'ree-sheet, I'm wit' him. I plays nex' -to him from soda to hock. - -“An' every secont I'm gettin' more confidence in this gezebo, an' more -an' more stuck on meself. On d' dead! I was farmer enough to t'ink I'd -t'ank him for bein' me guide before I shook d' push an' quit. Say! he'd -be a nice old dub for me to be t'ankin 'd' way it toins out. I was a -good t'ing to follow him, I don't t'ink. - -“If I was onto it early that me old friend across d' table had w'eels -an' was wrong in his cocoa, I wouldn't have felt so bad, see! But I'd -been playin' him to win, an' followin' his lead for two hours. An' I was -so sure I was trottin' in front, that all d' time I was jollyin' meself, -an' pattin' meself on d' back, an' tellin' meself I was a corker to -be gettin' an even run wit 'd' 400 d' way I was, d' foist time I enter -s'ciety. An' of course, lettin' me nut swell that way makes it all d' -harder when I gets d' jolt. - -“It's at d' finish. I'd gone down d' line wit' this sucker, when one of -them waiter touts, who's cappin' d' play for d' kitchen, shoves a bowl -of water in front of him. Now, what do youse t'ink he does? Drink it? -Nit; that's what he ought to have done. I'm Dutch if he don't up an' -sink his hooks in it. An' then he swabs off his mits wit' d' little -table clot'. Say! an' to t'ink I'd been takin' his steer t'rough d' -whole racket! It makes me tired to tell it! - -“'W'at th' 'ell!' I says to meself; 'I've been on a dead one from d' -start. This stiff is a bigger mut than I be.' - -“It let me out. Me heart was broke, an' I ain't had d' gall to hunt -up me can'date since. Nit; I don't stay to say no 'good-byes.' I'm too -bashful, as I tells you at d' beginnin'. As it is, I cops a sneak on -d' door, side-steps d' outfit, an' screws me nut. The can'date sees me -oozin' out, however, an' sends a chaser after me in d' shape of one -of his flunks. He wants me to come back. He says me can'date wants to -present me to his friends. I couldn't stan' for it d' way I felt, an' as -d' flunk shows fight an' is goin' to take me back be force, I soaks him -one an' comes away. On d' dead! I feels as'shamed of d' entire racket as -if some sucker had pushed in me face.” - - - - -ESSLEIN GAMES - - -For generations the Essleins have been fanciers of game chickens. The -name “Esslein” for a century and a half has had honourable place among -Virginians. In his day, they, the Essleins, were as well known as Thomas -Jefferson. As this is written they have equal Old Dominion fame with -either the Conways, the Fairfaxes, the McCarthys or the Lees. And all -because of the purity and staunch worth of the “Esslein Games.” - -It was the broad Esslein boast that no man had chickens of such feather -or strain. And this was accepted popularly as truth. The Essleins never -loaned, sold, nor gave away egg or chicken. No one could produce the -counterpart of the Esslein chickens for looks or warlike heart; no one -ever won a main from the Essleins. So at last it was agreed generally, -that no one save the Essleins did have the “Esslein Games;” and this -belief went unchallenged while years added themselves to years. - -But there came a day when a certain one named Smith, who dwelt in the -region round about the Essleins, and who also had note for his fighting -cocks, whispered to a neighbour that he, as well as the Essleins, had -the “Esslein Games.” The whisper spread into talk, and the talk into -general clamour; everywhere one heard that the long monopoly was broken, -and that Smith had the “Esslein Games.” - -This startling story had half confirmation by visitors to the Smith -walks. Undoubtedly Smith had chickens, feather for feather, twins of the -famous Essleins. That much at least was true. The rest of the question -might have evidence pro or con some day, should Smith and the Essleins -make a main. - -But this great day seemed slow, uncertain of approach. Smith would not -divulge the genesis of his fowls, nor tell how he came to be possessed -of the Esslein chickens. Smith confined himself to the bluff claim: - -“I've got 'em, and there they be.” - -Beyond this Smith wouldn't go. On' their parts, the Essleins, at first -maintained themselves in silent dignity. They said nothing; treating the -Smith claim as beneath contempt. - -As man after man, however, went over to the Smith side, the Essleins so -far unbent from their pose of tongue-tied hauteur as to call Smith “a -liar!” - -Still this failed of full effect; the talk went on, the subject was in -mighty dispute, and the Essleins at last, to settle discussion, defied -Smith to a main. - -But Smith refused to fight his chickens against the Essleins. Smith said -it was conscience, but failed to go into details. This was damaging. -Meanwhile, however, as Smith challenged the world of fighting cocks, -and, moreover, won every match he ever made, and barred only the -Essleins in his campaigning, there arose, in spite of his steady -objection to fighting the Essleins, many who believed Smith and stood -forth for it that Smith did have the far-famed “Esslein Games.” It is to -the credit of the Essleins that they did all that was in their power to -bring Smith and his chickens to the battlefield. They offered him every -inducement known in chicken war, and tendered him a duel for his cocks -to be fought for anything from love to money. - -Firm to the last, Smith wouldn't have it; and so, discouraged, the -Essleins, failing action, nailed as it were their gauntlet to Smith's -hen-coop door, and thus the business stood for months. - -It came about one day that a stranger from Baltimore accepted Smith's -standing challenge to fight anybody save the Essleins. The stranger -proposed and made a match with Smith to fight him nine battles, $500 -on each couple and $2,500 on the general main. And then the news went -'round. - -There was high excitement in chicken circles. The day came and the -sides of the pit were crowded. Smith was in his corner with his handler, -getting the first of his champions ready for the struggle. As Smith was -holding the chicken for the handler to fasten on the gaffs--drop-socket, -they were, and keen as little scimetars--he chanced to glance across the -pit. - -There stood John, chief of the Essleins. - -Smith saw it in a moment; he had been trapped. But it was too late. The -match was made and the money was up; there was no chance to retrace, -even if Smith had wanted. As a fact to his glory, however, he had no -desire so to do. - -“We're up against the Essleins, Bill,” Smith said to his trainer; “and -it's all right. I didn't want to make a match with them, because I got -their chickens queer. And if I'd fought them and won, I'd felt like I'd -got their money queer; and that I couldn't stand. But this is different. -We'll fight the Essleins now they're here, and 'if they can win over me, -they're welcome.” - -Then the main began. The first battle was short, sharp, deadly; and -glorious for Smith. The Esslein chicken got a stab in the heart the -first buckle. Smith smiled as his handler pulled his chicken's gaff out -of its dead victim, and set it free. - -The Smith entries won the second and third battle. Triumph rode on the -glance of Smith, while the Esslein brows were bleak and dark. - -“Smith's got the 'Esslein Games,' sure!” was whispered about the pit. - -In the fourth and fifth battles the tide ran the other way, the Esslein -chickens killing their rivals. Each battle, for that matter, had so far -been to the death. - -The sixth battle went to Smith and the seventh to the Essleins. Thus it -stood four for Smith to three for the Essleins, just before the eighth -battle. It didn't look as if Smith could lose. - -It was at this juncture so hopeful for the coops of Smith, that Smith -did a foolish thing. Yielding to the appeals of his trainer, Smith let -that worthy man put up a chicken of his own to face the Esslein entry -for the eighth duel. It was a gorgeous shawl-neck that Smith's trainer -produced; eye bright as a diamond, and beak like some arrow-head of jet. -His legs looked as strong as a hod-carrier's. It was a horse to a hen, -so everybody said, that the Esslein chicken,--which was but a small, -indifferent bird,--would lose its life, the battle, and the main at one -and the same time. - -Popular conjecture was wrong, as popular conjecture often is. The -Esslein chicken locked both gaffs through the shawl-neck's brain in the -second buckle. - -“That teaches me a lesson,” said Smith. “Hereafter should an angel come -down from heaven and beg me to let him fight a chicken in a main of -mine, I'll turn him down!” - -It was the ninth battle and the score stood four for Smith and four -for the Essleins. As the slim gaffs, grey and cruelly sharp, were being -placed on the feathered gladiators for the last deadly joust, Smith -called across the pit to John Esslein: - -“Esslein,” he said, “no matter how this last battle may fall, I reckon -I've convinced you and everybody looking on, that, just as I said, I've -got the 'Esslein Games.' To show you that I know I have, and give you -a chance for revenge as well, I'll make this last fight for $10,000 a -cock. The main so far has been an even break, and neither of us has won -or lost. The last battle decides the tie and wins or loses me $3,000. To -make it interesting, I'll raise the risk both ways, if you're willing, -just $7,000, and call the bundle ten. And,” concluded Smith, as he -glanced around the pit, “there isn't a sport here but will believe in -his heart, when I, a poor man, offer to make this last battle one for -$20,000, that I know that, even if I'm against, I'm at least behind an -'Esslein Game.'” - -“Make it for $10,000 a cock, then!” said John Esslein bitterly. “Whether -I win or lose main and money too, I've already lost much more than both -to-day.” - -Then the fight began. The chickens were big and strong and quick and as -dauntlessly savage as ospreys. And feather and size, eye, and beak and -leg, they were the absolute counterparts of each other. - -For ten minutes the battle raged. Either the spurred fencers had more of -luck or more of caution than the others. Buckle after buckle occurred, -and after ten minutes' fighting the two enemies still faced each other -with angry, bead-like eyes, and without so much as a drop of blood -spilled. - -[Illustration: 0127] - -They fronted each other balefully while one might count seven. Their -beaks travelled up and down as evenly as if moved by the same impulse. -Then they clashed together. - -This time,-as they drew apart, Smith's chicken fell upon its side, its -right leg cut and broken well up toward the hip, with the bone pushing -upward and outward through the slash of the gaff. - -“Get your chicken and wring its neck, Smith,” said someone. “It's all -over!” - -“Let them fight!” responded Smith. “It's not 'all over!' That chicken of -Esslein's has a long row to hoe to kill that bird of mine.” - -Hardly were the words uttered when a strange chance befell. Smith's -prostrate cripple reached up as its foe approached, seized it with its -beak, and struggled to its one good foot. In the buckle that followed, -the one gaff by some sleight of the cripple slashed the Esslein chicken -over the eyes and blinded it. The muscles closed down and covered the -eyes. Otherwise the Esslein cock was unhurt. - -Then began a long, fierce, yet feeble fight. One chicken couldn't stand -and the other couldn't see. The Smith chicken would lie on its side and -watch its rival with eyes blazing hate, while the Esslein chicken, blind -as a bat, would grope for him. When he came within reach of Smith's -chicken, that indomitable bird would seize him with his bill; there -would be some weak, aimless clashing, and again they'd be separated, the -blind one to grope, the cripple to lie and wait. - -The war limped on in this fashion for almost two hours. But the end -came. As the Esslein chicken strayed blindly within reach, its enemy -got a strong, sudden grip, and in the collision that was the sequel, the -Esslein chicken had its head half slashed from its body. It staggered a -step with blood spurting, tottered and fell dead. - -Smith said never a word, but from first to last his face had been cold -and grimly indifferent. His heart was fire, but no one could see it in -his face. Evidently the man was as clean-strain as his chickens. - -That's all there is to the story. What became of the victor with the -broken leg? Smith looked him over, decided it was “no use,” and wrung -his dauntless neck. The great main was over. Smith had won, everybody -knew, as Smith went home that night, that he wras $10,000 better off, -and that fast and sure, beyond denial or doubt, Smith had the “Esslein -Games.” - - - - -THE PAINFUL ERROR - - -This is a tale of school life. Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin -Clayton are scholars in the same school. The name of this seminary -is withheld by particular request. Suffice it that all three of these -youths come and go and have their bright young beings within the -neighbourhood of Newark. The age of each is thirteen years. Thirteen is -a sinister number. They are all jocund, merry-hearted boys, and put in -many hours each day thinking up a good time. - -One day during the noon hour the school building was all but deserted. -Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton, however, were there. They -had formed plans for their entertainment which demanded the desertion -of the school building as chronicled. The coast being fairly clear, the -conspiring three proceeded to one of the upper recitation rooms of the -building. This room did not appertain to the particular school favoured -by the attendance of Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton as -scholars. This, however, only added zest to the adventure. - -The room to which our heroes repaired was the recitation stamping ground -of a high school class in physiology. The better to know anatomy, the -class was furnished with the skeleton of some dead gentleman, all nicely -hung and arranged with wires so as to look as much like former days as -possible. During class hours the framework of the dead person stood in -a corner of the room, and the students learned things from it that were -useful to know. When off duty it reposed in a box. - -Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton had heard of deceased. -Their purpose this noon was to call on him. They gained entrance to the -room by the burglarious method of picking the lock. Once within they -took the skeleton from its box home and stood it in the window where the -public might revel in the spectacle. To take off any grimness of effect -they fixed a cob pipe in its bony jaws and clothed the skull in a -bad hat, pulled much over the left eye, the whole conferring upon the -remains a highly gala, joyous air indeed. - -Then Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton withdrew from the -scene. - -The skeleton in the window was very popular. Countless folk had -assembled to gaze upon it at the end of the first ten minutes, and -armies were on their way. - -The principal of the school as he came from lunch saw it and was much -vexed. He put the skeleton back in its box, and the hydra-headed public -slowly dispersed. - -Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton secretly gloated over the -transaction in detail and entirety. But the principal began to make -inquiries; the avenger was on the track of the criminal three. Some big -girls had witnessed the felonious entrance of the guilty ones into -the den of the skeleton. The big girls imparted their knowledge to the -principal, hunting these felons of the school. But the big girls slipped -a cog on one important point. They did not know the recreant Benjamin -Clayton. After arguing it all over they decided that “the third boy” was -a very innocent young person named Albert Weed, and so gave in the names -of the guerillas as: - -“Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Albert Weed!” That afternoon the indignant -principal demanded that Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Albert Weed attend -him to the study. They were there charged with the atrocity of the -skeleton in the window. Charles Roy and Fred Avery confessed and asked -for mercy. Albert Weed denied having art, part or lot in the outrage. -The principal was much shocked at his prompt depravity in trying to lie -himself clear. The principal, in order to be exactly just, and evenly -fair, craved to know of Charles Roy and Fred Avery: - -“Was Albert Weed with you?” - -“Please, sir, we would rather be excused from answering,” they said, -hanging down their heads. - -Then the principal knew that Albert Weed was guilty. Fred Avery -and Charles Roy were forgiven, and were complimented on their -straightforward, manly course in refusing to tell a lie to shield -themselves. - -“As for you, Albert,” observed the principal, as he seized Albert Weed -by the top of his head, “as for you, Albert, I do not punish you for -being roguish with the skeleton, but for telling me a lie.” - -* * * * * - -The principal thereupon lambasted the daylights out of Albert Weed. - - - - -THE RAT - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -Be d' cops at d' Central office fly?” Chucky buried his face in his -tankard in a polite effort to hide his contempt for the question. “Be -dey fly! Say! make no mistake! d' Central Office mugs is as soon a set -of geezers as ever looked over d' hill. Dey're d' swiftest ever. On d' -level! I t'ink t'ree out of every four of them gezebos could loin to -play d' pianny in one lesson. - -“Just to put youse onto how quick dey be, an' to give you some idee of -their curves, let me tell you what dey does to Billy d' Rat. - -“Youse never chases up on d' Rat? Nit! Well, Cully, you don't miss much. -Yes, d' Rat's a crook all right. He's a nipper, but a dead queer one, -see! He always woiks alone, an' his lay is diamonds. - -“'I don't want no pals or stalls in mine,” says d' Rat. “I can toin -all needful tricks be me lonesome. Stalls is a give-away, see! Let some -sucker holler, an' let one of your mob get pinched, an' what then? Why, -about d' time he's stood up an' given d' secont degree be Mc-Clusky, -he coughs. That's it! he squeals, an' d' nex' dash out o' d' box youse -don't get a t'ing but d' collar. Nine out o' ten of d' good people doin' -time to-day, was t'rown into soak be some pal knockin'. I passes all -that up! I goes it alone! If I nips a rock it's mine; I don't split out -no bits for no snoozer, see! I'm d' entire woiks, an' if I stumbles an' -falls be d' wayside, it's me's to blame. Which last makes it easier to -stan' for.' - -“That's d' way d' Rat lays out d' ground for me one day,” continued -Chucky, “an' he ain't slingin' no guff at that. It's d' way he always -woiked. - -“But to skin back to d' Central Office cops an' how flydey be: One of d' -Rat's favourite stunts is dampin' a diamond. What's that? Youse'll catch -on as me tale unfolds, as d' nov'lists puts it. - -“Here's how d' Rat would graft. Foist he'd rub up his two lamps wit' -pepper till dey looks red an', out of line. When he'd got t'rough doin' -d' pepper act to 'em, d' Rat's peeps, for fair! would do to understudy -two fried eggs. - -“Then d' Rat would pull on a w'ite wig, like he's some old stuff; an' -wit' that an' some black goggles over his peeps, his own Rag wouldn't -have known him. To t'row 'em down for sure, d' Rat would wear a -cork-sole shoe,--one of these 6-inch soles,--like he's got a game -trilby. Then when he's all made up in black togs, d' Rat is ready. - -“Bein' organised, d' Rat hobbles into a cab an' drives to a diamond -shop. D' racket is this: Of course it takes a bit of dough, but that's -no drawback, for d' Rat is always on velvet an' dead strong. As I -say, d' play is this: D' Rat being well dressed an' fitted up wit' his -cork-soles, his goggles an' his wig, comes hobblin' into d' diamond -joint an' gives d' impression he's some rich old mark who ain't got -a t'ing but money, an' that he's out to boin a small bundle be way -of matchin' a spark which he has wit' him in his mit. D' Rat fills d' -diamond man up wit' a yarn, how he's goin' to saw a brace of ear-rings -off on his daughter an' needs d' secont rock, see! Of course it's a dead -case of string. D' Rat ain't got no kid, an' would be d' last bloke to -go festoonin' her wit' diamonds if he had. - -“Naturally, d' mut who owns d' store is out an' eager to do business. -D' Rat won't let d' diamond man do d' matchin'; not on your life! he's -goin' to mate them sparks himself. So he gives d' stiff wit' d' store -d' tip to spread a handful of stones, say about d' size of d' one he's -holdin' in his hooks--which mebby is a 2-carat--on some black velvet for -him to pick from. D' diamond party ain't lookin' for no t'row down -from an old sore-eyed, cork-sole hobo like d' Rat, so he lays out a -sprinklin' of stones. D' Rat, who all this time is starring his bum -lamps, an' tellin' how bad an' weak dey be, an' how he can hardly see, -gets his map down dost to d' lay-out of sparks, so as he can get onto em -an' make d' match. - -“It's now d' touch comes in. When d' Rat's got his smeller right -among d' diamonds, he sticks out his tongue, quick like a toad for a -honey-bee, an' nails a gem. That's what dey calls 'dampin' a diamond.' -Yes, mebby if there's so many of 'em laid out, he t'inks d' mark behint -d' show case will stan' for it wit'out missin' 'em, d' Rat gets two. -Then d' Rat goes on jollyin' an' chinnin' wit' d' sparks in his face; -an' mebby for a finish an' to put a cover on d' play, he buys one an' -screws his nut. - -“Wit' his cab, as I says, d' Rat is miles away, an' has time to shed his -wig an' goggles an' cork-sole before d' guy wit' d' diamonds tumbles -to it he's been done. That's how d' Rat gets in his woik. Now I'll tell -youse how d' Central Office people t'run d' harpoon into him. - -“One day d' Rat makes a play an' gets two butes. He tucks 'em away in -back of his teet', an' is just raisin' his nut to say somethin', when -d' store duck grabs him an' raises a roar. Two or t'ree cloiks an' a cop -off d' street comes sprintin' up, an' away goes d' Rat to d' coop. - -“Wit 'd' foist yell of d' sucker who makes d' front for d' store--naw, -he ain't d' owner, he's one of d' cloiks--d' Rat goes clean outside of -d' sparks at a gulp; swallows 'em; that's what he does. There bein' no -diamond toined up, an' no one at headquarters bein' onto him--for he's -always laid low an' kept out of sight of d' p'lice--d' Rat makes sure -dey'll have to t'run him loose. - -“But d' boss cop is pretty cooney. He figgers it all out, how d' Rat's -a crook, an' how he's eat d' diamonds, just as I says. So he cons d' Rat -an' t'rows a dream into him. He tells him there'll be no trouble, but -he'll have to keep him for an hour or two until his 'sooperior off'cer,' -as he calls him, gets there. He's d' main squeeze, this p'lice dub -dey're waitin' for, an' as soon as he shows up an' goes over d' play, d' -Rat can screw out. - -“That's d' sort of song an' dance d' high cop gives d' Rat; an' say! I'm -a lobster if d' Rat don't fall to it, at that. On d' dead! this p'lice -duck is so smooth an' flossy d' Rat believes him. - -“Just for appearances d' Rat registers a big kick; an' then--for dey -don't lock him up at all--he plants himself in a easy chair to do a toin -of wait. D' Rat couldn't have broke an' run for it, even if he'd took d' -scare, for d' cops is all over d' place. But he ain't lookin' for d' -woist of it nohow. He t'inks it's all as d' boss cop has told him; he'll -wait there an hour or two for d' main guy an' then dey'll cut him free. - -“After a half hour d' boss cop says: 'It's no use you bein' hungry, me -frien', an' as I'm goin' to chew, come wit' me an' feed your face. D' -treat's on me, anyhow, bein' obliged to detain a respect'ble old mucker -like you. So come along.' - -“Wit' that d' Rat goes along wit 'd' boss cop, an' all d' time he's -t'inkin' what a Stoughton bottle d' cop is. - -“It's nex' door, d' chop-house is. D' cop an 'd' Rat sets down an' -breasts up to d' table. Dey gives d' orders all right, all right. But -say! d' grub never gets to 'em. D' nex' move after d' orders, d' Rat, -who's got a t'irst on from d' worry of bein' lagged, takes a drink out -of a glass. - -“'I'm poisoned!' yells d' Rat as he slams down d' tumbler; 'somebody's -doped me!' an' wit' that d' Rat toins in, t'rows a fit, an' is seasick -to d' limit. - -“That's what that boss cop does. He sends over an' doctors a glass while -d' Rat is settin' in his office waitin', an' then gives him a bluff -about chewin' an' steers d' Rat ag'inst it. Say! it was a dandy play. D' -dope or whatever it was, toins me poor friend d' Rat inside out, like an -old woman's pocket. - -“An' them sparks is recovered. - -“Yes, d' Rat does a stretch. As d' judge sentences him, d' Rat gives d' -cop who downs him his mit. 'You're a wonder,' says d' Rat to d' cop; -'there's no flies baskin' in d' sun on you. When I reflects on d' way -you sneaks d' chaser after them sparks, an' lands 'em, I'm bound to say -d' Central Office mugs are onto their job.'” - - - - -CHEYENNE BILL - -(Wolfville) - - -Cheyenne Bill is out of luck. Ordinarily his vagaries are not regarded -in Wolfville. His occasional appearance in its single street in a -voluntary of nice feats of horsemanship, coupled with an exhibition of -pistol shooting, in which old tomato cans and passé beer bottles perform -as targets, has hitherto excited no more baleful sentiment in the -Wolfville bosom than disgust. - -“Shootin' up the town a whole lot!” is the name for this engaging -pastime, as given by Cheyenne Bill, and up to date the exercise has -passed unchallenged. - -But to-day it is different. Camps like individuals have moods, now -light, now dark; and so it is with Wolfville. At this time Wolfville -is experiencing a wave of virtue. This may have come spontaneously from -those seeds of order which, after all, dwell sturdily in the Wolfville -breast. It may have been excited by the presence of a pale party of -Eastern tourists, just now abiding at the O. K. Hotel; persons whom -the rather sanguine sentiment of Wolfville credits with meditating an -investment of treasure in her rocks and rills. But whatever the reason, -Wolfville virtue is aroused; a condition of the public mind which makes -it a bad day for Cheyenne Bill. - -The angry sun smites hotly in the deserted causeway of Wolfville. The -public is within doors. The Red Light Saloon is thriving mightily. Those -games which generally engross public thought are drowsy enough; but -the counter whereat the citizen of Wolfville gathers with his peers in -absorption of the incautious compounds of the place, is fairly sloppy -from excess of trade. Notwithstanding the torrid heat this need not -sound strangely; Wolfville leaning is strongly homoeopathic. “_Similia -similibus curantur_,” says Wolfville; and when it is blazing hot, drinks -whiskey. - -But to-day there is further reason for this consumption. Wolfville is -excited, and this provokes a thirst. Cheyenne Bill, rendering himself -prisoner to Jack Moore, rescue or no rescue, has by order of that -sagacious body been conveyed by his captor before the vigilance -committee, and is about to be tried for his life. - -What was Cheyenne Bill's immediate crime? Certainly not a grave one. Ten -days before it would have hardly earned a comment. But now in its spasm -of virtue, and sensitive in its memories of the erratic courses of -Cheyenne Bill aforetime, Wolfville has grimly taken possession of that -volatile gentleman for punishment. He has killed a Chinaman. Here is the -story: - -“Yere comes that prairie dog, Cheyenne Bill, all spraddled out,” says -Dave Tutt. - -Dave Tutt is peering from the window of the Red Light, to which lattice -he has been carried by the noise of hoofs. There is a sense of injury -disclosed in Dave Tutt's tone, born of the awakened virtue of Wolfville. - -“It looks like this camp never can assoome no airs,” remarks Cherokee -Hall in a distempered way, “but this yere miser'ble Cheyenne comes -chargin' up to queer it.” - -[Illustration: 0141] - -As he speaks, that offending personage, unconscious of the great change -in Wolf ville morals, sweeps up the street, expressing gladsome and -ecstatic whoops, and whirling his pistol on his forefinger like a thing -of light. One of the tourists stands in the door of the hotel smoking -a pipe in short, brief puffs of astonishment, and reviews the -amazing performance. Cheyenne Bill at once and abruptly halts. Gazing -for a disgruntled moment on the man from the East, he takes the pipe -from its owner's amazed mouth and places it in his own “smokin' of -pipes,” he vouchsafes in condemnatory explanation, “is onelegant an' -degradin'; an' don't you do it no more in my presence. I'm mighty -sensitive that a-way about pipes, an' I don't aim to tolerate 'em none -whatever.” - -This solution of his motives seems satisfactory to Cheyenne Bill. He -sits puffing and gazing at the tourist, while the latter stands dumbly -staring, with a morsel of the ravished meerschaum still between his -lips. - -What further might have followed in the way of oratory or overt acts -cannot be stated, for the thoughts of the guileless Cheyenne suddenly -receive a new direction. A Chinaman, voluminously robed, emerges from -the New York store, whither he has been drawn by dint of soap. - -“Whatever is this Mongol doin' in camp, I'd like for to know?” inquires -Cheyenne Bill disdainfully. “I shore leaves orders when I'm yere last, -for the immejit removal of all sech. I wouldn't mind it, but with -strangers visitin' Wolf ville this a-way, it plumb mortifies me to -death.” - -“Oh well!” he continues in tones of weary, bitter reflection, “I'm the -only public-sperited gent in this yere outfit, so all reforms falls -nacheral to me. Still, I plays my hand! I'm simply a pore, lonely white, -but jest the same, I makes an example of this speciment of a sudsmonger -to let 'em know whatever a white man is, anyhow.” - -Then comes the short, emphatic utterance of a six-shooter. A puff of -smoke lifts and vanishes in the hot air, and the next census will be -short one Asiatic. - -In a moment arrives a brief order from Enright, the chief of the -vigilance committee, to Jack Moore. The last-named official proffers a -Winchester and a request to surrender simultaneously, and Cheyenne Bill, -realizing fate, at once accedes. - -“Of course, gents,” says Enright, apologetically, as he convenes the -committee in the Red Light bar; “I don't say this Cheyenne is held for -beefin' the Chinaman sole an' alone. The fact is, he's been havin' a -mighty sight too gay a time of late, an' so I thinks it's a good, safe -play, bein' as it's a hot day an' we has the time, to sorter call the -committee together an' ask its views, whether we better hang this yere -Cheyenne yet or not?” - -“Mr. Pres'dent,” responds Dave Tutt, “if I'm in order, an' to get the -feelin' of the meetin' to flowin' smooth, I moves we takes this Cheyenne -an' proceeds with his immolation. I ain't basin' it on nothin' in -partic'lar, but lettin' her slide as fulfillin' a long-felt want.” - -“Do I note any remarks?” asks Enright. “If not, I takes Mr. Tutt's very -excellent motion as the census of this meetin', an' it's hang she is.” - -“Not intendin' of no interruption,” remarks Texas Thompson, “I wants to -say this: I'm a quiet gent my-se'f, an' nacheral aims to keep Wolfville -a quiet place likewise. For which-all I shorely favours a-hangin' of -Cheyenne. He's given us a heap of trouble. Like Tutt I don't make no -p'int on the Chinaman; we spares the Chink too easy. But this Cheyenne -is allers a-ridin', an' a-yellin', an' a-shootin' up this camp till I'm -plumb tired out. So I says let's hang him, an' su'gests as a eligible, -as well as usual nook tharfore, the windmill back of the dance hall.” - -“Yes,” says Enright, “the windmill is, as experience has showed, amply -upholstered for sech plays; an' as delays is aggravatin', the committee -might as well go wanderin' over now, an' get this yere ceremony off its -mind.” - -“See yere, Mr. Pres'dent!” interrupts Cheyenne Bill in tones of one -ill-used, “what for a deal is this I rises to ask?” - -“You can gamble this is a squar' game,” replies Enright confidently. -“You're entitled to your say when the committee is done. Jest figure out -what kyards you needs, an' we deals to you in a minute.” - -“I solely wants to know if my voice is to be regarded in this yere play, -that's all,” retorts Cheyenne Bill. - -“Gents,” says Doc Peets, who has been silently listening. “I'm with -you on this hangin'. These Eastern sharps is here in our midst. It'll -impress 'em that Wolfville means business, an' it's a good, safe, quiet -place. They'll carry reports East as will do us credit, an' thar you be. -As to the propriety of stringin' Cheyenne, little need be said. If the -Chinaman ain't enough, if assaultin' of an innocent tenderfoot ain't -enough, you can bet he's done plenty besides as merits a lariat. He -wouldn't deny it himse'f if you asks him.” - -There is a silence succeeding the rather spirited address of Doc Peets, -on whose judgment Wolfville has been taught to lean. At last Enright -breaks it by inquiring of Cheyenne Bill if he has anything to offer. - -“I reckons it's your play now, Cheyenne,” he says, “so come a-runnin.'” - -“Why!” urges Cheyenne Bill, disgustedly, “these proceedin's is ornery -an' makes me sick. I shore objects to this hangin'; an' all for a measly -Chinaman too! This yere Wolfville outfit is gettin' a mighty sight too -stylish for me. It's growin' that per-dad-binged-'tic'lar it can't take -its reg'lar drinks, an'----” - -“Stop right thar!” says Enright, with dignity, rapping a shoe-box with -his six-shooter; “don't you cuss the chair none, 'cause the chair won't -have it. It's parliamentary law, if any gent cusses the chair he's -out of order, same as it's law that all chips on the floor goes to the -house. When a gent's out of order once, that settles it. He can't talk -no more that meetin'. Seein' we're aimin' to eliminate you, we won't -claim nothin' on you this time. But be careful how you come trackin' -'round ag'in, an' don't fret us! _Sabe?_ Don't you-all go an' fret us -none!” - -“I ain't allowin' to fret you,” retorts Cheyenne Bill. “I don't have to -fret you. What I says is this: I s'pose, I sees fifty gents stretched -by one passel of Stranglers or another between yere an' The Dalis, an' I -never does know a party who's roped yet on account of no Chinaman. An' -I offers a side bet of a blue stack, it ain't law to hang people on -account of downin' no Chinaman. But you-alls seems sot on this, an' so I -tells you what I'll do. I'm a plain gent an' thar's no filigree work on -me. If it's all congenial to the boys yere assembled--not puttin' it on -the grounds of no miser'ble hop slave, but jest to meet public sentiment -half way--I'll gamble my life, hang or no hang, on the first ace turned -from the box, Cherokee deal. Does it go?” - -Wolfville tastes are bizarre. A proposition original and new finds -in its very novelty an argument for Wolfville favour. It befalls, -therefore, that the unusual offer of Cheyenne Bill to stake his neck on -a turn at faro is approvingly criticised. The general disposition agrees -to it; even the resolute Enright sees no reason to object. - -“Cheyenne,” says Enright, “we don't have to take this chance, an' it's -a-makin' of a bad preceedent which the same may tangle us yereafter; but -Wolfville goes you this time, an' may Heaven have mercy on your soul. -Cherokee, turn the kyards for the ace.” - -“Turn squar', Cherokee!” remarks Cheyenne Bill with an air of interest. -“You wouldn't go to sand no deck, nor deal two kyards at a clatter, -ag'in perishin' flesh an' blood?” - -“I should say, no!” replies Cherokee. “I wouldn't turn queer for money, -an' you can gamble! I don't do it none when the epeesode comes more -onder the head of reelaxation.” - -“Which the same bein' satisfact'ry,” says Cheyenne Bill, “roll your -game. I'm eager for action; also, I plays it open.” - -“I dunno!” observes Dan Boggs, meditatively caressing his chin; “I'm -thinkin' I'd a-coppered;--that's whatever!” - -The deal proceeds in silence, and as may happen in that interesting -sport called faro, a split falls out. Two aces appear in succession. - -“Ace lose, ace win!” says Cherokee, pausing. “Whatever be we goin' to do -now, I'd like to know?” There is a pause. - -“Gents,” announces Enright, with dignity, “a split like this yere -creates a doubt; an' all doubts goes to the pris'ner, same as a maverick -goes to the first rider as ties it down, an' runs his brand onto it. -This camp of Wolfville abides by law, an' blow though it be, this yere -Cheyenne Bill, temp'rarily at least, goes free. However, he should -remember this yere graze an' restrain his methods yereafter. Some of -them ways of his is onhealthful, an' if he's wise he'll shorely alter -his system from now on.” - -“Which the camp really lose! an' this person Bill goes free!” says Jack -Moore, dejectedly. “I allers was ag'in faro as a game. Where we-all -misses it egreegious, is we don't play him freeze-out.” - -“Do you know, Cherokee,” whispers Faro Nell, as her eyes turn softly to -that personage of the deal box, “I don't like killin's none! I'd sooner -Cheyenne goes loose, than two bonnets from Tucson!” - -At this Cherokee Hall pinches the cheek of Faro Nell with a delicate -accuracy born of his profession, and smiles approval. - - - - -BLIGHTED - -(By the Office Boy) - - -Is it hauteur, or is it a maiden's coyness which causes you to turn -away your head, love?” - -George D'Orsey stood with his arm about the willowy form of Imogene -O'Sullivan. The scene was the ancestral halls of the O'Sullivans in -the fashionable north-west quarter of Harlem. George D'Orsey had asked -Imogene O'Sullivan to be his bride. That was prior to the remark which -opened our story. And the dear girl softly promised. The lovers stood -there in the gloaming, drinking that sweet intoxication which never -comes but once. - -“It isn't hauteur, George,” replied Imogene O'Sullivan, in tones like -far-off church bells. “But, George!--don't spurn me--I have eaten of the -common onion of commerce, and my breath, it is so freighted with that -trenchant vegetable, it would take the nap from your collar like a -lawn mower. It is to spare the man she loves, George, which causes your -Imogene to hold her head aloof.” - -“Look up, darling!” and George D'Orsey's tones held a glad note of -sympathy, “I, too, have battened upon onions.” - -The lovers clung to each other like bats in a steeple. - -“But we'll have to put toe-weights on pa, George; he'll step high and -lively when he hears of this!” - -The lovers were seated on the sofa, now; the prudent Imogene was taking -a look ahead. - -“Doesn't your father love me, pet?” - -“I don't think he does,” replied the fair girl tenderly. “I begged him -to ask you to dinner, once, George; that was on your last trip. He said -he would sooner dine with a wet dog, George, and refused. From that I -infer his opposition to our union.” - -“We'll make a monkey of him yet!” and George D'Orsey hissed the words -through his set teeth. - -“And my brother?” - -“As for him,” said George D'Orsey (and at this he began pacing the room -like a lion), “as for your brother! If he so much as looks slant-eyed -at our happiness, he goes into the soup! From your father I would bear -much; but when the balance of the family gets in on the game, they will -pay for their chips in advance.” - -“Can we not leave them, George; leave them, and fly together?” - -“Your father is rich, Imogene; that is a sufficient answer.” There was a -touch of sternness in George D'Orsey's tones, and the subject of flying -was dropped. - -George D'Orsey lived in the far-off hamlet of Hoboken. He returned -to his home. In three months he was to wed Imogene O'Sullivan. Benton -O'Sullivan had a fit when it was first mentioned to him. At last he gave -his sullen consent. - -“I had planned a title for you, Imogene.” That was all he said. - -Three months have elapsed. It was dark when the ferryboat came to a -panting pause in its slip. George D'Orsey picked his way through the -crowd with quick, nervous steps. It was to be his wedding-night. He -wondered if Imogene would meet him at the ferry. At that moment he -beheld her dear form walking just ahead. - -“To-night, dearest, you are mine forever!” whispered George D'Orsey -tenderly, seizing the sweet young creature by her arm. - -The shrieks which emanated from the young woman could have defied the -best efforts of a steam siren. - -It was not Imogene O'Sullivan! - -The police bore away George D'Orsey. They turned a deaf ear to his -explanations. - -“You make me weary!” remarked the brutal turnkey, to whom George D'Orsey -told his tale. - -The cell door slammed; the lock clanked; the cruel key grated as it -turned. George D'Orsey was a prisoner. The charge the blotter bore -against him was: “Insulting women on the street.” - -When George D'Orsey was once more alone, he cursed his fate as if his -heart would break. At last he was calm. - - “Oh, woman, in our hour of ease, - - Uncertain, coy, and hard to please; - - But, seen too oft, familiar with her face; - - We first endure, then pity, then embrace!” - -The Chateau O'Sullivan was a flare and a glare of lights. The rooms were -jungles of palms and tropical plants. Flowers were everywhere, while -the air tottered and fainted under the burden of their perfume. Imogene -O'Sullivan never looked more beautiful. - -But George D'Orsey did not come. - -Hour followed hour into the past. The guests moved uneasily from room to -room. The preacher notified Benton O'Sullivan that he was ready. - -And still George D'Orsey came not. - -“The villain has laid down on us, me child!” whispered Benton O'Sullivan -to the weeping Imogene; “but may me hopes of heaven die of heart failure -if I have not me revenge! No man shall insult the proud house of. -O'Sullivan and get away with it; not without blood!” - -The guests cheerfully dispersed, talking the most scandalous things in -whispers. - -Imogene O'Sullivan's dream was over. - -It was the next night. George D'Orsey stood on the O'Sullivan porch, -ringing the bell. His eye and his pocket and his stomach were alike -wildly vacant. - -“Sic him, Bull! Sic him!” said Benton O'Sullivan, bitterly. - -Bull tore several specimens from the quivering frame of George D'Orsey, -who vanished in the darkness with a hoarse cry. - -Years afterward George D'Orsey and Imogene O'Sullivan met, but they gave -each other a cold, meaningless stare. - - - - -THE SURETHING - -(By the Office Boy) - - -John Sparrowhawk was a sporting man of the tribe of “Surethings.” He -was fond of what has Cherry Hill description as a “cinch.” He never let -any lame, slow trick get away. John Sparrowhawk's specialty was racing; -and he always referred to this diversion with horses as his “long suit.” - He kept several rather abrupt animals himself, and whenever he found -a man whose horse wasn't as sudden as some horse he owned, John -Sparrowhawk would lay plots for that man, and ultimately race equines -with him, and become master of such sums as the man would bet. John -Sparrowhawk wandered through life in his “surething” way and amassed -wealth. He was rich, and was wont to boast to very intimate friends: - -“I never spent a dollar which I honestly earned.” This gave John -Sparrowhawk a vast deal of vogue, and he was looked up to and revered by -a circle which is always impressed by the genius of one who can rob his -fellow-worms, and do it according to law. - -It befell one day that the Brooklyn Jockey Club offered a purse for a -running race, but demanded five entries. In no time at all, three -horses were entered. Their names and capacities were well known to the -sagacious John Sparrowhawk. He had a horse that could beat them all. - -“He would run by them like they was tied to a post!” remarked John -Sparrowhawk, in a chant of ungrammatical exultation. - -It burst upon him that the time was ripe to pillage somebody. His latest -larceny was ten days old, and John Sparrowhawk oft quoted the Bowery -poet where he said: - - “Count that day lost whose low, descending sun - - Sees at thy hands no worthy sucker done.” - -And John Sparrowhawk did business that way. If he might only get -another horse entered, and then complete the quintet with his own, -John Sparrowhawk would possess “a snap.” Which last may be defined as a -condition of affairs much famed for its excellence. - -At this juncture John Sparrowhawk had the idea of his career. The idea -made “a great hit” with him. He had a friend who had a horse, which, -while not so swiftly elusive as “Tenbroeck” and “Spokane” in their palmy -days, could defeat such things as district messenger boys, Fifth avenue -stages, and many other enterprises which do not attain meteoric speed. -John Sparrowhawk's horse could beat it, he was sure. He would explain -the situation to his friend, and cause his snail of a horse to be -entered. This would fill the race, and then John Sparrowhawk's horse -would win “hands down,” and thereby empty everybody's pockets in favour -of John Sparrowhawk's, which was a very glutton of a pocket, and never -got enough. - -John Sparrowhawk's friend was lying ill at the Hoffman. John Sparrowhawk -went into that hostelry and climbed the stairs, softly humming that -optimistic ballad, which begins: “There's a farmer born every second!” - -The sick friend took little interest in the deadfall proposed by John -Sparrowhawk. He was suffering from a mass-meeting on the part of divers -boils, which had selected a trysting place on his person, where their -influence would be felt. - -Locked, as it were, in conflict with his afflictions, John Sparrowhawk's -friend was indifferent to his horse. He cared not what traps were set -with him. - -John Sparrowhawk entered the friend's horse and paid the entrance -money--$150. Then he lavished $15 on a “jock” to ride him. The field was -full, the conditions of the purse complied with, and the race a “go.” - Of course, John Sparrowhawk's horse would win; and, acting on it as the -chance of his life, John Sparrowhawk went craftily about wagering his -dollars, even unto his bottom coin; and all to the end that he deplete -the “jays” about him and become exceeding rich. - -“I'm out for the stuff!” observed John Sparrow-hawk, and acted -accordingly. - -When the race started John Sparrowhawk had everything up but his eyes, -his ears, and other bric-à-brac of a personal sort, which would mean -inconvenience to be without a moment. - -There could be no purpose other than a cruel one, so far as John -Sparrowhawk is concerned, to dwell on the details of this race. Suffice -it that they started and they finished, and the horse of the sick friend -made a fool of the horse of John Sparrowhawk. He beat him like rocking -a baby, so said the sports, and thereby dumped the unscrupulous yet -sapient John Sparrow-hawk for every splinter he possessed. It shook -every particle of dust out of John Sparrowhawk. He called to relate his -woe to his sick friend. That suffering person's malady had temporarily -taken a recess from its labours, and for the nonce he was resting easy. - -“I know'd it, and had four thousand placed that way, John,” observed the -invalid. “I win almost thirteen thousand on the trick. My horse could do -that skate of yours on three legs. I tumbled to it the moment you came -in the other day.” - -“Why didn't you put me on?” remonstrated John Sparrowhawk, almost in -tears, as he thought of the dray-load of money he had lost. - -“Put you on!” repeated the Job of the Hoffman, scornfully; “not none! I -wanted to see how it would seem to let a 'surething' sharp like you open -a game on a harmless sufferer and 'go broke' on it. No, John; it will -do you good. You won't have so much money as the result of this, but you -will be a heap more erudite.” - - - - -GLADSTONE BURR - -Gladstone Burr is a small, industrious, married man. His little nest of -a home is in Brooklyn. Perhaps the most emphasised feature of the Burr -family home is Mrs. B. She is a large woman, direct as Bismarck in -her diplomacy, and when Gladstone Burr does wrong, she tells him of it -firmly and fully for his good. There is but one bad habit which can with -slightest show of truth be charged to Gladstone Burr. The barriers of -his nature, yielding to social pressure, at intervals give way. At such -times the soul of Gladstone Burr issues forth on a sea of strong drink. - -But, as he says himself, “these bats never last longer than ten days.” - -Notwithstanding this meagre limit, Mrs. B. does not approve of Gladstone -Burr when thus socially relaxed. And from time to time she has left -nothing unsaid on that point. Indeed, Mrs. B. has so fully defined her -position on the subject, that Gladstone Burr, while he in no sense fears -her, does not care to go home unless he is either very drunk or very -sober. There is no middle ground in tippling where Gladstone Burr and -Mrs. B. can meet with his consent. He is not superstitious, but he avers -that whenever he has been drinking and meets Mrs. B. he has had bad -luck. His only safety lies in either being sober and avoiding it, or in -taking refuge in a jag too thick for wifely admonitions to pierce. - -There arose last week in the life of Gladstone Burr some event that it -was absolutely necessary to celebrate. For two days he gave himself up -to his destiny in that behalf, and being very busy with his festival -Gladstone Burr did not go home. - -Toward the close of the third day he was considering with himself how -best to approach his domicile so as to avoid the full force of the -storm. He was not so deep in his cups at that moment, but Mrs. B.'s -opinions gave him concern. Still, he felt the need of going home. He -was tired and he was sick. Gladstone Burr knew he would be a great deal -sicker in the morning, but he felt of a four-bit piece in his pocket, -and remarking something about the hair of a dog, took courage, and was -confident he carried the means of restoring himself. - -But how to get home! - -It was at this crisis in the affairs of Gladstone Burr that his friend, -Frederick Upham Adams, came up. An inspiration seized Gladstone Burr. -Adams should take him home in a carriage. Mrs. B. didn't know Adams, -being careful of her acquaintances. They would say that he, Gladstone -Burr, had been ill, almost dead from apoplexy, or sunstroke, during the -recent hot spell, and that “Dr. Adams” was bringing him home. - -It was a most happy thought. - -“Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Burr,” said Adams, as an hour later he supported -the drooping Gladstone Burr through the hall and stowed him away on a -sofa. “I am Dr. Adams, of Williamsburg. Mr. Burr has suffered a great -shock, but he is out of danger now. All he needs is rest--perfect rest!” - -Gladstone Burr gasped piteously from the sofa. Mrs. B. was deceived -perfectly. The ruse worked like a charm. - -[Illustration: 0159] - -“How long must he be kept quiet, Doctor?” asked Mrs. B., as she wrung -her hands over Gladstone Burr's danger. She was bending above the -invalid at the time, and he was unable to signal his friend to be -careful how he prescribed. - -“Oh! ahem!” observed “Dr. Adams,” looking at the ceiling, -professionally, “about three days! That is right! Perfect rest for three -days, and Mr. Burr will be a well man again.” - -“Are there directions as to what medicines to give him?” asked Mrs. B., -passing her hand gently over Gladstone Burr's heated dome of thought; -“any directions about the food, Doctor?” - -“He needs no medicine,” observed the wretched Adams, closing his eyes -sagaciously, and sucking his cane. “As for food, we must be careful. I -should advise nothing but milk. Give him milk, Mrs. Burr, milk.” - -After this Frederick Upham Adams drove away. And at the end of three -days Gladstone Burr was almost dead. - - - - -THE GARROTE - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -Tell youse somethin' about d' worser side of d' Bend!” retorted Chucky. -His manner was resentful. I had put my question in a fashion half -apologetic and as one who might be surprised at anything bad in the -Bend. It was this lamblike method of being curious that Chucky didn't -applaud. Evidently he gloried a bit in the criminal vigour of certain -phases of a Bend existence. - -“Mebby you t'inks there is no worser side to d' Bend! Mebby you takes -d' Bend for a hotbed of innocence! Don't string no stuff on d' milky -character of d' Bend. Youse would lose it one, two, t'ree, keno! see! -There's dead loads of t'ings about d' Bend what's so tough it 'ud make -youse sore on yourself to get onto 'em. - -“Be d' way! while youse is chinnin' concernin' d' hard lines of d' Bend, -I'm put in mind about Danny d' Face, who shows up from Sing Sing to-day. -Say! d' Face wasn't doin' a t'ing but put up a roar all d' morn-in', -till a cop shows up an' lays it out cold if d' Face don't cork, he'll -pinch him. - -“What was d' squeal about? Why! it's like this,” continued Chucky, -settling himself where the barkeeper might know when his glass was -empty. “It's all about d' Face's Bundle. When d' victim takes his little -ten spaces, his Bundle mourns 'round for a brace of mont's, see! An' -then she marries another guy. - -“What else could youse look for? That's what I say; what could d' Face -expect? Ten spaces ain't like a stretch, it's 'life,' see! D' mug who -chases in an' takes a trip for ten, he's a lifer. An' you knows as well -as me, even if youse ain't done time, that when a duck gets life, it's -d' same as a divorce. That's dead straight! his Bundle is free to get -married ag'in. - -“An' that's just what d' Face's Rag does; she hooks up wit' another -skate, after d' Face has had his stripes for a couple of mont's. She's -no tree-toad to live on air an' scenery, so she gets hitched. I was -right there, pipin' off d' play meself, when d' w'ite choker ties 'em. -It was a good weddin', wit' a dandy lot of lush; d' can was passin' all -d' time, an' so d' mem'ry of it is wit' me still. - -“As I says, d' Face comes weavin' in this mornin', an' tries to break up -what d' poipers call 'existin' conditions.' It don't go, though; d' cop -cuts in on d' play an' makes it a cinch case of nit, see! - -“What'll d' Face do? What can he do but screw his nut an' stan' for it? -He ain't got no licence to interfere. It's a case of 'nothin' doin',' -as far as d' Face's end goes. Let him charge 'round an' grab off another -skirt. There's plenty of 'em; d' Face can find another wife if he goes -d' right way down d' line. But he don't make no hit be hollerin', he can -take a tumble to that. - -“What is it railroads d' Face? He does a stunt garrotin', see! I'll tell -youse d' story. Of course, d' Face is a crook. - -“Now, understan' me! I ain't no crook. I'm a fakir, an' a grafter; an' -I've been fly in me time an' I ain't no dub to-day, but I never was no -crook, see! But, of course, born as I was in Kelly's Alley, an' always -free of d' Bowery push, I hears a lot about crooks, an' has more'n one -of d' swell mob on me visitin' list. - -“Naw; d' Face was never in d' foist circles, nothin' fine to him. He -never was d' real t'ing as a dip, an 'd' best he could do was to shove -an' stall. Now an' then he toins a trick as a porch climber; but even at -that I never gets a tip of any big second-story woik d' Face does. - -“D' Face's best trick is d' garrote, an' it's on d' gar-rote lay dey -downs d' Face when dey puts him away. - -“Now-days there's a lot of sandbaggin'. Some mug comes wanderin' along, -loaded to d' guards wit* booze, an' some soon duck lends him a t'ump -back of d' nut wit' a sandbag, or mebby it's a lead pipe or a bar of -rubber. Over goes d' slewed mug, on his map, an' d' rest is easy money, -see! That's d' way it's done now. - -“But in d' old times, when I'm a kid, it ain't d' sandbag; it's d' -garrote. An' d' patient can be cold sober, still d' garrote goes all -right. It takes two to woik it; but even at that it beats d' sandbag -hands down. It's smoother, cleaner, and more like a woik-man, see! d' -garrote is. - -“Besides, there's more apt to be stuff on a sober party than on some -stiff who's tanked. I know d' poipers is always talkin' about people -gettin' a load, wit' money all over 'em; but youse can gamble! such talk -is a song an' dance. I'm more'n seven years old, an' me exper'ence is, -that it's a four-to-one shot a drunk is every time broke. - -“But to go to d' story of how d' Face gets pinched. As I states, it's -way back; not quite ten spaces (for d' Face shortens his stay at d' pen -wit' good conduct time see!), an 'd' Face an' a pal, Spot Casey, who's -croaked now, is out on d' garrote lay. - -“D' Face is followin', an' Spot is sluggin'. Here's how dey lays out -d' game. It's on Fift' Avenoo, down be Nint'. Spot's playin' round d' -corner on Nint'; d' Face is woikin' about a block away on Fift' Avenoo, -on d' lookout for a sucker, see! Along he comes walkin' fast, this -sucker. As he passes, d' Face gives him d' size-up. He's got a spark, -an' a yellow chain, an' looks like he's good for a hundred in d' long -green. That does for d' Face. He lets this guy get good an' by, an' then -toins an' shadows him. - -“D' Face walks faster than d' sucker. It's his play to be nex', be d' -time dey hits Nint', where Spot is layin' dead. - -“As dey chases up, d' Face an 'd' snoozer he's out to do is bot' walkin' -fast, wit 'd' Face five foot behint. - -“Just before dey makes d' corner, d' Face gives d' office to Spot be -stampin' onct wit' his trilby on d' sidewalk. Then he moves right up -sharp, claps his right arm about d' geezer's t'roat, at d' same time -grabbin' his right hook wit' his left an' yankin' his arm in tight. It -shuts off d' duck's wind. - -“As d' Face clenches his party, as I says, he gives him d' knee behint, -an' sort o' lifts him up. At d' same instant, Spot comes chasin' -round d' corner in front an' smashes his right duke into what d' prize -fighters calls 'd' mark.' Yes, it's d' same t'ump that does for Corbett -that day wit' Fitz. - -“'That's d' stuff, Spot!' says d' Face, as d' party is slugged, an' then -he sets him down be d' fence all limp an' quiet, an' goes t'rough him. - -“Dey gets a super, a pin, an' quite a healt'y roll besides. He's so done -up dey even gets a di'mond off one of his hooks. - -“Sure! d' garrote almost puts a mark's light out. Youse can bet! after -youse has been t'rough d' mill onct, youse won't t'ink, travel, nor -raise d' yell for half an hour. A mark's lucky to be alive who's been -t'rough d' garrote. It ain't so bad as d' sandbag at that, neither. - -“How was it d' Face is took? Nit; d' cop don't get in on d' play; dey -win easy. It's two weeks later when he's collared. D' Face's pal, Spot, -gets too gabby wit' a skirt, who's stoolin' for d' p'lice on d' sly, an' -she goes an' knocks to d' Chief!” - - - - -O'TOOLE'S CHIVALRY - - - - A woman, a spaniel, and a walnut tree; - - The more you beat them, the better they be. - - Irish Proverb. - - -Thus sadly sang P. Sarsfield O'Toole to himself, as he readjusted the -bandage to his wronged eye. He believed it, too; at least in the case of -Madame Bridget Burke, the wife of one John Burke. - -The Burkes were the neighbours of P. Sarsfield O'Toole; they lived next -door. The intimacy, however, went no further; O'Toole and the Burkes -were not friends. - -This is the story of the damaged eye. It offers the reason why P. -Sarsfield O'Toole comforted himself with the vigorous Irish proverb. - -It was the evening before. P. Sarsfield O'Toole was sitting on his -back porch, cooling himself after a day's work at his profession of -bricklayer, by reading the history of Ireland. The Burkes were holding -audible converse just over the division fence. - -P. Sarsfield O'Toole closed the history of his native land to listen. -This last was neither an arduous nor a painful task, for the Burkes, -with the splendid frankness of a household willing to stand or fall by -its record, could be heard a block. - -“Me family was noble!” P. Sarsfield O'Toole overheard John Burke remark. -“The Burkes wanst lived in their own cashtle.” - -“They did not,” observed Madame Burke. “They lived woild in the bog of -Allen, and there was mud on their shanks from wan ind of the year to the -other. Divvil a cashtle did a Burke ever see; barrin' a jail.” - -“Woman! av yez arouse me,” said John Burke, threateningly, “I'll break -the bones of ye, an' fling yez in the corner to mend. Don't exashperate -me, woman.” - -“I exashperate yez!” retorted Madame Burke, scornfully. “For phwat wud -I exashperate yez! Wasn't your own uncle transhpoorted? Answer me that, -John Burke?” - -“Me uncle suffered to free Ireland, woman!” responded the husband. - -“May the divvil hould him!” said Madame Burke. “He was transhpoorted as -a felon, for b'atin' the head off Humpy Pete, the cripple, at the Fair. -He was an illygant speciment of a Burke! always b'atin' cripples an' -women!” - -The last would seem to have been an unfortunate remark, in so far as -it contained a suggestion. The next heard by the listening P. Sarsfield -O'Toole was the loud lament of Madame Bridget Burke as her husband, John -Burke, submitted her to that correction which he afterwards described to -the police justice as, “givin' her a tashte av the sthrap.” - -The cries of Madame Bridget Burke were at their highest when P. -Sarsfield O'Toole looked over the fence. - -“Shtop b'atin' the leddy, John Burke!” commanded P. Sarsfield O'Toole. - -“Phwat's it to yez! ye Far-down!” demanded John Burke, looking up from -his labours. “Av yez hang your chin on that line fince ag'in, I'll welt -the life out av yez! D'ye moind it now!” - -“Is it to me yez apploies the word 'Far-down!” shouted P. Sarsfield -O'Toole, wrathfully. “Phwat are yez yerself but a rascal of a -Stonethrower? Don't timpt me with your names, John Burke, an' shtop -b'atin' the leddy. If I iver come over wanst to yez, I'll return a -criminal!” - -“Shtop b'atin' me own lawful Bridget,” retorted John Burke, in tones of -scorn, “when she's been teasin' for the sthrap a month beyant! Well, -I loike that! I'll settle with yez, O'Toole, when I tache me woife to -respect the name of Burke.” Here the representative of that honourable -title smote Madame Bridget lustily. “Av I foind yez in me yarud, -O'Toole, ye'll lay no bricks to-morry.” - -P. Sarsfield O'Toole cleared the fence at a bound. He was chivalrous, -and would rescue Madame Burke. He was proud and would resent the -opprobrious epithet of “Far-down.” He was sensitive, and would teach -John Burke never to threaten him with disability as a bricklayer. - -P. Sarsfield O'Toole, as stated, cleared the fence at a bound, and -closed with John Burke as if he were a bargain. - -What might have been the finale of this last collision will never be -known. As P. Sarsfield O'Toole and John Burke danced about, locked in a -deadly embrace, the emancipated Madame Burke suddenly selected a piece -of scantling from the general armory of the Burke backyard and brought -it down, not on the head of her oppressor, but on that of the gallant P. -Sarsfield O'Toole, who had come to her rescue. - -“Oh, ye murtherin' villyun!” shouted Madame Burke. “W'ud yez kill a -husband befure the eyes of his lawful widded woife! An' due yez think -I'd wear his ring and see yez do it!” - -At this point in the conversation Madame Bridget Burke cut a long, -satisfactory gash in P. Sarsfield O'Toole, just over the eye. - -The police came. - -John Burke was fined twenty dollars. - -Madame Bridget Burke, present lovingly in court, paid it with a -composite air, breathing insolence for the judge and affection for John -Burke. - -“The ijee av that shpalpeen, O'Toole,” said Madame Burke that evening -to John Burke, and her words floated over the fence to P. Sarsfield -O'Toole, as he nursed his wounds on his porch; “the ijee av that -shpalpeen, O'Toole, comin' bechuxt man and woife! D' yez moind th' cheek -av 'im! Didn't the priest say, 'Phwat hivin has j'ined togither, let no -man put asoonder?” - -“He did, Bridget, he did,” replied John Burke. “An' yez have the -particulars av a foine woman about yez, yerself, Bridget!” - -“Troth! an' I have,” said Madame Burke, giving full consent to this -view of her merits. “But, John, phwat a rapscallion yer uncle they -transhpoorted must av been, to bate the loife out o' poor Humpy Pete, -the cripple-fiddler, that toime at the Fair!” - -For the second time the strap fell, and the shrieks of Madame Burke -filled the neighbourhood. P. Sarsfield O'Toole, still on his porch, sat -unmoved, and bestowed no interest on the doings of the Burkes. As the -strap was plied and the yells of the victim uplifted, P. Sarsfield -O'Toole repeated the proverb which stands at the head of this story. - - - - -WAGON MOUND SAL - -(Wolfville) - - -It was Wagon Mound Sal--she got the prefix later and was plain “Sal” at -the time--who took up laundry-labours when Benson Annie became a wife. -And this tells of the wooing and wedding of Riley Bent with Sallie of -Wagon Mound. - -Wagon Mound Sal prevailed, as stated, the mistress of a laundry. And it -was there Riley Bent first beheld her, as she was putting a tubful of -the blue woollen shirts affected by the males of her region through -a second suds. On this occasion Riley's appearance was due to a -misunderstanding. He was foggy with drink, and looked in on a theory -that the place was a store which made a specialty of the sale of shirts. - -“What for a j'int is this?” asked Riley as he entered. - -“It's a laundry,” replied Sal; and then observing that Riley Bent was -in his cups, she continued with delicate firmness; “an' if you-all ain't -mighty keerful how you line out, you'll shorely get a smoothin' iron -direct.” - -Nothing daunted by the lady's candour, Riley Bent sat down on a -furloughed tub which reposed bottom up in one corner. In the course of -a conversation, whereof he furnished the questions, and Sal the short, -inhospitable replies, it occurred that she and Riley Bent became -mutually, albeit dimly, known to one another. - -During the three months following, Riley Bent was much and persistently -in the laundry of Wagon Mound Sal. Wolfville, eagle-eyed in the softer -and more dulcet phenomena of life, looked confidently for a wedding. So -in truth did Sal, emulous of Benson Annie. Also Sal was a clear-minded, -resolute young lady; and having one day concluded to take Riley Bent for -better or for worse, she lost no time in bringing matters to a focus. - -“You're a maverick?” she one day asked, suddenly looking up from her -ironing. Sal's tones were steady and cool, but it was noticed that she -burnt a hole in the bosom of Doc Peets's shirt while waiting a reply. -“You-all ain't married none?” - -“Thar ain't no squaw has ever been able to rope, throw an' run her brand -on me!” said Riley Bent. “Which I'm shorely a maverick!” - -“Whatever then is the matter of you an' me dealin'?” asked Sal, coming -around to Riley Bent's side of the ironing table. - -That personage surveyed her in a thoughtful maze. - -“You're a long horn, an' for that much so be I,” he said at last, as -one who meditates. “Neither of us would grade for corn-fed in anybody's -yards!” - -Then came another long pause, during which, with his eyes fixedly -gazing into Wagon Mound Sal's, Riley Bent gave himself to the unwonted -employment of thinking. At last he shook his head until the little gold -bells on his bullion hatband tinkled in a dubious, uncertain way, as -taking their tone from the wearer. - -“Which the idee bucks me plumb off!” he remarked, with a final deep -breath; and then with no further word Riley repaired to the Red Light -Saloon and became dejectedly yet deeply drunk. - -For a month Wolfville saw naught of Riley Bent. He was supposed to be -two-score miles away on the range with his cattle. Wagon Mound Sal, with -a trace of grimness about the mouth, conducted her laundry, and, in the -absence of competition, waxed opulent. She looked confidently for the -return of Riley Bent; as what woman, knowing her spells and powers, -would have not. - -At last he came. Sal, as well as Wolfville, learned of his presence by -a mellow whoop at the far end of the single street. Sal was subsequently -gratified by a view of him as he and a comrade, one Rice Hoskins, slid -from their saddles and entered the Red Light Saloon. - -Wagon Mound Sal was offended at this; he should have come straight to -her. But beyond slamming her irons unreasonably as she replaced them on -the range, she made no sign. - -To give Riley Bent justice, he had done little during the month of his -absence save think of Wagon Mound Sal. Whether he pursued the evanescent -steer, or organised the baking powder biscuit of his day and kind, Wagon -Mound Sal ran ever in his thoughts like a torrent. But he couldn't bring -himself to the notion of a wife; not even if that favoured woman were -Wagon Mound Sal. - -“Seems like bein' married that a-way,” he explained to Rice Hoskins, as -they discussed the business about their camp-fire, “is so onnacheral.” - -“That's whatever!” assented Rice Hoskins. - -“But,” said Riley Bent after a pause; “I reckon I'd better ride in an' -tell her she don't get me none, an' end the game.” - -“That's whatever!” - -It was deference to this view which gained Wolfville the pleasure of the -presence of Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins on the occasion named. It had -been Riley Bent's plan--having first acquired what stimulant he might -crave--to leave Rice Hoskins to the companionship of the barkeeper, -while he repaired briefly to Wagon Mound Sal, and expressed a -determination never to wed. But after the first drink he so far modified -the programme as to decide, instead, to write a letter. - -“You see!” he said, “writin' a letter shows a heap more respect. An' -then ag'in, if I goes personal, she might get all wrought up an' lay for -me permiscus a whole lot.” - -The flaw in this letter plan became apparent. Neither Riley Bent nor -Rice Hoskins could write. They made application to Black Jack, the -barkeeper, to act as amanuensis. But he saw objection, and hesitated. - -“I reckon I'll pass the deal, gents,” said Black Jack, “if you-alls -don't mind. The grand jury is goin' to begin their round-up over in -Tucson next week, an' they'd jest about call it forgery.” - -At last as a solution, Rice Hoskins drew a rude picture in ink of a -woman going one way, and a man with a big hat and disreputable spurs, -going the other; what he called an “Injun letter.” This work of art he -regarded with looks of sagacity and satisfaction. - -“If she was an Injun,” said the artist, “she'd _sabe_ that picture -mighty quick. That means: 'You-all take your trail an' I'll take mine.'” - -“Which it does seem plain as old John Chisholm's 'Fence-rail Brand,'” - remarked Riley Bent. “Now jest make a tub by her, an' mark me with a -4-bar-J, the same bein' my brand; then she'll shorely tumble. Thar's -nothin' like ropin' with a big loop; then if you miss the horns, you're -mighty likely to fasten by the feet.” - -The missive was despatched to Wagon Mound Sal by hand of a Mexican. Then -Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins restored their flagged spirits with liquor. - -Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins drank a vast deal. And it came to pass, by -virtue of this indiscretion, that Rice Hoskins later, while Riley Bent -was still thoughtfully over his cups at the Red Light, rode his broncho -into the New York Store. In the plain line of objection to this, Jack -Moore, the Marshal, shot Rice Hoskins' pony. As the animal fell it -pinned Rice Hoskins to the floor by his leg; in this disadvantageous -position he emptied his pistol at Jack Moore, and of course missed. - -Moore was in no sort an idle target. He was a painstaking Marshal, and -showed his sense of duty at this time by putting four bullets through -the reckless bosom of Rice Hoskins; the staccate voices of their Colt's -six-shooters melted into each other until they sounded as one. - -“I never could shoot none with a pony on my laig,” observed Rice -Hoskins. - -[Illustration: 0177] - -Then a splash of blood stained his sun-coloured moustache; his empty -pistol rattled on the board floor; his head dropped on his arm, and Rice -Hoskins was dead. - -It was at this crisis that Riley Bent, startled by the artillery as he -sat in the Red Light, came whirling to the scene on his pony. The duel -was over before he set foot in stirrup. He saw at a glance that Rice -Hoskins was only a memory. Had he been romantic, or a sentimentalist, -Riley Bent would have shot out the hour with Jack Moore, the Marshal. -And had there been one spark of life in the heart of Rice Hoskins to -have fought over, Riley Bent would have stood in the smoke of his own -six-shooter all day and taken what Fate might send. As it was, however, -he curbed his broncho in mid-speed so bluntly, the Spanish bit filled -its mouth with blood. It spun on its hind hoofs like a top. Then, as the -long spurs dug to its ribs, it whizzed off in the opposite direction; -out of camp like an arrow. The last bullet in Jack Moore's pistol -splashed on a silver dollar in Riley Bent's pocket as he turned his -pony. - -“Whenever I reloads my pistol,” said Jack Moore to Old Man Enright, who -had come up, “I likes to reload her all around; so I don't regyard that -last cartridge as no loss.” - -Wagon Mound Sal was deep in a study of Rice Hoskins' “Injun letter” when -the shooting took place. The missive's meaning was not so easy to make -out as its hopeful authors had believed. When the deeds of Jack Moore -were related to her, however, the brow of Wagon Mound Sal took on an -angry flush. She sent a message to Jack Moore asking him to call at -once. - -“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded of Jack Moore, as he entered the -laundry, “a-stampedin' of Riley Bent out of camp that a-way? Don't you -know I was intendin' to marry him? Yere he's been gone a month, an' yet -the minute he shows up you have to take to cuttin' the dust 'round his -moccasins with your six-shooter, an' away he goes ag'in. He jest -nacherally seizes on your gun-play for a good excuse. It's shore enough -to drive one plumb loco!” - -Jack Moore looked decidedly bothered. - -“Of course, Sal,” he said at last in a deprecatory way, “you-all -onderstands that when I takes to shakin' the loads outen my six-shooter -at Riley Bent, I does it offishul. An' I'm free to say, that I was that -wropped and preoccupied like with my dooties as Marshal at the time, I -never thinks once of them nuptials you med'tates with Riley Bent. If I -had I would have downed his pony with that last shot an' turned him over -to you. But perhaps it ain't too late.” - -It was the next afternoon. Riley Bent was reclining in his camp in the -_Très Hermanas_. Grey, keen eyes watched him from behind a point of -rocks. Suddenly a mouthful of white smoke puffed from the point of -rocks, and something hard and positive broke Riley Bent's leg just above -the knee. The blow of the bullet shocked him for a moment, but the next, -with a curse in his mouth, and a six-shooter in each hand, he tumbled in -behind a boulder to do battle with his assailant. With the crack of the -Winchester which accompanied the phenomena of smoke-puff and broken leg, -came the voice of Jack Moore, Marshal. - -“Hold up your hands, thar!” said Moore. “Up with 'em; I shan't say it -twice!” - -Riley Bent could not obey; he had taken ten seconds off to faint. - -When he revived Jack Moore had claimed his pistols and was calmly -setting the bones of the broken leg; devoting the woollen shirts in the -war-bags on his saddle to be bandages, and making splints of cedar bark. -These folk of the plains and mountains, far from the surgeon, often set -each other's, or, for that matter, their own bones, when a fall from a -pony, or some similar catastrophe, furnishes the call. - -“If you-all needed me,” observed Riley Bent peevishly, when a little -later Jack Moore was engaged over bacon and flap-jacks for the sundown -meal, “whatever was the matter of sayin' so? Thisyere idee of shootin' -up a gent without notice or pow-wow is plumb onlegal. An' I'll gamble on -it, ten to one!” - -“Well!” said Jack Moore, as he deftly tossed a flap-jack in the air and -caught it in the frying-pan again, “I didn't aim to take no chances of -chagrinin' one who loves you, by lettin' you get away. Then, ag'in, -my own notion is that it might sorter hasten the bridal some. Thar's -nothin' like a bullet in a party's frame for makin' him feel romantic -an' sentimental. It softens his nature a heap, an' sets him to yearnin' -for female care. - -“Which you've been shootin me up to be married!” responded Riley Bent in -tones of disgust. - -“That's straight!” retoited Jack Moore, as he slid the last flap-jack -into the invalid's tin plate. “You've been pesterin' 'round Wagon Mound -Sal ontil that lady has become wropped in you. She confides to me cold -that she's anxious to make a weddin' of it, which is all the preliminary -necessary in Arizona. You are goin' back to Wolfville with me tomorry on -a buck-board,--which will be sent on yere from the stage station,--an' -after Doc Peets goes over your laig ag'in, you an' Wagon Mound Sal are -goin' to become man an' wife like a landslide. You have bred hopes in -that lady's bosom, an' you've got to make 'em good. That's all thar is -to this play; an' you don't get your guns ag'in ontil you're a married -man.” - -Jack Moore, firm, direct and decided, had a great effect in fixing -the wandering fancies of Riley Bent. He thoughtfully masticated his -flap-jack a moment, and then asked: - -“S'pose I arches my back an' takes to buckin' at these yere abrupt -methods in my destinies; s'pose I quits the deal cold?” - -“In which eevent,” responded Jack Moore, with an air of iron confidence, -“we merely convenes the Stranglers an' hangs you for luck.” - -But Riley Bent was softened and his mind made fully up. Whether it -was the sentimental influence of Jack Moore's bullet, which Doc Peets -subsequently dug out; or whether Riley was touched by the fact that -Wagon Mound Sal, herself, brought over the buckboard to convey him to -Wolfville, may never be known. What was certain, however, was that Riley -Bent came finally to the conclusion to wed. He told Wagon Mound Sal so -while on the buckboard going back. - -“Which it's shorely doubtful,” said Wagon Mound Sal, “if any man is -worth the trouble. An' this yere is my busiest day, too!” - -There was great rejoicing in the wareroom of the New York Store. A whole -box of candles blazed gloriously from the walls. Old Man Enright gave -the bride away, Benson Annie appeared to look on, while Faro Nell -supported Sal as bridesmaid. As usual, in any hour of sacred need, a -preacher was obtained from Tucson. - -“An' you can bet that pastor knows his business!” said Old Monte, the -stage driver, who had been commissioned to bring one over. “He's a -deep-water brand, an' he's all right! I takes my steer when I seelects -him from the barkeep of the Golden Rod saloon, an' he'd no more give me -the wrong p'inter, that a-way, than he'd give me the wrong bottle.” - -Doc Peets's offering to the bride was a bullet. It was formerly the -property of Jack Moore. It was the one he conferred on Riley Bent that -evening in the foothills of the _Très Hermanas_. - -“Keep it!” said Doc Peets to the bride. “It's what sobers him, an' takes -the frivolity outen him, an' makes him know his own heart.” - -“An' I shorely reckons you're right that a-way, Doc,” said Jack Moore, -some hours after the wedding as the two turned from the laundry whither -Moore had repaired to return Riley Bent his pistols; “I shore reckons -you're right a whole lot. I knows a gent in the states, an' he tells me -himse'f how he goes projectin' 'round, keepin' company with a lady for a -year, an' ain't thinkin' none speshul of marryin' her. One day somebody -gets plumb tired of the play an' shoots him some, after which he simply -goes about pantin' to lead that lady to the altar; that's straight!” - - - - -JOE DUBUQUE'S LUCK - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -YOUSE can soak your super,” said Chucky, “some dubs has luck! I've seen -marks who could fall into d' sewer, see! an' come out wit' a bunch of -lilacs in each mit. - -“Nit; it wasn't all luck wit' Joe Dubuque. His breakin' out of hock that -time is some luck, but mostly 'cause Joe himself is a dead wise guy an* -onto his job. Tell youse about it? In a secont--in a hully second! Just -say 'gin fizz!' to d' barkeep an' I'll begin. - -“Never mind d' preeliminaries, as d' story writers says, but Joe's in -jail, see! Joe win out ten spaces for touchin' a farmer for his bundle. -Was it a wad? D' roll Joe gets is big enough to choke a cow--'leven -t'ousand plunks, if it's a splinter. - -“Wherefore, as I relates, Joe gets ten years, an' is layin' in jail -while d' gezebo, who's his lawyer, sees can he woik d' high court to -give Joe a new trial. - -“Joe don't feel no sort chirpy; he's onto it d' high court's dead sure -to t'run him down. Then he goes to d' pen to do them ten spaces. An' -onct there, wit' all that time ahead, he sees his finish all right, all -right. He might as well be a lifer. - -“So Joe puts it up he'll break himself out. Joe's goil comes every day -to see him. Say! she's a bute, Joe's Rag is; d' crooks calls her 'Wild -Willie,' 'cause now an' then she toins dopey an' acts like she's got -doves in her eaves. But anyhow she's on d' square wit' Joe, an' sticks -to him like a postage stamp. - -“Joe sends out d' woid be his Rag about what he's goin' to do, to d' -push outside; an' tells 'em how to help. Yes; d' job is put up as fine -as silk. Every mark knows what he's to do. - -“Now, here's d' trick dey toins; here's how Joe beats d' jail for good. - -“It comes round to d' night. Joe's cell--it's a big cell, a reg'lar -corker, wit' gas into it--is on d' fort' corridor. D' guard comes round -at 9 o'clock orderin' out d'lights. Joe's gas is boinin' away to beat d' -band, an' Joe is lay in' on his bunk. - -“'Dowse d' glim, Joe!' says d' guard. - -“What th' 'ell!' says Joe. 'Dowse d' glim, yourself, you Sheeny hobo!' - -“D' guard makes a bluff about what he'll do, an' cusses Joe out. All d' -same he unlocks d' door an' comes chasin' in to put out Joe's gas. - -“Now, what does Joe do? As d' guard toins to d' gas to dowse it, Joe -sets up on his bunk, an' all at onct he soaks this gezebo of a guard -wit' a rubber billy his Moll sneaks in to him d' day before. Does he -land d' sucker? Say! he almost cracks his nut, an' that's for fair! - -“D' guard drops an' in a minute Joe winds him all up tight in a bedtick -rope he's made. Then he stoppers his jaw an' t'rows d' mucker on d' -bunk, takes his keys, locks him in d' cell an' goes galumpin' off to let -himself t'rough d' doors, so he can try a sprint for it. Yes, Joe makes -some row when he t'umps this party, but d' captiffs in d' nex' cells -hears d' racket an' half tumbles to it; an' so dey starts singin' 'Rock -of Ages,' an' makes a noise so as to cover Joe's play, see! Oh! dey was -some fly guys locked up in that old coop. - -“As Joe lines out for d' doors, he's t'inkin' to himself, how on eart' -is he goin' to make it? Nit; it wouldn't be no trouble to get outside d' -doors of what youse might call d' jail proper. But after that, Joe's got -to go t'rough four offices wit' a mob of dep'ties into 'em. An' he's on -it's goin' to be a squeak if some of 'em don't recognize him. Joe's mug -was well known. - -“You know how dey woiks d' doors to a jail? Youse don't? It's this way. -Joe, when he comes up, has d' key to d' inside door, which he nips off -d' guard as I says when he slugs him wit 'd' billy. Joe lets himself -into d' cage wit' that. - -“Now, d' key to d' outside door ain't in d' coop at all. There's an old -stiff of a dep'ty sheriff planted outside wit' that. As Joe opens d' -inside door, he raps on d' bars of d' cage wit' his key, an' it's d' tip -for this outside snoozer to unlock his door. Of course he plays Joe for -d' guard coinin' out from his rounds. - -“It's at this door-slammin' pinch where Joe's luck comes in, an' -relieves him of d' chanct of d' gang of dep'ties in d' office tumblin' -to him. Just as Joe raps to d' sucker on d' outside door, an' then lets -himself into d' cage, a gun goes off inside d' jail. It's Joe's guard. -Joe forgets to pinch d' pop, see! an' this gezebo gets his hooks onto -it, all tied like he is, an' bangs away wit' it in his pockets so as to -warn d' gang Joe's loose. - -“'That does me for fair!' t'inks Joe when he hears d' gun; ''dey gets me -dead to rights!' - -“Say! it was d' one trick that saves him! At d' bang of d' gun every -dep'ty leaps to his trilbys an' comes chasin'. D' outside mark has just -unslewed his door. He flings it wide open an' scoots inside d' cage. Joe -t'rows d' inside door open--for Joe's dead swift to take a hunch that -way--an 'd' outside guard an 'd' entire bunch of dep'ties goes sprintin' -into d' jail. Then Joe locks 'em all in an' loafs t'rough d' offices -into d' street. - -“Yes; Joe knows where he's goin'. He toins into d' foist stairway an' -climbs one story to a law office, which d' crooks outside has fixed to -be open, waitin' for him. Nixie; d' law guy ain't in on d' play. A dip -named Jim Butts comes an' touts this law sharp away, an' cons him into -goin' out six miles to d' country to draw d' last will an' test'ment of -a galoot he says is on d' croak, an' can't wait for mornin'. Yes, Butts -has one of his mob faked up for sick, an' dey detains d' law guy four -hours makin' d' will. This stall of Butts, who's doin' d' sick act, sets -up between gasps an' gives away more'n twenty million dollars wort' of -wealt'. This crook who's fakin' sick is on his uppers at d' time, an' -don't really have d' price of beer; but to hear him make his will that -night, you'd say he was d' richest ever; d' Astors was monkeys to him. - -“As I states, Joe skips into this lawyer's office, d' same bein' open -for d' poipose, an' one of d' 'fambly' holdin' it down. While Joe's -in there he hears d' chase runnin' up an' down in d' street below d' -window. - -“Not for long, though. Fifteen minutes after Joe is outside d' jug, one -of d' crooks calls up d' Central Office be telephone. - -“'Who's talkin'?' asts d' captain at d' Central Office. - -“'It's Doyle, lieutenant o' police, Fourt' Precinct,' says d' crook -who's on d' wire. Me man on d' station house beat just reports Joe -Dubuque drivin' west on Detroit street wit' a horse an' buggy. He was on -d' dead run, lamin' loose to beat four of a kind. Send all d' men youse -can spare.' - -“An' that's what d' captain at d' Central Office does. In ten minutes -every cop an' fly cop is on d' chase, a mile away from Joe, an' gettin' -furder every secont, see! - -“After a while it settles down all quiet an' dead about d' jail, an -'d' little old law office where Joe lies buried. He, an' d' crook who's -waitin' for him, is chinnin' each other in whispers. All d' time Joe's -got his lamps to d' window pipin' off d' other side of d' street. -At last a cab drives up opposite d' law office an' stops. A w'ite -han'kerchief shows flutterin' be d' window. It's Wild Willie who's -inside. - -“Joe's pal gets up an' goes down to d' street. All's clear an' he -w'istles up to Joe. When he gets d' office Joe sort of loafs down an' -saunters over to d' cab. D' door opens an' in one move Joe's inside, an' -d' nex' his arm is 'round his Moll. She's all right, this Wild Willie -is, an' Joe does d' correct t'ing to give her d' fervent squeeze. - -“That's d' end. Joe Dubuque runs clear away, goes under cover, an' d' -sheriff never gets his hooks on him ag'in. As Joe drives be d' jail he -can still hear them captiffs singin' 'Rock of Ages.' - -“'Say!' says Joe to Wild Willie as he toins her mug to his an' smacks -her onct for luck, 'I won't do a t'ing but make it a t'ousand dollars in -d' kecks of them ducks who's doin' that song. I'll woik d' dough to 'em -be some of d' boys, see!'” - - - - -BINKS AND MRS. B. - - -BINKS was an excellent man, hard-working and sober. He made good money -and took it home to his wife for her judgment to settle its fate; -every dollar of it. Mrs. Binks was a woman among a thousand. When taken -separate and apart from his wife and questioned, Binks said she was -a “corker.” Binks declined all attempts at definition, and beyond -insisting that Mrs. Binks was and would remain a “corker,” said nothing. - -From what was told of Mrs. Binks by herself, it would seem that she was -a true, loving wife to Binks, and that, aside from the duty every woman -owed to her sex and the establishment of its rights in all avenues of -life, she held that with the wedding ring came a list of duties due from -a good woman to her husband, which could not be avoided nor gone about. - -“Some women,” quoth Mrs. B., “worry their husbands with a detail of -small matters. A woman who is to be a helpmeet to her husband, such as I -am to Binks, will be self-reliant and decide things for herself. In the -little cares of life which fall to her share, let her go forward in her -own strength. What is the use of adding her troubles to his? If she -has plans, let her execute them. If problems confront her, let her solve -them. If she tells her husband aught of the thousand little enterprises -of her daily home life, then let it be the result. When success has come -to her, she may call her husband to witness the victory. Aside from that -she should face her responsibilities alone.” - -Of course Mrs. B. did not mean by all this that she would not be open -and frank with Binks, and confide in him if a burglar were in the house, -or if the roof took fire in the night that she would not arouse Binks -and mention it. What she did mean was that when it came to such things -as dismissing the servant girl, the wife should gird up her loins and -“fire” the maiden singlehanded, and not ring her husband in on a play, -manifestly disagreeable, and likely to subject him to great remorse. - -It chanced recently that an opportunity opened like a gate for Mrs. B. -to illustrate her doctrine that wives should proceed in a plain duty -alone, without imposing needless anxiety on the head of the family. - -Mrs. Binks had decided to visit her sister in Hoboken. She was to go -Thursday, and Binks, who was paid his sweat-bought stipend on Monday, -was to furnish the money Monday evening wherewith to make the trip. - -It chanced, unfortunately, that pay-day this particular week was -deferred. The head partner was sick, or out of town; checks could not be -drawn, or something like that. - -“But your money will come on Saturday, boys,” said the other partner. - -Binks was obliged to wait. - -The money was all right; it would be accurately on tap Saturday, so -Binks took no fret on that point. - -But what was he to do about Mrs. B.? That good woman was to go Thursday, -and in order to organise for the descent upon her relative would need -the money--$40--on Tuesday. What was Binks to do? - -Clearly he must do something. He could not ask Mrs. B. to put off her -trip a week; indeed, his reluctance to take such course came almost to -the point of superstition. - -In his troubles Binks suddenly bethought him of a gold watch, once his -father's, with a rich chain and guard attached. These precious heirlooms -had been given to Binks by the elder Binks' executor, and were cherished -accordingly. - -Rather than disappoint Mrs. B. the worthy Binks decided, that just for -once in his life he would seek a pawnbroker and do business with that -common relative of all. - -Binks felt timid and ashamed, but the case was urgent. There was no -risk, for his money would float in all right on the tides of Saturday. -Binks would then redeem these pledges from disgraceful hock; all would -be well. Mrs. B. would be in Hoboken on redemption day, and it would not -be necessary to tell her anything about the matter. It would save her -pain, and Binks bravely determined to keep the whole transaction dark. - -Again, if he told her he had not been paid at the store, the brave woman -would indubitably wend to his employer's house and demand the reason -why. This would be useless and embarrassing. Therefore, Binks would say -nothing. He would pawn the ancestral super, and get it again when his -money came in, and his wife was away. - -The watch and its appertainments were snug in the far corner of a bureau -drawer; away over and behind Mrs. B.'s lingerie. Binks had a watch of -his own, a Waterbury, with a mainspring as endless as a chain pump. Mrs. -B. saw, therefore, no reason why he should carry the gold watch of his -progenitor. Binks might lose it. Mrs. Binks strongly advised that it be -kept in the bureau where it would be safe and naturally, in an affair of -that sort Binks took his wife's advice. - -Binks reflected that he must secure the watch and pawn it that night. -To do this he must plot to get Mrs. B. out of the house. Binks thought -deeply. At last he had it. - -Binks sent a message home in the afternoon and asked Mrs. B. to meet -him in a store down town at six o'clock. Then he had himself released at -5:30, and went hotfoot homeward. - -The coast was clear; Mrs. B. was down town in deference to his -stratagem, no doubt believing that Binks meditated soda water, or some -other delicacy, as the cause of his sudden summons of the afternoon. She -little wotted that she was the victim of deceit. If she had, there would -have been woe. - -Binks rushed at once to the bureau and secured the treasure. He did not -wait a moment, but plunged off to a store where the three balls over the -door bore testimony to the commerce within. Binks would explain to Mrs. -B. on his return, how he had missed her and so failed to keep his date -with her down town. - -The merchant of loans and pledges looked over Binks' timepiece, and -then, as Binks requested, gave him a ticket for it and $40. It was to -be redeemed in thirty days or sooner. And Binks was to pay $44 to get -it again. Binks was very willing. Anything was wiser and better than to -permit Mrs. B.'s visit to her sister to be interrupted. - -When Binks got home Mrs. B. had already returned. - -There was a bad light in her eye. She accepted Binks' excuses and -explanations as to “how he missed her down town” with an evil grace. She -as good as told Binks that he deceived her; that if the phenomenon were -treed she would find another woman in the case. - -However, Binks had the presence of mind to turn over the $40 he reaped -on the watch; and as he expressed it later: - -“That sort of hushed her up.” - -The next day Binks returned to his labours, while Mrs. B. repaired to -the marts to plunge moderately on what truck she stood in want of for -her trip. - -When Mrs. B. got back to the house it chanced that the first thing she -needed was in the fatal drawer. She opened it. - -Horrors! The watch was gone! - -There was naught of hesitation; Mrs. B. knew it had been stolen. Anybody -could see that from the way every garment had been carefully laid back -to hide the loss. - -What should she do? The police must at once be notified. Mrs. B. pulled -on her shaker and scooted for the police station. She told her story -out of breath. She left her house at three o'clock and was back at four -o'clock, and in that short hour her home had been entered and looted of -its treasures. Made to be specific, Mrs. B. said the treasures were a -watch and chain, and described them. - -“What were they worth?” asked the sergeant of the detectives. - -Mrs. B. considered a bit, and then said they would be dog cheap at -$1,000. She reflected that the sum, if published in the papers, would be -a source of pride. - -The sergeant of detectives told Mrs. B. his men would look about for -her property, and should they hear of it or find it they would at once -notify her. - -“You bet your gum boots! ma'am,” said the sleuth confidently, “whatever -crook's got your ticker, he's due to soak it or plant it some'ers in a -week. Mebby he'll turn it over to his Moll. But the minute we springs -it, ma'am, or turns it up, we'll be dead sure to put you on in a jiff.” - -“Thank you,” said Mrs. B. - -Then Mrs. Binks went home and, true to her determination to save Binks -from unnecessary worry, she told him nothing of the loss nor of her -arrangements for the watch's recovery. - -“What's the use of bothering Binks?” she asked herself. “All he could do -would be to notify the police, and I've done that.” - -Thursday came and Mrs. B. set forth for Hoboken. No notice had come from -the police. Binks was glad to see her go. He had lived in fear lest she -come across the departure of the watch. He breathed easier when she was -gone. As for Mrs. B., as she had not heard from the police, there was -nothing to tell Binks; wherefore, like a self-reliant woman who did not -believe in making her husband unhappy to no purpose, she left without -word or sign as to her knowledge of the watch's disappearance. - -It was Friday; ever an unlucky day. Binks was walking swiftly homeward. -Binks was thinking some idle thing when a hand came down on his -shoulder, heavy as a ham. - -“Hold on, me covey; I want you!” - -Binks looked around, scared and startled. He had been halted by a -stocky, bluff man in citizen's clothes. - -“What is it?” gasped Binks. - -“Suttenly, sech a fly guy as you don't know!” said the bluff man, with a -glare. “Well! never mind why I wants you; I'm a detective, and you comes -with me.” - -And Binks went with him. - -Not only that, Binks went in a noisy patrol wagon which the detective -rang for; and it kept gonging its way along and attracting everybody's -attention. - -The word went about among his friends that Binks was drunk and had been -fighting. - -“And to think a man would act like that,” said one lady, who knew Binks -by sight, “just because his wife is away on a visit! If I were his wife -I'd never come back to him!” - -At the station Binks was solemnly looked over by the chief. - -“He's the duck!” said the chief at last. “Exactly old Goldberg's -description of the party who spouts the ticker. Where did you collar -him, Bill?” - -“I sees him paddin' along on Broadway,” replied the bluff man, “and I -tumbles to the sucker like a hod of brick. I knowed he was a sneak the -first look I gives; and the second I says to meself, 'he's wanted for a -watch!' Then I nails him.” - -“Do you know who he is?” asked the chief. - -“My name,” said Binks, who was recovering from the awful daze that had -seized him, “my name is B----” - -“Shet up!” roared the bluff man. “Don't give us any guff! It'll be the -worse for you!” - -“I know the mark,” said an officer looking on. - -“His name is 'Windy Joe, the Magsman.' His mug's in the gallery all -right enough; number 38, I think.” - -“That's correct!” said the chief. “I knowed he was familiar to me, and I -never forgets a face. Frisk him, Bill, and lock him up!” - -“But my name's Binks!” protested our hero. “I'm an innocent man!” - -“That's what they all says,” replied the chief. “Go through him, Bill, -and lock him up; I want to go to me grub.” - -Binks was cast into a dungeon. Next door to him abode a lunatic, -who reviled him all night. On the blotter the ingenuity of the chief -detective inscribed: “Windy Joe, the Magsman, alias Binks. Housebreaking -in daytime.” - -***** - -There is scant need of spinning out the agony. Binks got free of the -scrape some twelve hours later. But it was all very unfortunate. He came -near dismissal at the store, and the neighbours don't understand it yet. -They shake their heads and say: - -“It's very strange if he's so innocent, why he was locked up. When the -police take a man, he's generally done something.” - -“I'm not sorry a bit!” said Mrs. B., when she was brought back from -Hoboken on Saturday by a wire the police allowed Binks to send her. “And -when I saw him with the officers, I was as good a mind to tell them to -keep him as ever I had to eat. To think how he deceived me about that -watch, allowing me to break my heart with thoughts of it being stolen! -I guess the next time Binks sneaks off to pawn his dead father's watch, -he'll let me know.” - - - - -ARABELLA WELD - -(By the Office Boy) - - -I - -It was a chill Harlem evening. The Undertaker sat in his easy chair -smoking his pipe of clay. About him were ranged the tools and trappings -of his gruesome art. On trestles, over in the corner's gliding shadows, -lay the remains he had just been monkeying with. - -At last, as one who reviews his work, the Undertaker arose, and scanned -the wan map of the Departed. - -“He makes a great front,” mused the Undertaker. “He looks out of sight, -and it ought to fetch her.” - -Back to his chair roamed the Undertaker. As he seated himself he -touched a bell. The Poet of the establishment glided dreamily in. -The Undertaker, not only straightened the kinks out of corpses to the -Queen's taste, but he furnished epitaphs, and as well, verses for those -grief-bitten. These latter were to run in the papers with the funeral -notice. - -“Have youse torn off that epitaph for his jiblets?” asked the -Undertaker, nodding towards Deceased. - -“What was it you listed for?” asked the Poet. - -“D' epitaph for William Henry Weld,” replied the Undertaker. The Poet -passed over the desired epitaph. - - William Henry Weld. - - (Aged 26 years.) - - His race he win with pain and sin, - - At Satan he did mock; - - St. Peter said as he let him in: - - “It's Willie, in a walk!” - -“You're a wonder!” cried the Undertaker, when he had finished the -perusal, and he gave the Poet the glad hand. “Here's d' price. Go and -fill your tank.” - -“That should win her,” reflected the Undertaker, when the poet had -wended his way; “that ought to leave her on both sides of d' road. What -I've done for Deceased, and that epitaph should knock her silly. She -shall be mine!” - - -II - -PUBLIC interest having been aroused in the corpse, it may be well to -tell how it became that way. - -Deceased was William Henry Weld. Five days before the opening of -our story, William donned his skates and lined out on one of his -periodicals. For four days he debauched to beat four kings and an ace. - -And William had adventures. He paid a fine; he fell down a coal hole; -he invaded a laundry and administered the hot wallops to the presiding -Chinaman. On the fourth day he declared himself in on a ball not far -from Sixth Avenue. - -“Ah, there!” quoth William, archly, to a beautiful being to whom he had -not been introduced. “Ah, there! Tricksey; I choose youse for d' next -waltz.” - -“Nit; not on your life!” murmured the beautiful one. - -As William Henry Weld was about to make fitting response, a coarse, -vulgar person approached. - -“What for be youse jimmin' 'round me pick?” asked this person. - -“That's d' stuff, Barney!” said the beautiful one. “Don't do a t'ing to -him!” - -The next instant William Henry Weld was cast into outer darkness. - -“It's all right, Old Man!” said the friend who rescued William Henry -Weld, “I'm goin' to take youse home. Your wife ain't on to me, an' -I'll fake it I'm a off'cer, see! I'll give her d' razzle dazzle of her -existence, an' square youse wit' her.” - -“It's Willie!” said the friend to Arabella Weld, as he supported her -husband into the sitting-room. “It's Willie, an' he's feelin' O. K. but -weedy. Me name, madam, is Jackson--Jackson, of d' secret p'lice. Willie -puts himse'f in me hands as a sacred trust to bring him home.” - -“Is he sick?” moaned Arabella Weld, as she began to let her hair down, -preparatory to a yell. - -“Never touched him!” assured the friend. “Naw; Willie's off his feed -a bit. You sees, madam, Willie hired out to a hypnotist purely in d' -interest of science, an' he's been in a trance four days, see! That's -why he ain't home. Bein' in a trance, he couldn't send woid. Now all -he needs is a rest for, say, a week. Oughtn't to let him get out of his -crib for a week.” - -At 4 o'clock the next morning William Henry Weld began to see -blue-winged goats. Arabella Weld “sprung” a glass of water on him. - -“Give it a chase!” shrieked William Henry Weld, wildly waving the false -beverage aside. - -In his ratty condition he didn't tumble to the pure element's identity, -but thought it was one of those Things. - -At 5 o'clock A. M. William Henry Weld didn't do a thing but perish. -When the glorious sun again poured down its golden mellow beams, the -Undertaker had his hooks on him and Arabella Weld was a widow. - - -III - -BUT to return to the Undertaker, the real hero of our tale. We left -him in his studio poring over the epitaph of William Henry Weld, while -Departed rehearsed his dumb and silent turn for eternity in the corner's -lurking shadow. At last the Undertaker roused himself from his reveries. - -“I must to bed!” he said; “it waxeth late, and tomorrow I propose for -her in wedlock.” - -Next morning the Undertaker arose refreshed. He had smote his ear for -full eight hours. He felt fit to propose for his life, let alone the -delicate duke of Arabella Weld. - -The Undertaker's adored one was to come at noon. She wanted to size up -Departed prior to the obsequies. - -Although it was but 9 o'clock, the Undertaker had to get a curve on -himself to keep his date with Arabella Weld at midday. He had an invalid -to measure for a coffin--it was a riveted cinch the party would die--and -then there was a corpse to shave in the next block. These duties were -giving him the crowd. - -But our hero made it; played every inning without an error, and was -organised for Arabella Weld when she arrived. - -As they stood together--Arabella and the man who, all unknown to her, -loved her so madly--looking down at Deceased, she could not repress her -admiration. - -“On d' dead! I never saw Willie look so well,” she said. “He's very much -improved. You must have taken a woild of pains wit' Willie.” - -The Undertaker was silent. - -Struck by this, Arabella Weld turned her full lustrous lamps on the -Undertaker and saw it all. It was for her, the loving heart beside her -had toiled over Deceased like an artist over a picture. - -Swift is Love, and the Undertaker, quivering with his great passion, -twigged in an instant that Arabella was onto him. A vast joy swept his -heart like a torrent. - -“I wanted him to make a hit for your sake,” he whispered, stealing his -arm about her. - -Arabella softly put his arm away. - -“Not now,” she sighed. “It would be too soon a play. We must wait until -we've got Willie off our hands--we must wait a year.” - -“Wait a year!” and the pain of it bent the Undertaker like a willow. -“Wait a year, dearest! Now, what's d' fun of that? You must take me for -a farmer!” and his tones showed that the Undertaker was hurt. - -“But in Herkimer County they wait a year,” faltered Arabella, wistfully. - -“Sure! in Herkimer!” consented the Undertaker; “but that's Up-the-state. -A week in Harlem is equal to a year in Herkimer. Let it be a week, -love!” - -“This isn't a game for Willie's life insurance?” and great crystals of -pain and doubt swam in Arabella's glorious eyes. - -“Oh, me love!” cried the Undertaker, fondly, yet desperately, “plant d' -policy wit' Willie! Send it back to d' company if youse doubts me, an' -tell 'em to call d' whole bluff a draw.” - -The bit of paper, containing the epitaph, fluttered to the floor from -her nerveless mits, her beautiful head sank on the broad shoulder of the -Undertaker, and her tears flowed unrestrained. - - -IV - -One week had passed since William Henry Weld was solemnly pigeon-holed -for eternal reference. - -The preacher received the couple in his study. - -“Shall I marry you with the prayer-book, or would youse prefer the short -cut?” he asked. - -“Marry us on a deck of cards, if you choose!” faltered Arabella. Her -eyes sought the floor, while the tell-tale blushes painted her lovely -prospectus. “Only cinch the play, an' do it quick!” - - - - -THE WEDDING - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -Naw; I'm on I'm late all right, all right; but I couldn't help it, -see!” - -Chucky was thirty minutes behind our hour. I'd been sitting in the -little bar in sickening controversy with one of the vile cigars of the -place waiting for Chucky. For which cause I was moved to mention his -dereliction sharply. - -“Sorry to keep an old pal playin' sol'taire, wit' nothin' better to -amuse him than d' len'th of rope youse is puffin',” continued Chucky in -furtive excuse, “but I was to a weddin' an' couldn't breakaway. That's -w'y I've got on me dress soote. - -“Say! on d' dead! of course I ain't in on many nuptials; but all d' -same I likes to go. I always comes away feelin' so wise an* flossy an* -cooney. Why, I don't know, unless it's 'cause d' guys gettin' hitched -looks so much like a couple of come-ons--so dead sure life is such a -cinch, such a sight of confidence like one sees at a weddin', be d' -parts of d' two suckers who's bein' starred, never omits to make me feel -too cunnin' to live for d' whole week after. - -“Sure! this weddin' was a good t'ing; what youse might call d' real -t'ing; an' it's a spark to a rhinestone it toins out all hunk for d' -folks involved. Who's d' two gezebos who gets nex' to each other? D' -groom is d' boss gunner of one of our war boats, an 'd' skirt is d' cash -goil in d' anti-Chink laundry on Great Jones street. - -“An' say! that little skirt's a wonder, an' don't youse forget it! She's -good any day for any old t'ing I've got; an' all she's got to do is just -rap, an' she takes it, see! It was me Rag sees d' goil foist one time -when she's down be d' laundry puttin' in me t'ree-sheets for their -weekly dose of suds. - -“Is me Rag an' me married? Say! I likes that, I don't t'ink! Youse is -gettin' fanciful in your cupolo. 4 Be me little Bundle an' me married?' -says you. Well, I should kiss a pig! Youse can take me tip for it, if -we ain't man an' wife be d' longest system d' Cat'lic Choich could -play--for me Rag told d' father who 'fficiates that we're out for d' -limit--then all I got to stutter is there ain't a mug who's married in -d' entire city of Noo York. - -“Cert! we're married!” Chucky went on after cheering himself with the -tankard which the barkeeper placed before him. “If youse had let your -lamps repose on this horseshoe scar over d' bridge of me smeller, youse -would have tumbled to d' fac wit'out astin'. - -“How do I win it? I'm comin' up d' stairs like a sucker, just followin' -a difference of opinion between me an' me loidy (I soaked her a little -one, an' that's for fair! to show her she's off her trolley about d' -subject in dispoote), when she cuts loose d' coal bucket at me. Say! she -spoiled me map for a mont'. - -“But to get back to d' little laundry goil. Me Rag, as I says, was in -this tub-joint where d' goil woikswit' me linen one day; an' just as she -chases in, a fresh stiff who's standin' there t'run some raw bluff at d' -little laundry goil she couldn't stand for, see! an' she puts up a damp -eye an' does d' weep act. - -“This little laundry goil is one of them meek, harmless people--rabbits -is bull-terriers to 'em--an' so when me onliest own beholds d' tears -come chasin down her nose at d' remarks of this fly guy, she chucks me -shirts in d' corner an' mounts him in a hully secont. - -“An' say! me Rag can scrap, an' that's no dream! I don't want none of -it. When she an' me has carried d' conversation to d' point where she -takes out her hairpins, an' gives her mane to d' breeze, that's me cue -to cork. Youse can't get another rise out of me after that: I knows her. - -“Well! me Rag lights into this hobo who's got gay wit 'd' little goil, -an' when she takes her hooks out of his make-up, an' he goes surgin' -into d' street, honest! he looks like he's been fightin' a dog. Some -lovers of true sport who's there an' payin' attention to d' mill, says -this galoot wasn't in it wit' me Rag. She has him on d' blink from d' -jump; she win in a loiter. - -“Takin' her part that way makes d' little laundry goil confidenshul -wit' me Rag. It's about two weeks later when she sprints over an' tells -Missus Chuck (she makes her promise to lay dead about it, too, but still -she passes d' woid to me)--she tells me Rag, as I'm sayin', that she's -in trouble. Her steady, she says, is one of d' top notch gunners of one -of our big boats; he's d' main squeeze in histurrent, see! an' way up in -d' paint. His boat's been layin' at d' Navy Yard, an' now he's ordered -to sail for Cuba in a week an' help straighten up d' Dagoes we're havin' -d' recent run in wit'. Meanwhiles, she says, dey won't let her beloved -have shore leave; an' neither dey won't stand for her to come aboard an' -see him. There youse be! a case of dead sep'ration between two lovin' -hearts. - -“D' little laundry goil gives it out cold, she'll croak if she don't get -to see her Billy before he skates off for d' wars. She says she knows -he's out to be killed anyhow. D' question wit' her is--what's she goin' -to do? Dey won't let her aboard d' boat, an' dey won't let him aboard d' -land; now, what's d' soon move for her to make? - -“Well, me Rag--who's got a nut on her for cert--says for her to skip -down to Washin'ton an' go ag'inst d' Sec'tary himself. - -“'Make him a strong talk,' says me Rag; 'give him a reg'lar -razzle-dazzle, an' he'll write youse a poiper to them blokes aboard d' -boat to let youse see your Billy.' - -“'Do youse t'ink for sure he will?' says d' little laundry goil. - -“'Why, it's a walkover!' says me Rag. 'If he toins out a hard game, give -him d' tearful eye, see! an' cough a sob or two, an' he'll weaken! You -can't miss it,' says me ownliest; 'it's easy money.' - -“But d' little goil was awful leary of d' play. - -“' Washin'ton is so far away,' she says. - -“' It's like goin' to Harlem,' says me Rag. 'All youse has to do to go, -is to take some sandwidges an' apples to sort o' jolly d' trip, an' then -climb onto d' cars an' go. When d' Con. comes t'rough, pass him your -pasteboard, see! an' if any of them smooth marks try to make a mash, -t'run 'em down an' t'run 'em hard. I'll go over an' do your stunt at -d' laundry, so that needn't give youse a scare. An' be d' way! if that -lobster I win from d' other day shows up, I'll make a monkey of him -ag'in. I didn't spend enough time wit' him on d' occasion of our mix-up, -anyway.' - -“At last d' little laundry goil makes d' brace of her life. She's so -bashful an' timid she can't live; but she's dead stuck on seein' her -Billy before he sails away, an' it gives her nerve. As I says, she takes -me Rag's steer an' skins out for d' Cap'tal. - -“An' what do youse t'ink? D' old mut who's Sec'tary won't chin wit' her. -Toins her down cold, he does; gives her d' grand rinky-dink wit'out so -much as findin' out what's her racket at all. - -“At d' finish, however, d' little goil lands one of d' push--he's a -cloik in d' office, I figgers--an' he hears her yarn between weeps, an' -ups an' makes a pass or two, an' she gets d' writin'. It says to toin -Billy loose every afternoon till d' boat pulls out. - -“Say! him an 'd' little goil, when she gets back, was as happy as a -couple of kids; dey has more fun than a box of monkeys. On d' level! I -was proud of me Rag for floor managin' d' play. She wasn't solid wit' -Billy an 'd' little goil! Oh, no! - -“That's how me an' me loidy was in on this weddin' to-day wit' bot' -trilbys. Me Rag's 'It' wit' d' little goil; youse can gamble on that! - -“Of course d' war's over now, an' two weeks ago d' little goil's Billy -comes home. An' what wit' pay, an' what wit' prize money, he hits d' -Bend wit' a bundle of d' long green big enough to make youse t'row a -fit, an' he ain't done a t'ing but boin money ever since. - -“Nit; it ain't much of a story, but d' whole racket pleases me out o' -sight, see! Considerin' d' hand me Rag plays, when I'm at that weddin' -to-day I feels like a daddy to Billy an 'd' little goil. On d' level! I -feels that chesty about it, that when d' priest is goin' to bat an says, -'Is there any duck here to give d' bride away?' I cuts in on d' game wit -'d' remark, 'I donates d' bride meself.' I s'pose I was struck dopey, or -nutty, or somethin'. - -“But me Rag fetches me to all c'rrect. She clinches her mit an' -whispers: - -“Let me catch youse makin' another funny break like that an' I'll cop a -sneak on your neck.' An' then she stands there chewin' d' quiet rag an' -pipin' me off wit' an eye of fire. 'Such an old bum as youse,' she says, -'is a disgrace to d' Bend.'” - - - - -POINSETTE'S CAPTIVITY - - -This is a tale of last August. Poinsette was to be left alone for four -weeks. Mrs. Poinsette had settled on Cape May as a good thing for the -hot spell. She would hie her thither and leave Poinsette to do his worst -without her. - -Poinsette did not care. He bravely told Mrs. P. she needed an outing. -The ozone and the salty, ocean breeze would do her good. So he -encouraged Cape May, and bid Mrs. P. go there by all means. - -It was decided by the Poinsettes discussing Cape May to have Poinsette -room up town while Mrs. P. was thus Cape Maying. The Poinsette house in -the suburbs might better be locked up during Mrs. P.'s absence from the -city. It would be more economical; indeed, it was not esteemed safe to -leave the Poinsette lares and penates to the unwatched ministrations of -the Congo who performed in the Poinsette kitchen. It would be wiser -to dismiss the servant, bolt and bar the house, obtain Poinsette -apartments, and let him browse for food among the bounteous restaurants -of the city. - -Poinsette found a room to suit in a house on West 87th Street. It -was one of a long row of houses. Poinsette reported his victory in -room-hunting to Mrs. P. Poinsette was now all right, and ready for what -might come. Mrs. P. might bend her course to Cape May without further -hesitation. - -Mrs. P. was glad to learn of Poinsette's apartment success. She went out -and looked at his find to make sure that Poinsette would be comfortable. -Incidentally, Mrs. P. kept her eye about her, to note whether the -boarding-house books carried any pretty girls. Mrs. P. did not care to -have Poinsette too comfortable. - -There were no pretty girls. Mrs. P. approved the selection. The very -next day she kissed Poinsette good-bye and rumbled and ferried to the -station, from which arena of smoke and noise a train leaped forth like a -greyhound and bore her away to Cape May. - -Poinsette did not accompany his spouse to the station. Ten years before -he would have done this, but experience had taught him that Mrs. P. -could care for herself. Therefore he remained behind to fasten up the -house. Soberly he went about locking doors, and fastening windows, and -thinking rather sadly,--as all husbands so deserted do,--of the long, -lonely months before him. At last all was secure, and Poinsette turned -the key in the big front door and came away. - -Poinsette did not feel like work that afternoon, or the trifling -fragment of it that was left after Mrs. P. had wended and he had locked -up the house. He bought a few good books and several of the more solid -periodicals. They would serve during the weary nights while Mrs. P. -was away at the Cape. These Poinsette sent to his rooms, and, as it was -growing six o'clock now, he turned into Sherry's for his dinner. - -Just where Poinsette went that evening following Sherry's, and what he -saw and did, and who assisted at such enterprises as he embarked in, -would be nothing to the present point and may be skipped. They are the -private affairs of Poinsette, and not properly the subjects of a morbid -curiosity. However, lest Mrs. P. see this and argue aught herefrom to -feed distrust, it should be said that Poinsette saw nobody, did nothing, -went no place unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. - -It was four o'clock in the morning when Poinsette, the sole passenger -aboard a foaming night-liner, toiled through the Park and bore away for -his new abode. Poinsette stopped the faithful night-liner two blocks -from the door and went forward on foot. Poinsette did not care to -clatter ostentatiously to his rooms at four in the morning the first day -he inhabited them. - -Poinsette found the house without trouble, and stepped lightly to the -door. He put the pass-key his landlady had bestowed upon him in the -lock, but it would not turn. The bolt would not yield to his wooing. -Do all he might, and work he never so wisely, there had sprung up a -misunderstanding between key and lock which would not be reconciled. -Poinsette could not get “action;” the sullen door still barred him from -his bed. - -At last Poinsette gave up in despair. He might ring the bell and arouse -the house; but he hesitated. It was his first day; the hour needed -apology. Poinsette thought it would be better to walk gently to a -hotel and abide for the remainder of the night. He would solve this -incompatibility of key and lock the next afternoon. - -Poinsette turned away and started softly for the street. As he did so a -policeman stepped from behind a tree and stopped him. The policeman had -been watching Poinsette for five minutes. - -“Wot was you a-doin' at the door?” he asked. - -Poinsette, in a low, hurried voice, explained. He didn't care to awaken -his landlady by a tumult of talk, and have that excellent woman discover -him in the hands of the law. - -“If your key don't work,” said the policeman, “why don't you ring the -bell?” - -Poinsette cleared up that mystery. The officer was not satisfied. - -“To be free with you, my man,” he said, seizing Poinsette's collar, “I -think you're a burglar. If that's your boarding-house you're goin' in. -If it isn't, you're goin' to the station.” - -Then the policeman, with one hand wound about in Poinsette's neckwear, -made trial of the key with the other hand. The effort was futile. The -lock was obdurate; the key was stranger to it. Then the blue guardian -of the city's slumbers stepped back a pace and took a mighty pull at -the door-bell. It was a yank which brought forth a wealth of jingle and -ring. - -Poinsette was glad of it. He had grown desperate and wanted the thing -to end. Bad as it was, it would be better to face his landlady than be -locked up in a burglar's cell. Poinsette was resigned, therefore, when a -second-story window lifted and a night-capped head was made to overhang -the sill and blot its silhouette against the star-lit sky. - -“Be you the landlady?” asked the policeman. - -“Yes, I am!” quoth the night-cap in a snappy, snarly way. “What do you -want?” This with added sourness. - -“This party says his name is Poinsette and that he rooms here,” replied -the officer. - -“No such thing!” retorted the night-cap. “No such man rooms here. Don't -even know the name!” - -Then the window came down with a grievous bang. It was as if it -descended on Poinsette's heart. - -“You're a crook!” said the policeman, “and now you come with me.” - -Poinsette essayed to explain that the night-cap was not his landlady; -that he had made a mistake in the house. The policeman laughed in hoarse -scorn at this. - -“D'ye think I'm goin' all along the row, yankin' door-bells out by the -roots on such a stiff as you're givin' me?” - -That was the reply of the policeman to Poinsette's pleadings to try next -door. - -Poinsette was led sadly off, with the grip of the law on his collar. At -the station he was searched and booked and bolted in. On the hard plank, -which made the sole furnishings of his narrow cell, Poinsette threw -himself down; not to sleep, but to give himself to bitter consideration -of his fate. - -As Poinsette sat there waiting for the sun to rise and friends to come -to his rescue, the station clock struck five. It rang dismally in the -cell of Poinsette. - -At Cape May, clocks of correct habits were also telling the hour of -five. Mrs. P. was not yet asleep. The vigorous aroma of the ocean swept -the room. The half-morning was beautiful; Mrs. P., loosely garbed, sat -in an easy-chair at the window and enjoyed it. - -“I wonder what Poinsette's been doing,” said Mrs. P. to herself; and -there was a colour of jealousy in the tone. Then Mrs. P. snorted as in -contempt. “I'll warrant he's been having a good time,” she continued. -“This idea that married men when their wives are away for the summer -have a dull time, never imposed on me.” - - - - -TIP FROM THE TOMB - - - - -CHAPTER I - -T. Jefferson Bender was a doctor; that is, he was not a real, legal -doctor as yet, but he was a hard student, and looked hopefully toward -a day when, in accordance with the statutes in such cases made and -provided, he would be cantered through the examination chute, and -entitled to write “M. D.” following his name, with all that it implied. - -Each morning T. Jefferson Bender arose with the lark, and, seizing his -dissecting knife, plunged into whatever subject was spread before him. -In the afternoon he attended lectures, bending a hungry ear and watching -with eager eye, while the lecturer, in illustration of his remarks, -tortured poor people, free of charge. At night, when the day's carvings, -and listenings, and lookings were over, T. Jefferson Bender sat in his -easy chair and peered down the long aisle of coming time. - -The world was bright to the glance of T. Jefferson Bender; the future -full of promise. In his musings he saw himself striding towards surgical -fame and riches over a pathway strewn with the amputational harvest of -his skill. He filled the hereafter with himself routing disease; cutting -down deadly maladies as a farmer might the mullein-stalk; driving -before him bacteria and bacilli in herds, droves, schools and shoals. T. -Jefferson Bender was a happy man, and his forehead was already, in his -imaginings, kissed by the rays of a dawning professional prosperity. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -T. Jefferson Bender allowed himself but one relaxation. He was from -Lexington, and had a true Kentuckian's love for horseflesh. Thus it was -that he patronised the races, and was often seen at Morris Park, -where he prevailed from a seat in the grand-stand. Here, casting off -professional dignity as he might a garment, T. Jefferson Bender whooped -and howled and hurled his hat on high, as race following race swept in. - -At intervals T. Jefferson Bender was carried to such heights of madness -as “playing the horses.” And then it was he suffered those vicissitudes -which are chronicled colloquially under the phrase of “getting it in the -neck.” - - - - -CHAPTER III - -It was the day of the great race. The Morris Park grand-stand was -reeling full. The quarter stretch was crowded with Democrats and -Republicans and Mugwumps, who, laying aside political hatreds for a day, -had come to see the races. The horses were backing and plunging in the -grasp of rubbers and stable minions, while the gay jockeys, with their -mites of saddles on their left arms, were being weighed in. - -Suddenly, a cry of terror rent the air. Otero, a headstrong beauty, had -leaped upon the neck of Paddy the Pig, a horse rubber, and borne him -to the earth. Paddy the Pig's neck was severely wrenched, so the crowd -said. As the accident occurred, the victim fainted. - -“Is there a doctor present?” shouted one of the race judges, appealing -to the grand-stand. - -T. Jefferson Bender arose from where he sat, walked over seventeen men -and women, and leaped upon the stretch. - -“I am here,” observed T. Jefferson Bender, while his eye lighted and his -nostrils expanded with the ardour of a great resolve. - -T. Jefferson Bender bent above Paddy the Pig and felt his pulse. - -“He lives!” muttered T. Jefferson Bender. - -Then he called for whiskey. - -At the magical words, Paddy the Pig languidly opened his eyes, while a -flush dimly painted his cheek. - -“Doc, you have saved my life!” said Paddy the Pig. - -“I have,” said T. Jefferson Bender, willing to be impressive. “I have -saved your life.” - -“Doc,” said Paddy the Pig in a weak, fluttering voice, “I am only a -horse rubber, but I will make you rich. Play Skylight to win, Doc; -Skylight! It's a tip from the tomb!” - -“It's a tip from the tomb!” said T. Jefferson Bender reverently, “what -are the odds?” - -“It's a 20-to-1 shot, Doc. Play it. You will thus be paid for what -you've done for me.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -That night T. Jefferson Bender stood in a pawnshop. The flickering -gaslight shone on mandolins, pistols, watches, and clothing, which had -suffered the ordeal of the spout. T. Jefferson Bender was dusty and -footsore. He had walked from Morris Park, and was now about to pawn his -watch for food. - -[Illustration: 0217] - - - - -CHAPTER V - -T. Jefferson Bender had played Skylight. - -(Annals of The Bend) - -Why, yes,” responded Chucky readily enough, “there's choiches of all -sorts, same as there's folks, see! Some does good an' then ag'in there's -others that ain't so warm.” - -It was rude, cold weather. Because of the bluster and the freezing air -without, Chucky had abandoned his customary ale for hot Scotches. These -and the barroom's pleasant heat, in contrast with the chill and gusts -of the street, served to unfold Chucky's conversational powers. He even -waxed philosophical. - -“For that matter,” continued Chucky, critically, “there's lots of good -lyin' 'round loose. Sometimes it's dead hard to find, but it's there all -d' same, if youse is fly enough to pipe it off. An' it ain't all in -d' choiches neither. As I states, I'm d' last mug to go knockin' d' -choiches, but dey ain't got no corner on d' good of this woild. There -is others. D' choices ain't d' only apple on d' tree. Nor yet d' onliest -gas jet on 'd chandelier. - -“Say!” Chucky went on, after a further taste of the hot Scotch, “on d' -level! I'm onto achoich what's got nex' to a bakery, an' what do youse -t'ink? Each night d' bakery don't do a t'ing but give every poor hobo -who fronts up to d' window a loaf of bread. That's for fair! an 'd' -gezebo who runs d' bakery is a Dutch Sheeny at that. Would youse get -bread if you was to go chasin' nex' door to d' choich? Nit; t'ree times -nit! If you was to go slammin' 'round d! choich makin' a talk for a -hand-out, all youse would get would be d' collar, see! - -“Onct a week that sanchewary would fill youse to d' chin on chimes; oh, -yes! but no buns; not on your life! Chimes is d' limit wit' that choich. -An' say! it's got money to boin! Bread at d' bakery! chimes at d' -choich! that's how dey line t'ings up at that corner. An' I'm here -to say as between d' brace of 'em, when it gets down to d' cold -proposition, 'W'ich does d' most good?' d' bakery can lose that temple -of worship in a walk. I strings me money on d' bakery. An' don't youse -forget it!” - -Chucky was quite exhausted after this outburst. He revived, however, -with the hot Scotch, which restored him mightily. - -“Onct,” resumed Chucky, “about ten years ago, this is, I was where a -w'ite choker was takin' up a c'llection. An' what do youse figure he -wants it for? I'm a black Republican if he didn't break it off on us -that he was out to make up a wad so his congregation could cel'brate d' -fortieth birt'-day of gold in Californy. Don't that knock youse silly? -D' w'ite choker says as how he comes from Californy an' him an' his push -is goin' to toin themselfs loose, see! an whoop it up because dey found -gold forty spaces back. It made me tired, honest! - -“'Why!' I says to this pulpit t'umper, just like that, 'Why! don't youse -preach that gold is d' roots of evil? An' now youse is framin' up a -blow-out over findin' it! It looks like a dead gauzy bluff to me.' - -“What does d' w'ite choker mark do? Just gives me d' dead face an' -ignores me. - -“Youse permits yourself to be amazed at me pickin' this guy up about -gold bein' d' seeds of evil,” observed Chucky, with a touch of severity. -This was in response to some syllable of admiration I'd let fall. “Youse -needn't mind. I'll give youse a tip that in me yout' I was d' star -peeple of d' Sunday school dey opens long ago at d' Five Points. That's -straight goods, see! I was d' soonest kid at me lessons that ever comes -down d' pike, an 'd' swiftest ever. I has all d' other kids on d' blink. -I win a test'ment onct from d' outstretched mits of d' entire push, bar -d' Bible class, for loinin' more verses be heart than anybody. I downs -every kid in d' bunch. I made 'em look like a lot of suckers!” and -Chucky paused in approving meditation over the victories of boyhood -days. - -“Still d' choiches does dead lots o' good,” asserted Chucky, coming back -to the subject. “There's d' case of Bridgy McGuire. She makes two or -t'ree trips to d' Cat'lic joint over on Mott Street, an' all she loins, -so it sticks in her frizzes, is: 'Honour dy father an' dy mother,' see! -An' Bridgy says herself it's that what brings her back after she's -been run away from home for six years. Bridgy shows up just in time to -straighten out d' game for d' McGuires at that. D' fam'ly was on d' hog -for fair when Bridgy gets there. - -“Nixie, d' yarn ain't so long, nor yet so scarce; for that matter, -there's lots more like 'em. In d' foist place, this mark, McGuire, -Bridgy's dad, ain't so bad. Mac's a bricklayer; but d' loose screw wit' -him was that he ain't woikin' in d' winter; an' as durin' d' summer he -gen'rally lushes more whiskey than he lays bricks, an' is more apt to -hit d' bottle than a job, d' McGuire household's more or less on d' bum, -see! - -“I remembers Bridgy when she's so little a yard makes a frock for her. -She was a long, slim, bony kid, wit' legs on her like she's built to -pick hops; an' if Bridgy shows anyt'ing in her breed when young, it's a -strong streak of step-ladder. - -“In her kid days I wasn't noticin' Bridgy much; d' fact was, then as -now, I'm havin' troubles, of me own. Her mommer, who was pretty near an -even break wit' Mac himself when it comes to hittin' up d' booze, every -now an' then t'run back to d' religious days of her own yout', an' it's -durin' one of these Bible fits of d' old woman that she saws Bridgy off -on d' choich, where I speaks of her gettin 'd' hunch from d' priest, -or somebody, that it's d' fly caper if youse is out to finish wit' d' -heavenly squeeze, to honour your father an' mother. - -“As I relates, I ain't dead clear about Bridgy when she's young an' -little, except it does come chasin' back to me that she's dead gone on -dancin' an' knock-about woik. Onct when me an' d' McGuires is livin' on -d' same floor, I hears a racket in d' hall like some sucker is tryin' to -come downstairs wit' a tool chest. Naturally, I shoves me nut outside me -door to tell him to go chase himself. But it's only Bridgy--mebby she's -twelve at d' time--practyesing. I keeps me lamps onto her awhile, an' -she never tumbles I'm there; for I don't say nothin', but lays dead. -Bridgy is doin' han'-stan's, cartwheels, backbends, fallin' splits an' -all sorts of funny stunts. - -“'Is this an accident, or does you mean it?' I asts at last, as Bridgy -winds up a cartwheel wit' a split that looks like it's goin' to leave -her on bot' sides of d' passage way. - -“'I'm doin' a spread,' says Bridgy, 'same as d' Boneless Wonder at -Miner's, see!' An' here she lays her little cocoa down on her knee to -show she's comfortable, an' dead easy in her mind. - -“Wit'out keepin' exact tabs on Bridgy, I'm able to state that as soon as -she's big enough she goes to woik; an' at one time an' another she sells -poipers, does a toin in a vest factory, or some other sweat shop; an' at -last, when she's about seventeen, she's model in a cloak joint. She gets -along all right, all right for a space or so, when one day d' old grey -guy who owns d' woiks takes it into his nut he'll float into Bridgy's -'fections. - -“'Love youse!' says Bridgy, to this aged stiff; 'old gent, you're dopey! -If youse give way to a few more dreams like that, your folks 'll put you -in d' booby house. Yous'll be in Bloomin'dale cuttin' poiper dolls d' -foist news you know.' - -“At this d' wicked old geezer makes a strong talk--makes d' speech of -his life. But Bridgy won't stand for him, nor his game. - -“'Come off your perch!' she says at last. 'Either you corks up or I -quits. You don't make no hit wit' me at all.' - -“But d' old mucker don't let up none, an' keeps on givin' Bridgy a song -an' dance about his love for her; so at last she makes her bluff good -an' walks out of d' joint an' goes home. - -“McGuire was hot in d' collar at Bridgy t'runnin' down her job; but d' -old woman, she says Bridgy does dead right; an' for a finish Mac an -'d' old woman goes on a drunk an' has a fight over it; after which d' -subject's dropped, see! an' that's d' end of it. I only sees Bridgy onct -after that, before she screws her cocoa. That's at d' Tugman's Ball; -where she's d' Queen spieler of d' bunch, an' shows on d' floor as light -an' graceful as so much cigar smoke. It's right on d' heels of this that -Bridgy fades from d' Bend for fair, an' no one has d' least line on her -or knows where she's at. - -“It runs on for t'ree or four spaces, an 'd' McGuires keeps gettin' -drunker an' harder up. More'n onct d' neighbors has to bring in d' grub, -or dey wouldn't have done a t'ing but starve. Dey's jumpin' sideways for -food to chew, I'll tell youse that right now, as much as half d' time. -Durin' all this no one hears a woid about Bridgy. - -“Of course, no one's makin' much of a roar. There's a good deal doin' -about d' Bend, see! An' d' comin' or d' goin' of a skirt more or less -don't cut much ice. - -“It's in d' winter, an 'd' McGuires has been carryin' on bad. No -woik, no money, no grub! On d' dead! it's a forty-to-one shot dey bot' -finishes at d' morgue, or d' Island before d' spring comes 'round. For -d' winter is bad in d' Bend, an' while everybody is on, that d' McGuires -is strikin' it hard, d' most of us is havin' all we can do runnin' down -t'ree feeds a day, so d' McGuires ain't what*d' poipers calls 'much in -d' public eye,' after all. One evenin', however, Mac comes sprintin' to -me, an' he's fair sober for him. - -“'Nit!' he says, when I asts him, 'nit; none of d' ellegunt for me!' - -“Then I tumbles there's a cochin on. McGuire's t'runnin' off on a drink -was a new one on d' Bend. - -“'Come wit' me,' he says, 'to Roster & Bial's.' - -“'Come wit' youse to Koster's!' I retort. 'That's a dandy idee; youse -ought to sew buttons on it! Come to Koster & Bial's! Who's got d' -price?' - -“'Here's d' pasteboards,' says Mac. - -“An' I'm a liar' if he ain't got 'em. So we goes, see! - -“D' fift' toin on d' programme is a 'Mamselle Fleury from Paris.' She's -down on d' bills as a singer, dancer an' high kicker. I'm leanin' back -in me seat feelin' sore on meself for not makin' Mac hock d' tickets for -beer, when all at onct Mac gives me a jolt in d' slats wit' his elbow, -an' pointin' one of his main hooks at this French tart, where she's -singin' on d' stoige--an' say! she's a boid an' a Kokobola--an' says: - -“'Be youse on?' - -“I focuses me peeps on this Fleury, all pink tights an' silks an' -feathers, where she's doin' her toin. I'm a lobster if she ain't Bridgy -McGuire! - -“'What th' 'ell! what th' bloomin' 'ell!' is all I can say; an' on d' -square! Mac has to drag me out an' lay an oyster on me before I'm meself -ag'in. It comes mighty near stoppin' me in d' foist round. - -“You sees d' finish. Bridgy's took to d' stoige. She's been over in -London an' Paris; an' say! she's got d' game down fine as silk. She'd -come back an' was beatin 'd' box for t'ree hundred plunks a week. - -“Sure! Bridgy had been up to find her folks. Foist she said she t'ought -she'd pass 'em up. Dey had given her d' woist of it when she's a kid; -why should she bother! But she tells us herself, talkin' it over, how -when she struck d' old town ag'in, an' old sights begins to toin up old -mem'ries, it starts to run in her wig about d' Bend an 'd' old days. An' -what stan's out clearest is d' little old Cat'lic choich, an 'd' guff -dey gives her d' onct or twict she shows up there, about honourin' her -father an' mother. I s'pose what youse would call Bridgy's conscience -gets a run for its money. Anyhow, somet'ing inside of her took to -chewin' d' rag, an' showin' Bridgy's she's wrong, an' at d' last, she -can't stand for it no longer, an' so she sends a tracer out for her -mother an' dad, an' lands 'em. - -“D' McGuires live in Harlem now. Dey drinks better whiskey then dey did -in d' Bend, an' less of it. Bridgy is a wonder an' a winner; in it wit' -bot' feet an' has dough to back every needful racket. Yes, d' choich -does it, give it d' credit; an' youse can gamble your last chip d' -McGuires crosses themselfs every time dey sees one. An' dey's dead -flossy so to do.” - - - - -TOO CHEAP - -(By the Office Boy) - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -The scene was Washington. - -“Get the galoot to urge the Bill, gal; and I'll make over half them -phosphate beds to you. The Senate has already passed it.” - -“I'll do my best, Uncle Silver Tip,” said Agnes Huntington. “Slippery -Elm Benton loves me, and he cannot refuse his affianced wife his vote.” - -“They'd hang him in Colorado if he did,” observed Uncle Silver Tip; “but -see to it at once, gal; the fourth of March draws on apace. All must -then be over, or all is lost.” - - - - -CHAPTER II - -Agnes Huntington pressed her expectant nose against the pane. Outside -the snowstorm was profound. The flakes crowded the air as they fell. The -drifts were four feet deep on Connecticut avenue. A man wrapped in furs -pushed his way toward the Chateau d' Huntington. It was Arctic cold, but -love beckoned him. He stamped the snow from his feet in the entry. The -next moment Agnes Huntington had curled about his neck in a festoon of -affection. - -It was Representative Slippery Elm Benton. - -Agnes Huntington was a beautiful creature--tall, slender, spirituelle, -with eyes as dark and deep as the heavens at-night. Agnes Huntington had -but one fault: she would sell the honour of the man she loved. - -Agnes Huntington was out for the stuff bigger than a wolf. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -Sometimes I doubt the longevity of our bliss,” he said. “Despair rides -on the crupper of my hopes at times. The Witch of Waco told how in a -trance she saw my future spread before me like a faro layout. 'And,' -said the Witch of Waco, I saw the pale hand of Fate put a copper on -the queen. You may be lynched, but you will never wed.' Such was her -bleak bode.” - -And Slippery Elm Benton trembled like a child. - -“Heed her not, dearest,” murmured Agnes Huntington. “Surrender yourself, -as I do, to the solemn currents of our love. And, darling, promise me -again, you will do what is needful for the Phosphate Bill. It would -brighten the last days of dear old Uncle Silver Tip.” - -“Where is your aged relative?” asked Slippery Elm Benton, moodily. - -“We'd better not call him, dearest,” she said. “Uncle is lushing -to-night, and he is unpleasant when he has been tanking up. What you do -for the Phosphate Bill, you do for me.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -It was “suspension day,” and the Phosphate Bill went through the House -like the grace of Heaven through a camp-meeting. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -Half of that phosphate bed is yours, gal,” said Uncle Silver Tip, when -Agnes Huntington told him the Bill was already at the White House for -the President's signature. “It's wuth a million; an' you've 'arned it, -gal! It was to turn sech tricks as this your old uncle sent you from -the wild and woolly West to an Eastern seminary, and had them knock your -horns off. It cost a bunch of cattle, but it's paid.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -There's something I must tell you, love,” said Agnes Huntington; “you -would know all in time, and it is better that you learn it now from the -lips of your Agnes.” - -“What is it, beautiful one?” said Slippery Elm Benton, languidly. - -The Congressional day, with its labours, had wearied our hero, and, -although with the woman he loved, he still felt fatigued. - -“Read this,” said Agnes, as she pushed a paper into her lover's hand, -and shrank back as if frightened. - -The paper made over one-half of the phosphate bed to Agnes Huntington. - -“And it was for this you sold my vote in the House!” and Slippery Elm -Benton laughed mockingly. - -“Oh, say not so, love!” said Agnes Huntington, piteously. “Rather would -I hear you curse than laugh like that!” - -“And so the vote and influence of Slippery Elm Benton are basely -bargained by the woman he loved for a one-half interest in a phosphate -bed!” - -Slippery Elm Benton strode up and down the apartment, tossing his arms -like a Dutch windmill. - -Agnes Huntington cowered before the wrath of her lover. - -“What would you have?” she cried. - -“What would I have!” repeated Slippery Elm Benton, with a sneer, which -all but withered the weeping girl; “what would I have! I would have -all--all! My vote and influence were worth the entire phosphate bed, and -you basely accepted a paltry moiety! Go from my side, false woman; you -who would put so low an estimate upon me! The Witch of Waco was right. I -leave you. I leave you as one unfit to be the wife of a Congressman!” - -And Slippery Elm Benton, while Agnes Huntington swooned on the rug, -rushed into the night and the snow. - - - - -HENRY SPENY'S BENEVOLENCE - - -SUMMER was here and the day was warm. Henry Speny had been walking, -and now stood at-the corner of Tenth Avenue and Twenty-eighth street, -mopping his brow. Henry Speny was a Conservative; and, although Mrs. -Speny had that morning gone almost to the frontiers of a fist fight to -make him change his underwear for the lighter and more gauzy apparel -proper to jocund August, Henry Speny refused. He was now paying the -piper, and thinking how much more Mrs. Speny knew than he did, when the -Tramp came up. - -“Podner!” said the Tramp in a low, guttural whine, intended to escape -the ear of the police and touch Henry Speny's heart at one and the same -time; “podner! couldn't you assist a pore man a little?” - -“Assist a poor man to what?” asked Henry Speny, returning his -handkerchief to his pocket and looking scornfully at the Tramp. - -He was a fat, healthy Tramp, in good condition. Henry Speny hardened his -heart. - -“Dime!” replied the Tramp; “dime to get somethin' to eat.” - -“No,” said Henry Speny shortly; “I'm a half dozen meals behind the game -myself.” - -This last was only Henry Speny's humour. Mrs. Speny fed him twice a day. -But Henry Speny knew that the Tramp wanted the dime for whiskey. - -“Well! if you don't think I want it to chew on,” said the Tramp, “jest' -take me to a bakery and buy me a loaf of bread. I'll get away with it -right before you.” - -“Say!” remarked Henry Speny, in a spirit of sarcastic irritation, -“what's the use of your talking to me? There's the Charity Woodyard in -this town, where, if you were really hungry, you would go and saw -wood for something to eat. You can get two meals and a bed for sawing -one-sixteenth of a cord of wood.” - -“You can't saw wood with no such fin as this, podner!” said the Tramp; -and pulling up his coat sleeve he displayed to Henry Speny an arm -as withered as a dead tree. “The other's all right,” he continued, -restoring his coat sleeve; “but wot's one arm in a catch-as-catch-can -racket with a bucksaw?” - -Henry Speny was conscience-stricken, but he would defeat the Tramp in -his efforts to buy whiskey. - -“I'll go down to the woodyard and saw your wood myself,” said Henry -Speny. - -He told Mrs. Speny afterward that he could not account for the making of -this offer, unless it was his anxiety to keep the Tramp sober. All -the Tramp wanted was ten cents, and for Henry Speny to propose to saw -one-sixteenth of a cord of hard wood on a hot day, when a dime would -have made all things even, was a conundrum too deep for Henry Speny, as -he looked back over the transaction. But he did make the proposal; and -the Tramp accepted with a grin of gratitude. - -There were twenty sticks in that one-sixteenth of a cord--hard, knotty -sticks, too. And each one had to be sawed three times; sixty cuts in -all. It was a poor bucksaw. Before he had finished the third stick, -Henry Speny declared that it was the most beastly bucksaw he ever -handled in his life. The buck itself was a wretched buck, and wouldn't -stand still while Henry Speny sawed. It had a habit of tipping over; -and when Henry Speny put his knee on the stick to steady the refractory -buck, the knots tore his trousers and made his legs black and blue. Then -the perspiration got in his eyes and made them smart. When he wiped it -away he saw two of his friends looking at him in a shocked, sober way -from across the street. They passed on, and told everybody that Henry -Speny was down at the Charity Woodyard sawing wood for his food. They -said, too, that they had reason to believe he did this every day; that -business had gone to pieces with him, and an assignment couldn't be -staved off much longer. - -Henry Speny would have thrown up the job with the second stick, but -the Tramp was already half through his meal; Henry Speny could see him -bolting his food like a glutton through the window, from where he stood. - -It took Henry Speny two hours to saw those twenty sticks sixty times. -His hands were a fretwork of blisters; his back and shoulders ached -like a galley-slave's. Henry Speny hired a carriage to take him home; he -couldn't stand the slam and jolt of a street car. He was laid up three -days with the blisters on his hands, while Mrs. Speny rubbed his back -and shoulders with Pond's Extract. - -On the fourth day, as Henry Speny was limping painfully toward his -office, he heard a voice he knew. - -“Podner! can't you assist a pore m--Oh! beg pardon; you looked so -different I didn't know you!” It was the fat Tramp with the withered -arm. Without a word Henry Speny gave him ten cents and hobbled on. - - - - -JANE DOUGHERTY - -(Annals of the Bend) - - -What's d' flossiest good t'ing I'm ever guilty of?” said Chucky. There -was a pause. Chucky let his eye--somewhat softened for him--rove a bit -abstractedly about the sordid bar. At last it came back to repose on the -beer mug before him, as the most satisfying sight at easy hand. - -“Now,” retorted Chucky, as he wet his lip, “that question is a corker. -'What's d' star good deed you does?' is d' way you slings it. - -“Will I name it? In a secont--in a hully secont! It's d' story of a -little goil I steals, an' sticks in for ever since. This kid's two years -comin' t'ree, when I pinched it, so to speak; an' youse can bet your -boots! she was reg'larly up ag'inst it. A fly old sport like Chucky -would never have mingled wit' her destinies otherwise; not on your life! -Between youse, an' me, an' d' bar-keep over there, I ain't got no more -natural use for kids than I have for a wet dog. But never mind! we'll -pass up that kink in me make-up an' get down to this abduction I prides -meself on. - -“It's nine spaces ago, an 'd' kid in dispoote is now goin' on twelve. -I've been, as I states, stickin' in for her ever since, an' intends to -play me string to a finish. But to go on wit' me romance. - -“As I relates, d' play I boasts of is nine spaces in d' rear, see! In -that day I has a dandy graft. I've got me hooks on as big a bundle as a -hundred plunks, many an' many is d' week. I'd be woikin' it now only I -lushes too free. - -“Here's how in that day I sep'rated suckers from their stuff. It was -simply fakin', of d' smoot' an' woidy sort, see! I'd make up like a -Zulu, wit' burnt cork, an' feathers, an' queer duds; an' then I'd climb -into an open carriage, drive to a good corner, do a bit of chin music, -pull a crowd an' sell 'em brass jewellery. - -“Me patter would run something like this: D' waggon would stop an' I'd -stand up. Raisin' me lamps to d' heavens above, I'd cut loose d' remark -at d' top of me valves: - -“'It looks like rain! It don't look like a t'ing but rain!' - -“Wit' me foist yell d' pop'lace would flock 'round, an' in two minutes -there would be a hundred people there. In ten, there'd be a t'ousand, -if d' cops didn't get in their woik. I'll give youse a tip d' great -American public is d' star gezebos to come to a dead halt, an' look an' -listen to t'ings. More'n onct I've seen some stiff who's sprintin' for -a doctor, make a runnin' switch at d' sound of me voice an' side-track -himself for t'irty minutes to hear me. Dey's a dead curious lot, d' -public is; buy a French pool on that! - -“W'en d' crowd is jammed all about me carriage w'eels, I'd cut loose -some more. I'd quit d' rain question cold, an' holdin' up an armful of -jimcrow jewellery, I'd t'row meself like this: - -“'Loidies an' gents,' I'd say, 'I'm d' only orig'nal Coal Oil Johnny. -An' I'm a soon mug at that, see! I don't get d' woist of it; not on your -neckties. I gives away two hundred an' I takes in four hundred toadskins -(dollars) an' I don't let no mob of hayseeds do me, so youse farmers -needn't try. - -“'Look at me! Cast your lamps over me! I'm one of Cetewayo's Zulu -body-guard, an' I'm here from Africa on a furlough to saw off on suckers -a lot of bum jewellery, an' down youse for your dough, see! I'm goin' -to offer for sale four t'ings: I'm goin' to sell youse foist ten rings, -then ten brooches, then ten chains, and then ten watches. An' when I -gets down to d' watches, watch me dost; because, when I gets nex' to d' -tickers I've reached d' point where I'm goin' to t'run youse down. I'm -here to skin youse out of your money, an' leave youse lookin' like d' -last run of shad. - -“'But there's this pecoolarity about me sellin 'd' rings. Each ring is a -dollar apiece, an' when I've shoved ten of 'em onto youse, every galoot -who's paid me a dollar for one, gets his dollar back an' a dollar wit' -it for luck. - -“'Now here's d' rings, good folks an' all!'--here I*d flash d' rings; -gilt, an' wort' t'ree dollars a ton!--'here's d' little crinklets! Who's -goin' to take one at a dollar, an' at d' finish, when d' ten is sold, -get two dollars back? Who'll be d' foist? Now don't rush me! don't crush -me! but come one at a time. D' rings ain't wort' a dollar a ton: I only -makes d' play for fun, an' because d' doctors who looks after me healt' -says I'll croak if I don't travel. Who'll be d' early boid to nip a -ring? - -“'There you be!' I goes on, as some rustic gets to d' front an' hands up -d' bill. 'Sold ag'in an' got d' tin, another farmer just sucked in!' - -“So I goes, on,” continued Chucky, after reviving his voice--which his -exertions had made a trifle raucous--with a swig at the tankard; “so -I'd go on until d' ten rings would be sold. Then I'd go over d' outfit -ag'in, take back d' rings, an' give 'em each a two-dollar willyum.” - -Now push back into d' mob, you lucky guys,' I'd say, 'an' give your -maddened competitors to d' rear of youse a chanct to woik d' racket. I'm -goin' to sell ten brooches now for two dollars each, an' give back -four dollars wit' every brooch. Then I'm goin' to dazzle youse wit' ten -chains, at five cases per chain. An' then I'll get down to d' watches, -at which crisis, me guileless come-ons, youse must be sure to watch me, -for it's then I'll make a monkey of youse.' - -“An' so I chins on, offerin' d' brooches at two dollars a t'row, an' at -d' wind-up, when d' ten is gone, I gives back to each mucker who's got -in, d' sum of four plunks, see! - -“Be that time it's a knock-down an' drag-out around me cabrioley, to see -who's goin' to transact business wit' me, an', wit'out as much cacklin' -as a hen makes over an egg, I goes to d' chains an' floats ten of 'em at -five a chain. As I sells d' last, I toins sharp on some duck who's dost -be me w'eel an' says: - -“'What's that? I'm a crook, am I! an' this ain't on d' level! Loidies -an' gents, just for d' disparagin' remark of this hobo, who is no doubt -funny in his topknot from drink, I'll go on an' sell ten more chains. -After which I'll come down to d' watches, which is d' great commercial -point where youse had better watch me, for it's there I'm goin' to lose -you in a lope! An' that's for fair, see!' - -“Ten more chains, at five a trip, goes off like circus lem'nade, an' I -stows d' long an' beauteous green away in me keck. As d' last one of d' -secont ten fades into d' hooks of d' last sucker, I stows d' five he's -coughed up for it in me raiment, an' says: - -“'An' now, loidies an' gents, we gets down to d' watches!' - -“Wit' which bluff I lugs me ticker out an' takes a squint at it. - -“'What th' 'ell!' I shouts. 'Here it's half-past t'ree, an' I was to be -married at t'ree-fifteen! Hully gee! Excuse me, people, but I must fly -to d' side of me beloved, or I'll get d' dead face; also d' frozen mit. -I'll see youse dubs next year, if woikin' overtime wit' youse to-day -ain't ruined me career.' - -“As I'm singin' out d' last, I'm givin' me driver d' office to beat his -dogs an' chase, see! An', bein' as he's on, an' is paid extra as his -part of d' graft, he soaks d' horses wit' d' whip an' in twenty seconts -d' crowd is left behint, an' is busy givin' each other d' laugh. No, -there never was no row; no mug was ever mobbed for guyin'. Nit! I always -comes away all right, an' youse can figure it, I'm sixty good bones in -on d' racket. - -“Naturally, youse would like to hear where d' kid breaks into d' play -an' how I wins it. I'd ought to have told youse sooner, but, on d' -level! when me old patter begins to flow off me tongue, I can't shut -down until I've spieled it all. - -“But about d' kid. One afternoon I'm goin' on--it's in Joisey City--wit' -me Zulu war-paint an' me open carriage, givin 'd' usual mob d' usual -jolly. T'ings is runnin' off d' reel like a fish new hooked, an' I'm -down to me fift' chain. Just then I hears a woman say: - -“'Fly's d' woid, Sallie! Here's your old man, an' he's got his load! He -won't do a t'ing to youse! Screw out, Sal! screw out!” - -“But Sallie, who's a tattered lookin' soubrette, wit' a kid in her arms, -an' who's been standin' dost be one of me hind w'eels, don't get no -chanct to skin out, see! There's a drunken hobo--as big an' as strong as -a horse--who's right up to her when d' foist skirt puts her on. As she -toins, he cops her one in d' neck wit'-out a woid. Down she goes like -ninepins! As she lands, d' back of her cocoa don't do a t'ing but t'ump -a stone horse-block wit' a whack! As d' blood flies, I'm lookin' down -at her. I sees her map fade to a grey w'ite under d' dirt; she bats her -lamps onct or twict; an' d' nex' moment I'm on wit'out tellin' that her -light is out for good. - -“As Sallie does d' fall, d' kid which she's holdin' rolls in d' gutter -under d' carriage. - -“'T'run d' kid in here!' I says to d' mark who picks it up. - -“Me only idee at d' time is to keep d' youngone from gettin 'd' boots -from d mob that's surgin' round, an' tryin' to mix it up wit' d' drunken -bum who's soaked Sal. D' guy who gets d' kid fires it up to me like it's -a football. I'm handy wit' me hooks, so I cops it off in midair, an' -stows it away on d' seat. - -“Be that time d' p'lice has collared d' fightin' bum all right, an' some -folks is draggin' Sal, who's limp an' dead enough, into a drug shop. - -“It's all up wit' me graft for that day, so after lookin' at d' youngone -a secont, I goes curvin' off to d' hotel where I hangs out. While I'm -takin' me Zulu make-up off, d' chambermaid stands good for d' kid. -When I sees it ag'in, it's all washed up an' got some decent duds on. -Say! on d' dead! it was a wonder! - -“Well, to cut it short,” said Chucky, giving the order for another -mug of ale, “I loins that night that d' mother is dead, an' d' drunken -hobo's in d' holdover. As it s a cinch he'll do time for life, even if -he misses bein' stretched, I looks d' game all over, an' for a wind-up -I freezes to d' kid. Naw; I couldn't tell why, at that, see! only d' -youngone acts like it's stuck on me. - -“Nixie; I never keeps it wit' me. I've got it up to d' Sisters' school. -Say! them nuns is gone on it. I makes a front to 'em as d' kid's uncle; -an' while I've been shy meself on grub more'n onct since I asted d' -Sisters to keep it, I makes good d' money for d' kid right along, an' -I always will. What name does I give it? Jane--Jane Dougherty; it's me -mudder's name. Nit; I don t know what I'll do wit' Jane for a finish. I -was talkin' to me Rag only d' other day about it, an' she told me, in -a week or so, she'd go an' take a fall out of a fortune-teller, who, me -Rag says, is d' swiftest of d' whole fortune-tellin' push. Mebby we'll -get a steer from her.” - - - - -MISTRESS KILLIFER - -(Wolfville) - - -This is of a day prior to Dave Tutt's taking a wife, and a year -before the nuptials of Benson Annie, as planned and executed by Old Man -Enright, with one, French. - -Wolfville is dissatisfied; what one might call peevish. A man has been -picked up shot to death, no one can tell by whom; no one has hung for -it. Any one familiar with the Western spirit and the Western way would -note the discontent by merely walking through the single, sun-burned -street. When two citizens of the place make casual meeting in store or -causeway, they confine their salutations to gruff “how'd!” and pass on. -Men are even seen to drink alone in a sullen, morbid way. - -Clearly something is wrong with Wolfville. The popular discontent is -so sufficiently pronounced as to merit the notice of leading citizens. -Therefore it is no marvel that when Old Man Enright, who, by right of -years--and with a brain as clear and as bright as a day in June--is the -head man of the hamlet, meets Doc Peets at the bar of the Red Light, the -discussion falls on affairs of public concern. - -“Whatever do you reckon is the matter with this camp, Enright?” asks -Doc Peets, as they tip their liquor into their throats without missing a -drop. - -Doc Peets is the medical practitioner of Wolfville, but his grammar, -like that of many another man, has lost ground before his environment. - -“Can't tell!” replied Enright, with a mien dubious yet thoughtful. -“Looks like the whole outfit is somehow on a dead kyard. Mebby it's that -Denver party gettin' downed last week an' no one lynched. Some folks -says the Stranglers oughter have swung that Greaser.” - -“Well!” retorts Doc Peets, “you as chief of the Stranglers, an' I as -a member in full standin', knows thar's no more evidence ag'in that -Mexican than ag'in my _pinto_ hoss.” - -“Of course, I knows that too!” replies Enright, “but still I sorter -thinks general sentiment lotted on a hangin'. You know, Doc, it ain't so -important from a public stand that you stretches the right gent, as that -you stretches somebody when it's looked for. Nacherally it would have -been mighty mortifyin' to the Mexican who's swung off at the loop-end of -the lariat for a killin' he ain't in on; but still I holds the belief it -would have calmed the sperit of the camp. However, I may be 'way off -to one side on that; it's jest my view. Set up the nosepaint ag'in, -barkeep!” - -While Doc Peets is slowly freighting his glass with a fair allowance, he -is deep in meditation. - -“I've an idee, Enright,” says Doc Peets at last. “The thing for us to -do is to give the public some new direction of thought that'll hold -'em quiet. The games is all dead at this hour, an' the boys ain't doin' -nothin'; s'pose we makes a round-up to consider my scheme. The mere -exercise will soothe 'em.” - -“Shall we have Jack Moore post a notice?” asks - -Enright. “He's Kettle Tender to the Stranglers, an' I reckons what he -does that a-way makes it legal.” - -“No,” says Peets, “let's rustle 'em in an' hold the meetin' right now -an' yere in the Red Light. Some of the boys is feelin' that petulant -they're likely to get to chewin' each other's manes any minute. I'm -tellin' you, Enright, onless somethin' is done mighty _poce tiempo_ to -cheer 'em, an' convince 'em that Wolfville is lookin' up an' gettin' -ahead on the correct trail, this outfit's liable to have a killin' -any time at all. The recent decease of that Denver person won't be a -marker!” - -“All right!” says Enright, “if thar ain't no time for Moore an' a -notice, a good, handy, quick way to focus public interest would be to -step to the back door, an' shake the loads outen my six-shooter. That'll -excite cur'osity, an' over they'll come all spraddled out.” - -Thus it comes to pass that the afternoon peace of Wolfville is suddenly -disparaged and broken down by six pistol shots. They follow each other -like the rapid striking of a Yankee clock. - -“Any one creased?” asks Jack Moore, by general consent a fashion of -marshal and executive officer for the place, and who, followed by the -population of Wolfville, rushes up the moment following the shooting. - -“None whatever!” replies Doc Peets, cheerfully. “The shootin' you-alls -hears is purely bloodless; an' Enright an' me indulges tharin onder what -they calls the 'public welfare clause of the constitootion.' The intent -which urges us to shake up the sereenity of the hour is to convene the -camp, which said rite bein' now accomplished, the barkeep asks your -beverages, an' the business proceeds in reg'lar order.” - -Enright, who has finished replenishing the pistol from which he evicted -the loads, draws a chair to a monte table and drums gently with his -fingers. - -“The meetin' will please bed itse'f down!” says Enright, with a sage -dignity which has generous reflection in the faces around him. “Doc -Peets, gents, who is a sport whom we all knows an' respects, will now -state the object of this round-up. The barkeep meanwhile will please -continue his rounds, the same not bein' deemed disturbin'; none -whatever.” - -“Gents, an' fellow townsmen!” says Doc Peets, rising at the call of -Enright and stepping forward, “I avoids all harassin' mention of a -yeretofore sort. Comin' down to the turn at once, I ventures the remark -that thar's somethin' wrong with Wolfville. I would see no virtue in -pursooin' this subject, which might well excite the resentment of all -true citizens of the town, was it not that I feels a crowdin' necessity -for a change of a radical sort. Somethin' must be proposed, an' -somethin' must be did. I am well aware thar's gents yere to-day as holds -a conviction that a bet is overlooked in not stringin' the Mexican last -week on account of the party from Denver. That may or may not be true; -but in any event, that hand's been played, an' that pot's been lost -an' won. Whether on that occasion we diskyards an' draws for the best -interests of the public, may well pass by onasked. At any rate we -don't fill, an' the Greaser wins out with his neck. Lettin' the past, -tharfore, drift for a moment, I would like to hear from any gent present -somethin' in the line of a proposal for future action; one calc'lated -to do Wolfville proud. As affairs stand our pride is goin' our brotherly -love is goin', our public sperit is goin', an' the way we're p'intin' -out, onless we comes squar' about on the trail, we won't be no -improvement on an outfit of Digger Injuns in a month. Gents, I pauses at -this p'int for su'gestions.” - -As Doc Peets sits down a whispered buzz runs through the room. It is -plain that what he has said finds sympathy in his audience. - -“You've heard Peets,” observes Enright, beating softly. “Any party with -views should not withhold 'em. I takes it we-all is anxious for the good -of Wolfville. We should proceed with wisdom. Red Dog, our tinhorn rival, -is a-watchin' of this camp, ready to detect an' take advantages of -any weakenin' of sperit on the Wolfville part. So far Red Dog has been -out-lucked, out-played, an' out-held. Wolfville has downed her on the -deal, an' on the draw. But, to continue in the future as in the past, -requires to-day that we acts promptly, an' in yoonison, an' give the -sitooation, mentally speakin', the best turn in the box.” - -“What for a play would it be?” asks Dan Boggs, doubtfully, as he rises -and bows stiffly to Enright, who bows stiffly in return; “whatever for a -play would it be to rope up one of these yere lecture sharps, which the -same I goes ag'inst the other night in Tucson? He could stampede over -an' put us up a talk in the warehouse of the New York Store; an' I'm -right yere to say a lecture would look mighty meetropolitan, that a-way, -an' lay over Red Dog like four kings an' an ace.” - -“Whatever was this yere ghost dancer you adverts to lecturin' about?” - asks Jack Moore. - -“I never do hear the first of it,” replies Boggs. “Me an' Old Monte, -the stage driver, is projectin' about Tucson at the time we strikes this -lecture game, an* it's about half dealt out when he gets in on it. But -as far as we keeps tabs, he's talkin' about Roosia an' Siberia, an' how -they were pesterin' an' playin' it low on the Jews. He has a lay-out -of maps an' sech, an' packs the whole racket with him from deal box to -check-rack. Folks as _sabes_ lectures allows he turns as strong a game, -with as high a limit, as any sport that ever charged four bits for a -back seat. The lecture sharp's all right; the question is do you-alls -deem highly of the scheme? If it's the sense of this yere town, it don't -take two days to cut this short-horn out of the Tucson herd an' drive -him over yere. - -“Onder other, an' what one might call a more concrete condition of -public feelin',” says Doc Peets, cutting rapidly and diplomatically into -the talk, “the hint of our esteemed townsman would be accepted on the -instant. But to my mind this yere camp ain't in no proper frame of -mind for lectures on Roosia. It'll be full of trouble,--sech a talk. I -_sabes_ Roosia as well as I does an ace. Thar's an old silver tip they -calls the Czar, which is their language for a sort o' national chief of -scouts, an' he's always trackin' 'round for trouble. Thar's bound to be -no end of what you might call turmoil in a lecture on Roosia, and the -sensibilities of Wolfville, already harrowed, ain't in no shape to bear -it. Now, while friend Boggs has been talkin', my idees has followed off -a different waggon track. What we-all needs, is not so much a lecture, -which is for a day, but somethin' lastin', sech as the example of a -refined an' elevated home life abidin' in our very midst. What Wolfville -pines for is the mollifyin' inflooence of woman. Shorely we has Faro -Nell! who is pleasantly present with us, a-settin' back thar alongside -Cherokee Hall; an' that gent never makes a moccasin track in Wolfville -who don't prize an' value Nell. Thar ain't a six-shooter in camp but -what would bark itse'f hoarse in her behalf. But Nell's young; merely a -yearlin' as it were. What we wants is the picture of a happy household -where the feminine part tharof, in the triple capacity of woman, wife -an' mother, while cherishin' an' carin' for her husband, sheds likewise -a radiant inflooence for us.” - -“Whoopee! for Doc Peets!” shouts Faro Nell, flourishing her broad -sombrero over her young curls. - -“Pausin' only to thank our fair young townswoman,” says Doc Peets, -bowing gallantly to Faro Nell, who waves her hand in return, “for her -endorsements, which the same is as flatterin' as it is priceless, I -stampedes on to say that I learns from first sources, indeed from the -gent himse'f, that one of the worthiest citizens of Wolfville, Mr. -Killifer, who is on the map as blacksmith at the stage station, has a -wife in the states. I would recommend that Mr. Killifer be requested to -bring on this esteemable lady to keep camp for him. The O. K. Restaurant -will lose a customer, the same bein' the joint where Kif gets his daily -_con-carne_; but Rucker, the landlord, will not repine for that. What -will be Rucker's loss will be general gain, an' for the welfare of -Wolfville, Rucker makes a sacrifice. Mr. Chairman, my su'gestion takes -the form of a motion.” - -“Which said motion,” responds Enright, with such vigorous application of -his fist to the purpose of a gavel that nervous spirits might well fear -for the results, “which said motion, onless I hears a protest, goes -as it lays. Thar bein' no objection the chair declares it to be the -commands of Wolfville that Syd Killifer bring on his wife. What heaven -has j'ined together, let no gent----” - -“See yere, Mr. Chairman!” interposes Killifer, with a mixture of -decision and diffidence, “I merely interferes to ask whether, as the -he'pless victim of this on-looked for uprisin', do my feelin's count? -Which if I ain't in this--if it's regarded as the correct caper to lay -waste the future of a gent, who in his lowly way is doin' his best to -make good his hand, why! I ain't got nothin' to say. I'm impugnin' no -gent's motives, but I'm free to remark, these yere proceeding strikes me -as the froote of reckless caprice.” - -“I will say to our fellow gent,” says Enright with much dignity, “that -thar's no disp'sition to force a play to which he seems averse. If from -any knowledge we s'posed we entertained of the possession of a sperit on -his part, which might rise to the aid of a general need--I shorely hopes -I makes my meanin' plain--we over-deals the kyards, all we can do is to -throw our hands in the diskyard an' shuffle an' deal ag'in.” - -“Not at all, an' no offence given, took or meant!” hastily retorts -Killifer, as he balances himself uneasily upon his feet, and surveys -first, Enright and then Peets. “I has the highest regard for the chair, -personal, an' takes frequent occasion to remark that I looks on Doc -Peets as the best eddicated scientist I ever sees in my life. But -this yere surge into my domestic arrangements needs to be considered. -You-alls don't know the lady in question, which, bein' as it's my wife, -I ain't assoomin' no airs when I says I does.” - -“Does she look like me, Kif?” asks Faro Nell from her perch near -Cherokee Hall. - -“None whatever, Nell!” responds Killifer. “To be shore! I ain't basked -none in her society for several years, an' my mem'ry is no doubt blurred -by stampedes, an' prairie fires, an' cyclones, an' lynchin's, an' other -features of a frontier career; but she puts me in mind, as I recalls the -lady, of an Injun uprisin' more'n anythin' else. Still, she's as good a -woman as ever founds a flap-jack. But she's haughty; that's what she is, -she's haughty. - -“I might add,” goes on Killifer, in a deprecatory way, “that inasmuch -as I ain't jest lookin' for the camp yere to turn to me in its hour -of need, this proposal to transplant the person onder discussion to -Wolfville, is an honour as onexpected as a rattlesnake in a roll of -blankets. But you-alls knows me!”--And here Killifer braces himself -desperately.--“What the camp says, goes! I'm a _vox populi_ sort -of sport, an' the last citizen to lay down on a duty. Still!”--here -Killifer's courage begins to ebb a little--“I advises we go about this -yere enterprise mighty conserv'tive. My wife has her notions, an' now -I thinks of it she ain't likely to esteem none high neither of our -Wolfville ways. All I can say, gents, is that if she takes a notion -ag'in us, she's as liable to break even as any lady I knows.” - -“Thar ain't a gent here but what honours Kif,” says the sanguine Peets, -as he looks encouragingly at Killifer, who has resumed his seat and is -gloomily shaking his head, “for bein' frank an' free in this.” - -“Which I don't want you-alls to spread your blankets on no ant-hill, an' -then blame me!” interrupts Killifer dejectedly. - -“I believe, Mr. Chairman,” continues Doc Peets, “we fully onderstands -the feelin's of our townsman in this matter. But I'm convinced of the -correctness of my first view. Thar can shorely be nothin' in the daily -life of Wolfville at which the lady could aim a criticism, an' we needs -the beneficent example of a home. I would tharfore insist on my plan -with perhaps a modification.” - -“I rises to ask the Preesidin' Officer a question!” interrupts Dave -Tutt. - -“Let her roll!” retorts Enright. - -“How would it be to invite Kif's wife to come yere on a visit?” queries -Tutt. “Sorter take her on probation! That's the way an oncle of mine -back in Missouri j'ines the Meth'dist Church. An' it's lucky the -congregation takes them precautions; which they saves the trouble of -cuttin' the old felon out of the herd later, when he falls from grace. -Which last he shorely does!” - -“Not waitin' for the chair to answer,” replies Doc Peets, “I holds -the limitation of Tutt to be good. I tharfore pinches down my original -resolootion to the effect that Kif bring his wife yere for a month. Let -her stack up ag'inst our daily game, an' triumph through a deal or so, -an' she'll never quit Wolfville nor Wolfville her. I shorely holds the -present occasion the openin' of a new era.” - -It is a month later, perhaps, when everybody assembles at the -post-office to receive the lady on whom the local public has built so -many hopes. Killifer has gone over to Tucson to act as her escort into -Wolfville, and, as he said, “to sorter break the effect.” - -She is an iron-visaged heroine. As Killifer hands her from the stage--a -ceremony upon which he bestows that delicate care wherewith he would -have aided the unloading of so much dynamite--Doc Peets steps gallantly -forward, raising his hat. Doc Peets is the proprietor of the only stiff -hat in town, and presumes on it. - -[Illustration: 0253] - -“Who is that insultin' drunkard, Mr. Killifer?” demands the lady, as she -bends her eyes on the suave Peets, with such point-blank wrath that it -silences the salutation on Peets' lips; “no friend of your'n I hope?” - -“Which I says it in confidence,” remarks Old Monte, as an hour later -he refreshes himself at the bar of the Red Light, “for I holds it -onprofessional to go blowin' the private affairs of my passengers, but -I shorely thinks the old grizzly gives Kif a clawin' on the way over. -I hears him yell like a wolf back in Long's canyon. To be shore! he's -inside an' I can't see, but I'm offerin' two to one up to $100 she was -lickin' him; if I don't I'm a Siwash!” - -It turns out as Killifer predicted. He read the lady aright. There -is nothing in Wolfville to which she yields approval. It would be as -impossible as it would be terrific, to repeat in print the conduct -of this remarkable woman. She utterly abashes Enright; while such -hare-hearts as Jack Moore, Cherokee Hall, Dave Tutt, Texas Thompson, -Short Creek Dave and Dan Boggs, fly from her like quicksilver. Even Doc -Peets acknowledges himself defeated and put to naught. The least of -her feats is the invasion of a peaceful poker game to which Killifer -is party, and the sweeping confiscation of every dollar in the bank on -claim that it is money ravished from Killifer by venal practices. The -mildest of her plans is one to assail the Red Light with an axe, should -she ever detect the odour of whiskey about Killifer again. - -“An' do you know, Doc!” observes Enright, a fortnight later, as they -meet for their midday drink, “the boys sorter lays it on you. You know -me, Doc! I'll stand up ag'in the iron for you; but as a squar' man, -with a fairly balanced mind, I'm bound to admit the boys is right. Now -I don't say they feels resentful; it's more like they was mournful over -what used to be, an' a day of peace gone by. But you knows what people -be whose burdens is more'n they can bear; an' if I was you, this yere -lady or I would leave the camp. I'm the last gent to go dictatin' about -the details of another gent's game; but you an' me, Doc, has been old -friends, an' as a warnin' from a source which means you well, I gives it -to you cold the camp is gettin' hostile.” - -It is always a spectacle to inspire, to witness a great soul rise to an -occasion. Doc Peets never so proves the power of his nature as now, when -the tremendous shadow of “Kif's wife” has fallen across Wolfville like a -blight. Peets, following Enright's forebodings, holds a long and secret -conference with the unhappy Killifer. That night Peets rides to Tucson. -The next day Old Monte, with his six horses a-foam, comes crashing into -Wolfville two hours ahead of schedule. Before even a mail bag is thrown -off, Old Monte unpouches a telegram received at the Tucson office for -Mistress Killifer. Its earmark is Illinois; its contents moving. No -matter what it tells, its news is cogent enough to decide the lady's -mind. - -The next morning this dread woman departs, leaving, as she came, with a -withering look at all around. That night Killifer gets drunk. Wolfville -not only pardons Killifer in his weakness; it joins him. - -“But you suppresses the facts, Kif, when you says she's haughty,” - observes Dan Boggs. “Haughty, as a deescription, ain't a six-spot!” - -“It's with no purpose, Kif,” says Doc Peets, as he fills his glass, “to -discourage you--whom I sympathises with as an onfortunate, an' respects -as a dead game gent--that I yereby invites the pop'lation to join me in -a drink of congratulation on Wolfville's escape from your wife. An' all -informal though this assemblage be, I offers a resolootion that this, -the 23d of August, the date when the lady in question pulls her freight, -be an' remain forevermore a day of yearly thanksgivin' to Wolfville.” - -“Which I libates to that myse'f!” says Killifer as he drains his cup -to the last lingering drop. “Also I trusts this camp will proceed with -caution the next time it turns in to play my domestic hand.” - - - - -BEARS - - -Bears are peaceful folk. They are a mild and lowly citizenry of the -woods--I'm talking of the black sort--and shuffle modestly away the -moment they hear you coming. We get many of our impressions of the -ferocity of animals and the deadly poisons of reptiles from an unworthy -sort of hearsay evidence. Much of it comes from Mexicans and Indians -rather than from real experience. Now I wouldn't traduce either the -Mexicans or the Indians, for their lot is one of hard, sodden ignorance; -but it must be conceded that they're by no means careful historians, and -run readily to tales of the marvellous and the tragic. I am going back -to a bear story I have in mind before I get through; but I want to -interject here, while I think of it, that though the centipede, the -rattlesnake, the tarantula and the Gila monster, have bitter repute as -able to deal death with their poisonous feet or fangs, I was never, in -my years on the plains and in the mountains, able to secure proof of -even the shallowest sort that a death, whether of man or animal, had -ever resulted from the sting of any one of these. On the other hand, -I have been with men who were bitten by rattlesnakes, or stung by -tarantulas; or who while asleep had suffered as the inadvertent -promenade of a centipede, with its hundred hooked, poison-exuding feet; -but none of them died. They were sick in an out-of-sort, headache fashion -for a day or two; the bitten place inflamed and was sore for a week or -a month; that was all. I suppose I've known of fully one hundred horses, -cows and sheep which were bitten by rattlesnakes; none died. They were -invariably fanged in the nose, too, as they grazed towards my lord of -the rattlers. On more than one occasion I kept the animal so bitten in -sight to note results. Its head would swell and puff; it would lounge -about with a sick listlessness for several days; then the poison would -wear away in force, and back to its grass it would go with the wire-edge -appetite of a sailor home from sea. - -But about bears. I was remarking that my black, shaggy cousins of the -woods were a peaceful folk. So much is this true, and so little do their -neighbours apprehend violence at their clumsy hands, that they who live -in regions which abound in bears evince not the least alarm about the -safety of their children. The babies, some as young as five or six -years, roam the same mountains with the bears; and, while the latter -will swoop upon a pig and run dangers with wide-open eyes in doing it, -never did I hear of one who disturbed a ringlet on a child's head. They -had daily opportunities enough, for many are the households to live in -the wide, pine-sown Rockies. - -Our bears, too, are creatures of vast physical power. Often, as I rode -the mountain for cattle, have I come across a dead and fallen pine -tree, which would have defeated the best efforts of a horse to move, -completely torn from its bed in the earth and leaves, and either -overturned or thrown one side by the mighty arms of a bear. He was in -search of a dinner cf grubs--those white, helpless worms which make -their dull homes under rotten logs--and Sir Bear made no more ado of -lifting and laying aside a pine tree in his grub-hunt than would you or -I of a billet of firewood. - -While in the mountains I marvelled over the fact that the bears and the -mountain lions never assailed the young calves. The hills were rife -with cattle, and every spring found the canyons and oak-bushed slopes -a perfect nursery of calves. And yet neither the panthers nor the bears -disturbed them. It was due, I think, more to the bellicose character of -the old cow and her relatives, than any uprightness of character on the -part of the bears, and the panthers. Let a calf raise but one yell of -distress in those mountains--and I assure you he can make their walls -and valleys ring with his youthful music when so disposed--and, out of -canyons and off mesas, over logs and crashing through the oak bushes, -will come plunging all the cattle within hearing. Not thirty seconds -will elapse before as many cattle will be by the side of the threatened -calf, lusting for battle. They make such a phalanx of sharp, threatening -horns, coupled with their rolling, wrath-red eyes and ferocious -breathings, that, I warrant you, they have so shocked the nerves of past -bears and panthers, it has become instinct with these latter to give the -whole horned, truculent brood a wide berth. - -The Indians are very fond of the bear for his wisdom, and he divides -their respect with the beaver as a personage of sagacity. The curiosity -of my shaggy friend would shame any boy or girl of ten. You may be sure, -were a bear to visit you for a week at your home, he would open every -door, ransack every bureau, take every garment off every hook in every -closet--and I had almost said “try it on”--before he had been with you -an hour. Not a box nor a barrel, not a nook nor cranny, from cellar to -ridge pole, would escape his investigation. His black nose would sniff -at every crack, his black hand explore every crevice. Nor, beyond what -he bestowed in his remorseless stomach, would he destroy anything. -I have the black coat of a bear at my house, who might be wearing it -himself to-day, were it not for his curiosity. - -There was a salt spring near my camp on the upper Red River; perhaps -two miles away, which is “near” in the mountains. This salt spring was -popular with the deer. They repaired thither to lick the salt earth -about the waters. I had, among the lumber at my camp, a big, two-spring -trap of steel; I suppose it must have weighed sixty pounds. It occurred -to me that a lazy way to kill a deer would be to set this wide-jawed -engine near the spring and let one walk into it. I'm not proud of -this plan as a method in deer-killing, and wouldn't do it now. On this -occasion, however I was not particular. I “set” the trap at my camp--for -I had to use a hand-spike to crush down the springs, and it all gave me -a deal of work and trouble--and then, with its jaws wide open, but held -so that it wouldn't nip me in case it did snap, I crept carefully aboard -my pony and rode over to the spring. The next morning early I had to go -again to remove the trap, as during the day the cattle would take the -places of the deer at this delectable salt spring, and I didn't care to -break the legs of a thirty-dollar steer with my trapping. I went over -while it was yet dark, and found no deer in the trap. I took it and -hid it, face downward--the jaws still spread and “set”--by the of a big -yellow pine log, which stretched its decayed length along the slope of -the canyon. There I left it, intending to return and rearrange it for -deer at dusk. - -It snowed that day, and as I grew lazy towards night, I left my trap -where I'd hidden it by the yellow pine log. The deer would have one -night of safety. What was safety for the deer proved otherwise for the -bear. - -The following day I rode over just as the canyons were getting dark and -the cattle climbing out of them to pass the night on the hills. Behold! -my trap was gone! - -There was a great flourish of tracks in the snow; long plantigrade -impressions like the bare footprints of some giant! I knew that a bear -had somehow acquired my trap, or the trap, him; at that time I couldn't -tell which. To make it short, however, it came to this: The bear, -scouting in a loaferish way down the hill, and pausing no doubt to make -an estimate of the probable grubs he would find beneath this particular -yellow pine next summer, had chanced upon the trap. Here was a great -find. Thoughts of grubs and common edible things at once deserted him. -The mysterious novelty he had found took possession of his addle-pate -like a new toy. A wolf or a fox would have smelled the odour of my -handling, even off the cold steel of the trap, and been over the hills -and far away in a twinkling. Your wolf is the canniest of timber folk; -a grey Scotchman of the mountains. But my bear was reared on a different -bottle. He sat down at once and actually took the new plaything in his -lap. Then it would seem as if he deliberately thrust his paw into it and -sprung its savage jaws on his forearm. - -In his first wrathful surprise, my bear tore up the snow and bushes for -twenty feet about; but at last he set off with the trap on his foot. - -It was late. For half an hour I followed the broad track where his -bearship had dragged the trap in the snow at a gallop. It was dark when -at last I turned off for camp. Bright and betimes, I took the trail next -day. It carried me over some ten miles of rough, close country. About -midday I stood on the bluff edge of the Canyon Caliente, picking a -pathway with my eyes along its steep, perilous side for my pony to get -down. The bear had crossed here; but he was in the roughest of -moods, and seemingly made no more of hurling himself over twenty-foot -precipices--himself and my trap--or sublimely sliding down dangerous -descents of hundreds of feet where foothold was impossible, than you -would of eating buttered buns. So I had to pick out paths for myself; I -couldn't trust to so reckless and uncivil an engineer as my bear. - -As I sat in the saddle running a quick eye over the slope for a trail, -I, of an instant, heard a most surprising noise. It was indeed a noble -racket, and might have passed for a blacksmith shop. But I knew the -hills too well. It was of a verity my bear; and from the riot he was -making, it was plain I would have to get there soon if I wanted to save -the trap. - -This formidable uproar came from across the Caliente, perhaps half a -mile. I slid from the saddle and went forward afoot. It didn't take long -to cover the distance. I fell and tumbled down the first third, much as -the bear had done a bit earlier. - -Once on the other side, I came upon my rough gentleman cautiously, and -found him sitting by the side of a round, boulder-like rock, something -the size and contour of a load of hay. And he was smiting the enduring -granite with my trap in a way which told more of his feelings than would -have been possible with mere words. He would raise his arm clumsily, -60-pound trap and all, and then bring it against the rock with all the -fervour of rage and giant strength. - -He was so wrapt in the enterprise, he never heard me until a shot from -my Winchester met him just under the ear. One shot did it; and I had -trap and bear. He had ruined the trap; one spring was broken and the -whole disparaged beyond my power to repair. Wherefore I stripped him of -his black overcoat to pay for the damage he had done; and that and the -grease I took from him covered all costs and damages. - - - - -THE BIG TOUCH - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -Me fren', Mollie Matches,” observed Chucky. - -That was our introduction. A moment later Chucky whispered in a hoarse -aside: - -“Matches is d' dip I chins youse about, who gets d' Hummin' Boid t'run -into him.” - -“Matches,” as Chucky called him, was a sad, grey, broken man. Years -and a life of flight and anxious furtivity had told on him. His eye was -dancing and birdlike; resting on nothing, roving always; the sure mark -of one sort of criminal. Matches drank for an hour before he felt at -ease. That time arrived, however, and I took advantage of it to feed -my curiosity. It was no easy matter, but at last I won him by a deft -blending of flattery and drink to talk of his crimes. And indeed I -fear--for I suppose the expert thief does plume himself a bit on his -art--that Matches took some sort of wretched pride in his illicit pocket -searchings. - -“D' biggest touch I ever makes,” said Matches, in response to a query, -“was $36,000; quite a bunch of dough. Gettin' it was easy; gettin' away -wit' it was d' squeak. - -“We toins d' trick on d' train from Albany. D' tip comes straight to me -in New York that a bloke is goin' to draw $36,000 from d' Albany bank on -such a day. I makes up a mob; t'ree stalls an' meself;--all pretty fly -we was--an' lands in Albany. - -“We gets onto d' party who's to be woiked early in d' mornin', an' -shadows him so dost he's never out of reach. Our play is to follow him -to d' bank an' do him wit 'd' drop game. If that misses, we're to stay -wit' him till d' bundle's ours be one racket or another. - -“This sucker is pretty soon himself, see! He ain't such a mut as we -figgers. His train starts at 1 o'clock, an' he takes in d' bank on his -way to d' station. - -“Of course we was wit' him; but he's dead leary an' never t'rows himself -open to be woiked. D' stuff is in t'ousand-dollar willyums, an' as he -just sinks it in his keck d' minute his hooks is onto it, an' never -stops to count or run his lamps over it, we don't get no chanct to do d' -drop. D' instant d' money's in his mits he plants it--all stretched out -long in a big leather, it is--in his inside pocket, an' screws his nut -for d' door. D' hack slams an' he's on his way to d' train. - -“Yes; we starts for d' station be another street. D' bloke ain't onto us -yet, an' we tries not to plant a scare into him. He's leary enough as it -is; just havin' such a roll wit' him rattles him. - -“So I makes up me mind to do d' job on d' train runnin' into New York. -As he sinks d' stuff away, I notes how d' ends of d' bills sticks out -over d' pocket-book. Me idee is to weed it--get d' dough an' leave d' -leather in his pocket--if I can make d' play. Weedin' was d' way to do; -you gets d' long green an 'd' sucker still has d' leather to feel of, -an' it's some time before he tumbles he's been touched, see! - -“D' guy wit 'd' stuff plants himself in a seat. Two of me stalls sits -ahead of him, me an' me other pal is behint him. We only waits now for -him to get up an' come along d' aisle of d' car to get in our hooks. - -“Foist I goes d' len'th of d' train to see who's onto it. I always does -that; I wants to see if any guy aboard knows Mollie Matches. You see, if -there is, when d' holler comes, an' some duck declares himself shy his -spark, or roll, or ticker, it's 40 to 1 Mr. Know-all, who's onto me for -a crook, sends a tip to d' p'lice: 'Matches was on d' train!' an' I gets -d' collar. No, I never woiks when one of me acquaintances is along be -accident. D' cops, in such case, as I says, is put onto me an' spots me -wit 'd' foist yell. - -“I covers d' train an' comes back. There's no guy on me visiting list -who's along. So I sits down wit' me pal to d' rear of d' sucker an' -waits. - -“It's not for long. D' leather's still in his inside keck, 'cause I can -see him pressin' on it wit' his mit to make sure it's there. At last -he gets up to go to d' watercooler. I sees d' move comin', an' is in d' -aisle before him. So's me stalls. From start to finish no one bungles -d' stunt. There's a tangle--all be accident, of course--every mug -'pologises, we break away, an' I've got d' blunt. But d' woist part -is, I can't weed it. D' stuff won't come no other way, an' so I lifts -leather an' all. - -“There's due to be a roar in no time;--this mark's bound to be on he's -frisked!--so I splits out each stall's bit in a hurry an' says: 'Every -gent for himself! an' if youse is nipped, don't knock!' an' then I -sherries me nibs for d' rear coach. It was great graft. Me bit was -$9,000, an' I has me plan all set up to save it an' meself wit' it. This -is d' racket I has in me cocoa. - -“In d' last coach is an old w'ite choker--a pulpit t'umper, you -understand. Wit' him is his daughter, an' wit' her is her kid. Mebby d' -kid, say, is six years. I heads for 'em an' begins to give d' old skate -a jolly. I was dead strong on patter in them days, an' puts it up I'm -a gospel sharp from Hamilton. I saws it off on his nibs how me choich -boins down, an' how I'm linin' out to New York to see if d' good folks -down there won't spring their rolls--cough up be way of donations, you -understand, an' help us slam up a new box--choich, I means--so we can go -back to our graft. - -“It's all right. Me razzle dazzle takes like spring water. In two -minutes me an 'd' old party an 'd' loidy, an' for that matter d' kid, is -t'ick as t'ieves. We was bunched together, singin' 'Jesus, Lover of me -Soul,' to beat four of a kind, when d' galoot I skins for his bundle -lifts d' shout he's been done, see! - -“This dub who lose is t'ree coaches ahead. D' foist we knows of his -troubles--all but me--d' Con' comes an' locks d' door. No one can get -off d' train. Then he stops an' taps d' wires wit' a machine from d' -baggage car an' sends d' story chasin' into New York. - -“'Party t'run down for $36,000, says d' message; 'swag an' crooks still -on me train. Send orders.' - -“D' order comes to keep d' doors locked an' run to New York wit' no more -stops. An' after puttin' a Brakey in each coach to see what goes on, -that's what dey does. We go spinnin' into New York at forty-five miles -an hour. - -“Naturally, I'm in a steam. I goes all right wit 'd' Con', an' d' train -crew, as a sky pilot, but how was I to make d' riffle wit' de fly cop of -New York, who'd be waitin' for d' train--me mug in d' gallery, an' four -out o' five of 'em twiggin' me be me foist name? But I t'ought it out. - -“When d' train rumbles into d' Gran' Central, d' door is slammed open -an' we all gets up to go. A fly-cop is comin' in just as we starts. I -grabs up d' kid to carry him, see! bein' d' old preacher party nor d' -skirt ain't so able as me. - -“Say! it was a winner. I buries me map in d' kid's make-up, gets between -d' goil an' d' old stumblin' mucker of a gran'dad, an' walks slap -t'rough d' entire day-push of d' Central office. An' hard, sharp marks -dey is to beat, see! - -“Fly dey is, but not swift enough for Matches wit a scare on, see! Not a -dub of 'em tumbles to me. - -“In two moves an' ten seconts I'm in d' street. As I goes along I pulls -a ring off one of me north hooks wit' me teet,' an' t'oins it over to -d' kid as his bit for makin' d' good front for me. No; d' others don't -catch on, but d' way he cinches it in his small mit shows me he's goin' -to save it out for fair. - -“When I hits d' street I drops d' youngone, who's still froze to his -solitaire, an' grabs off a cab, an' in twenty minutes I'm buried where -all d' p'lice in New York couldn't toin me up in a t'ousand years. - -“No; me pals got d' collar, an' each does a stretch. But dey lays dead -about me; never peached nor squealed. I win out. - -“Who?--d' w'ite choker an' his party? Nit; never hears of 'em ag'in. For -four days I gets one of d' fam'ly--he's a crook who's under cover for -a bank trick, an' who's eddicted--to read me all d' poipers. I wants to -see if d' preacher an' his goil gives up anyt'ing about d' ring I swaps -to d' kid. - -“Never hears a peep! Nixie; dey was on all right, you bet your life! -when their lamps lights on that jewelry; but most likely dey needs d' -ring in their graft. It was a spark wort' five hundred cases from any -fence in d' land, an' so d' old guy an' his goil sort o' stan's for d' -play, see!” - - - - -THE FATAL KEY - - -Young Jenkins prided himself on sharp eyes. He said he could “give a -hawk cards and spades.” He could find four-leaf clovers where no one -else could see them. He took in the smallest detail of the scenery all -about him. - -As a result, young Jenkins was a great finder of small trifles, and that -he might miss nothing, lost, strayed or stolen, he went about during the -little journeys of the day, with his eyes searching the ground. And -he picked up many trinkets of a personal sort that other men had lost. -Nothing of much value, perhaps, but it served to please young Jenkins, -and it gave him a chance to boast of the sharp, devouring character of -his eyes. - -Even as a child, young Jenkins was prone to find things. He told -how once his talents as a retriever made him the subject of parental -suspicion. He was ten years old when he picked up a four-blade Barlow -knife. - -“Where did you get it?” queried old Jenkins, as young Jenkins displayed -his treasure trove. - -“Found it,” was the reply. - -“Oh, you found it!” snorted old Jenkins. “Well, take it straight back, -and put it where you found it, and don't 'find' any more. If you do, -I'll lick you out of your knickerbockers!” - -In spite of such discouragement, young Jenkins kept on finding all sorts -of bric-à-brac. He does even to this day. - -One evening young Jenkins had a disagreeable adventure, as the fruit of -his talent, which for an hour or so made him wish he had weaker vision. - -It was on Great Jones Street, and young Jenkins, hurrying along, noticed -in the half moonlight a big store key, where the owner had dropped it -just after locking up for the night. The hour was full midnight. - -Young Jenkins possessed himself of the key. He looked at it as he held -it in his hand, and wondered how the careless shopman would open up in -the morning without it. - -From where it lay it wasn't hard to infer the store to which the key -belonged. Yet to make sure on that point it occurred to young Jenkins -that he might better try the lock with it. - -Young Jenkins had just fitted the big key to the lock when some one -seized him by the wrist. It startled him so that he dropped the key and -allowed it to go rattling along the sidewalk. As young Jenkins looked up -he saw that the party who had got him was a member of the police. - -“I was trying to unlock the door!” stammered young Jenkins. - -“I saw what you were about,” said the officer with suspicious severity. -“What were you monkeying with the door for? You aren't the owner of this -store?” - -“No, sir,” said young Jenkins, much impressed. “No, sir; I----” - -“Nor one of the clerks?” - -“No, sir,” replied young Jenkins again, “I have nothing to do with the -store. I found the key, and thought I'd see if it opened this door.” - -“What did you want to see if it would open the door for? Don't you think -it is a little late for a joke of that sort?” - -“It wasn't a joke,” said young Jenkins, beginning to perspire rather -copiously; “it was an experiment. I found the key on the sidewalk, and -wanted to see----” - -“Yes!” interrupted the blue coat with a fine scorn; “you wanted to see -if you could get into the store and rob it bare. That is what you wanted -to see. You're a box-worker, if ever I met one, and if I hadn't come -along you would have had this bin cracked and cleaned out in another ten -minutes.” - -“I told you I found the key,” protested young Jenkins. - -“That's all right about your finding the key!” said the policeman in -supreme contempt. “You found the key and I found you, and we'll both -keep what we've found. That's square, ain't it?” - -And in spite of all young Jenkins could say at that late hour of the -twenty-four, the faithful officer dragged him to the station, where -a faithful sergeant faithfully registered him, and a faithful turnkey -locked him faithfully up. - -As young Jenkins sat unhappy in his cell, while vermin sparred with -him for an opening, he registered a vow that never again would he find -anything. - -Young Jenkins wouldn't pick up a twenty-dollar gold piece were he to -meet one to-day in the street. - - - - -AN OCEAN ERROR - - -No; neither my name nor the name of my vessel can I give. Our navy has -a way of courtmartialing its officers who wax garrulous.” - -It was just as the Lieutenant called for the _creme de menthe_, that may -properly succeed a dinner well ordered and well stowed. - -“But you are welcome to the raw facts,” continued the Lieutenant. “It -was during those anxious days that went before the penning in of Cervera -at Santiago. We had been ordered on a ticklish service. Schley was over -south of the island on a prowl for the Spanish fleet. Sampson was, or -should have been, off the Windward Passage similarly employed. Cervera -was last heard of two weeks before at Barbadoes. Then he disappeared -like a ghost; no one knew where his smoke would be sighted next. The -one sure thing, of which all were aware, was that with Sampson anywhere -between the Mole and Cape Mazie, and Schley searching the wide seas -south of Cuba, Cervera might easily with little luck and less seamanship -dodge either and appear off Havana. There the cardboard fleet left on -blockade wouldn't, with such heavy odds, last as long as a drink of -whiskey. - -“It stood thus when our orders came to my Captain to proceed to Bayou -Hondu, some seventy miles west of Havana, and there stand off and on, -like a policeman walking his beat, in what would be the path of Cervera -should he work to the rear of Schley and to the north of Cuba by the way -of St. Antonio. - -“Our vessel was detailed on this duty because of her perfect order and -speed of seventeen knots. Our heavy armament was eight 4-inch broadside -guns, with a 6-inch rifle forward and another mounted aft. Our orders -were: If Cervera came upon us to fight!--steam as slowly as might be -for Havana and fight!--and to keep fighting until sunk or sure that -the block-aders off Havana were warned, whether by our signals or our -racket, of Cervera's coming. - -“It was a grinding task, this lonely patrol off Bayou Hondu. The rains -had just begun, the weather was a dripping hash of fog and squall and -rain. If Cervera didn't come, it meant discomfort; and if he did, it -meant death. Take it full and by, the outlook was depressing. - -“At night no light burned and the ship was dark as a coffin. This, with -the service, contributed to keep us all in a mood of alert nervousness. -Cervera's ships would also be dark. We didn't care to be crept upon, and -get our first notice of his advent from the broadside that sent us to -the bottom like an anvil. - -“We had been on this dreary duty some ten days. It was a dark, heavy -night. I myself had the bridge, and the captain, whose anxiety kept him -up, was seated in the starboard corner, dozing. His sea cloak was thrown -over his head to keep out the weather. We were working to the eastward, -with engines at quarter speed, and with a head sea running, were making -perhaps three knots. - -“The ship's bells were not being struck for the hours, and I had just -looked at my watch by the light of the binnacle. It was half-past two in -the morning. - -“'How's your head?' I asked of the man at the wheel, as I put up my -timepiece. - -“'East by south, half south,' he replied. - -“This was taking us too much inshore. 'Starboard for a point!' I said. - -“As I turned from the wheel I saw that which sent a thrill over me and -brought me up all standing. It was the murky loom of a great ship, black -and dim and dark and silent as ourselves. She was off our port quarter -and not five hundred yards away. It gave me a start, I confess. None of -our ships should be that far to the west of Havana. It was a sword to a -sheath knife she was one of Cervera's advance. - -“Instantly I reached for the electric button; and instantly the red and -white lights, which stood for the letter of that night, burned in our -semaphore. The stranger replied with a red over two white lights. It was -the wrong letter. - -“With my first motion, the captain was on his feet; his hand gripped the -lever that worked the engine bells. - -“'Try her again!' he said. - -“Again I flashed the proper letter, and again came a queer reply. - -“The next moment the captain jammed the lever 'Full steam, ahead!' and a -general call to quarters went singing through the ship. - -“'Starboard!' shouted the captain to the man at the wheel; 'starboard! -pull her over!' - -“There was a vast churning from the propellers; the vessel leaped -forward like a horse; the sailor climbed the wheel like a squirrel. We -surged forward with a broad sheer to port. The next instant we opened on -our dark visitor with every gun in the larboard battery. It wasn't ten -seconds after she gave us the wrong signal when she got our broadside. - -“The result was amazing. With the first crash of our guns the stranger -went from utter darkness to the extreme of light. She flashed out all -over like a Fall River steamer. Knowing who we were--for they bore -orders for us--and realizing that there had been some mixing of signals, -the officer on her bridge had the wit to turn on every light in his -ship. It was an inspiration and saved them from a second broadside. - -“Who was she? One of our own vessels. Cervera was locked in Santiago and -she had come up to tell us the news. Her officer blundered in giving -out the wrong letter for the night, and thereby sowed the seed of our -misunderstanding. - -“No, beyond peppering her a bit, our fire did no harm. We were so close -that most of our shot went over her. Still, I don't believe that vessel -will ever get her signals fouled again. And it's just as well that way. -If she had made the wrong talk to some one of our heavy-weights, the -Oregon, for instance, she would have gone down like so much pig-iron.” - - - - -SKINNY MIKE'S UNWISDOM - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -CHUCKY was posed in his usual corner. As I came in he nodded sullenly -as one whom the Fates ill-use. I craved of Chucky to name his drink; it -was the surest way to thaw him. - -“Make it beer,” said Chucky. - -Now beer stood as a symbol of gloom with Chucky, as he himself had told -me. - -“It's always d' way wit' me,” said Chucky on that far occasion when he -explained “Beer”, “when I'm dead sore an' been gettin' it in d' neck, to -order beer. It's d' sorrowfulest kind of booze, beer is; there's a sob -in every bottle of it, see!” - -Realising Chucky's low spirits by virtue of present beer, I suavely made -query of his unknown grief and tendered sympathy. - -“I've been done for me dough,” replied Chucky, softening sulkily. “You -minds d' races at d' Springs? That's it; I gets t'run down be d' horses. -I get d' gaff for fifty plunks. Now, fifty plunks ain't all d' money in -d' woild; but it was wit' me. It was me fortune.” - -Chucky ruminated bitterly. - -“Oh, I'm a good t'ing!” he ejaculated, as he tilted his chair against -the wall with an air of decision. “I'll play d' jumpers agin, nit! - -“W'at's d' use? I can't beat nothin'. Say! I couldn't beat a drum! I'm -a mut to ever t'ink of it! I ought to give meself up to d' p'lice right -now an' ast 'em to put me in Bloomin'dale or some other bug house. I'm -nutty, that's what I am; an' that's for fair! Now, I'd as lief tell you. -It's d' boss hard luck story, an' that ain't no vision! - -“In d' foist place, I was a rank sucker to d' point of deemin' meself a -wise guy about d' horses. An' it so follows, bein' stuck on meself about -horses, as I says, that when Skinny Mike blows in wit 'd' idee that he -can pick d' winner of d' big event, I falls to d' play, an easy mark. - -“Mike is an oldtime tout; an' wit' me feelin', as I says, dead fly, -it ain't a minute before I'm addin' me ignorance to Mike's, an' we're -runnin' over d' dopes in d' papers seein' what d' horses has done. To -make a long story short, we settles it for a finish that War Song's out -to win. Which, after all, ain't such a sucker t'eory. - -“'It's a cinch!' says Skinny Mike; 'War Song's got a pushover. Dey can't -beat him; never in a t'ousand years!' - -“It looks a sure tip to me, too; so I digs for me last dollar an' hocks -me ticker besides, an' makes up d' fifty plunks I mentions. Mike sticks -in fifty an' then takes d' whole roll an' screws his nut for d' Springs -to get it up on War Song. Naw; I don't go. Mike's plenty to make d' -play; an' besides I had me lamps on a sure t'ing for a tenner over on d' -Bowery. - -“Of course, while Mike's gone, I ain't doin' a t'ing but read d' poipers -all to pieces. War Song's a 20-to-1 shot; I stan's to make a -killin'--stan's to win a t'ousand plunks, see! - -“An', say! War Song win! Mebby I don't give d' yell of d' year when I -sees it in d' print. - -“'W'at's eatin' youse, Chucky?' says me Rag, as I cuts loose me -warwhoop. - -“'O, I ain't got no nut!' I says, givin' meself d' gran' jolly. 'No! not -at all! I has to ast some mark to tell me me name, I don't t'ink! I'm -cooney enough to get onto War Song, all d' same! Say! I'm d' soonest -galoot that ever comes down d' pike!' - -“That's d' way I feels an' that's d' way I chins. - -“At last I cools off me dampers an' sets in to wait for Mike. Meanwhile -I begins to figger how I'll blow d' stuff, see! an' settle what I'll -buy. It's a case of money to boin an' I was gettin' me matches ready -before even Mike shows up. - -“But Mike don't come. 'W'at th' 'ell!' I t'inks; 'Mike ain't crookt it; -he ain't skipped wit' d' bundle?' An' say! you should a-seen me chew d' -rag at d' idee. - -“But I'm wrong on me lead. Mike hadn't welched, an' he hadn't been -sandbagged. He comes creepin' along a day behint d' play, an' d' secont -I gets me lamps on his mug I'm dead on we lose. I don't have to have me -fortune told to tumble to that. Mike looks like five cents wort' of lard -in a paper bag. An* here's d' song he sings. - -“Mike says he goes to d' Springs all right, all right, an' is organised -to get War Song for d' limit d' nex' day. It's that night, out be d' -stables, when he chases up on a horsescraper--a sawed-off coon, he -is--an 'd' horse-scraper breaks off a great yarn on Mike. - -“'I ain't no tout, an' dis ain't no tip,' Mike says d' coon says; 'it's -a rev'lation. On d' dead! it's a prophecy! It's las' night. I'm sleepin' -in d' stall nex' to a little horse named Dancer. All at onct I wakes up -an' listens. It's that Dancer horse in d' nex' stall talkin' to himself. -Over an' over agin he says: “I'm goin' to win it! I'm goin' to win it!” - just like that.' - -“Well,” continued Chucky, “you know Skinny Mike. There's a ghost goes -wit' Mike, an' he's that sooperstitious, d' nigger's story has him on -a string in a hully secont. He can't shake it off. Away he wanders an' -dumps d' entire wad on Dancer, an' never puts a splinter on War Song at -all. - -“W'at do you t'ink of it? On d' level! w'at d' youse really t'ink of it? -That Mike's a woild-beater; that's right; a woild-beater an' a wonder to -boot! I'd like to trade him for a yaller dawg, an' do d' dawg!” - -“Did Dancer win?” I asked. - -“Did Dancer win?” repeated Chucky; and his tones breathed guttural -scorn; “d' old skate never even finished. Naw; he gets 'round on d' back -stretch, stops, bites d' boy off his back, chases over be d' fence an' -goes to eatin' grass; that's what Dancer does. He's a dandy race horse, -or I don't want a cent! I'll bet me mudder-in-law on that Dancer some -day. I tells Mike to take a run an' jump on himself. Naw,” concluded -Chucky, with a great gulp, “Dancer don't win; War Song win.” - - - - -MOLLIE PRESCOTT - -(Wolfville) - - -The Cactus” was the name bestowed upon her in Wolfville. Her signature, -if she had written it, would probably have been Mollie Prescott, at -least such was the declaration of Cherokee Hall. - -“I sees this yere lady a year ago in Tombstone,” asserted that veracious -chronicler, “where she cooks at the stage station; an' she gives it out -she's Prescott--Mollie Prescott--an' most likely she knows her name, an' -knows it a year ago.” - -As Cherokee was a historian of known firmness of statement, no one cared -to challenge either his facts or his conclusions. The true name of “The -Cactus” was accepted by the Wolfville public as Prescott. - -“The Cactus” was personable, and her advent into Wolfville society -caused something of a flutter. Her mission was to cook, and in the -fulfilment of her destiny she presided over the range at the stage -station. - -Being publicly hailed as “The Cactus” seemed in no wise to depress her. -It was even possible she took a secret glow over an epithet, meant by -the critical taste awarding it, to illustrate those thorns in her nature -which repelled and held in check the amorous male of Wolfville. - -Women were not frequent in Wolfville, and on her coming, “The Cactus” - had many admirers. Every man in camp loved her the moment she stepped -from the Tucson stage; that is, every man save Cherokee Hall. That -scientist, given wholly to faro as a philosophy, had no time--in a day -before he met Faro Nell--for so dulcet an affair as love. Also Cherokee -had scruples born of his business. - -“Life behind a deal box is a mighty sight too fantastic,” observed -the thoughtful Cherokee, “for a fam'ly. It does well enough for -single-footers, which it don't make much difference with when some gent -they've mortified an' hurt, pulls his six-shooter an' sends them lopin' -home to heaven all spraddled out. But a lady ain't got no business with -a sport who turns kyards as a pursoot.” - -As time unfurled, the train of lovers to sigh on the daily trail of “The -Cactus” dwindled. There were those who grew dispirited. - -“I'm clean-strain enough,” said Dan Boggs, in apologetic description of -his failure to persevere, “but I knows when I've got through. I'll play -a game to a finish, but when it's down to the turn an' my last chip's -gone over to the dealer, why! I shoves my chair back an' quits. An' it's -about that a-way of an' concernin' my yearnin's for this yere Cactus -girl. I jest can't get her none, an' that settles it. I now drops out -an' gives up my seat complete.” - -“That's whatever!” said Texas Thompson, who was an interested listener -to the defeated Boggs, “an' you can gamble I'm with you on them views! -Seein' as how my wife in Laredo gets herse'f that divorce, I turns in -an' loves this Cactus person myse'f to a frightful degree. Thar's times -I simply goes about sobbin' them sentiments publicly. But yere awhile -back I comes wanderin' 'round her kitchen, an' bing! arrives a skillet -at my head. That lets me out! You bet! I don't pursoo them explorations -'round her no more. I has exper'ence with one, an' I don't aim to get -any lariat onto a second female who is that callous as to go a-chunkin' -of kitchen bric-a-brac at a heart which is merely pinin' for her -smiles.” - -There were two at the shrine of “The Cactus,” who were known to -Wolfville, respectively, as Cottonwood Wasson and Cape Jinks. These were -distinguished for the ardour wherewith they made siege to the affection -of “The Cactus,” and the energy of their demands for her capitulation. - -That virgin, however, paid neither heed to their court, nor took an -interest in the comment of onlook-ing Wolfville. She pursued her path -in life, even and unmoved. She set her tables, washed her dishes, and -perfected her daily beefsteaks by the ingenious process, popular in the -Southwest, of burning them on the griddles of the range, and all with a -composure bordering hard on the stolid. - -“All I'm afraid of,” said Old Man Enright, the head of the local -vigilance committee, “is that some of these yere young bucks'll take to -pawin' 'round for trouble with each other. As the upshot of sech doin's -would most likely be the stringin' of the survivors by the committee, -nuptials, which now looks plenty feasible, would be plumb busted an' -alienated, an' the camp get a setback it would be hard to rally from. I -wishes this maiden would tip her hand to some discreet gent, so a play -could be made in advance to get the wrong parties over to Tucson or -some'ers. Whatever do you think yourse'f, Cherokee?” - -“It's a delicate deal,” replied that philosopher, “to go tamperin' -'round a lady for the secret of her soul. But I shorely deems the -occasion a crisis, an* public interest demands somethin' is done. I wish -Doc Peets was yere; he knows these skirted cattle like I does an ace. -But Peets won't be back for a month; pendin' of which, onless we-alls -interferes, it's my jedgment some of this yere amorousness 'll come off -in the smoke.” - -“Thar ought to be statoots,” observed Texas Thompson, with a fine air of -wisdom, “ag'in love-makin' in the far West. The East should be kept -for sech purposes speshul; same as reservations for Injuns. The Western -climate's too exyooberant for love.” - -“S'pose me an' you an' Thompson yere goes to this young person, an' all -p'lite an' congenial like, we ups an' asks her intentions?” remarked -Enright. This was offered to Cherokee. - -“Excuse me, pards!” said Texas Thompson with eagerness, “but I don't -reckon I wants kyards in this at all. 'The Cactus' is a mighty fine -young bein', but you-alls recalls as how I've been ha'ntin' 'round her -somewhat in the past myse'f. For which reason, with others, she might -take my comin' on sech errants derisive, an' bust me over the forehead -with a dipper, or some sech objectionable play. I allows I better keep -out of this embroglio a whole lot. I ain't aiming to shirk nothin', but -it'll be a heap more shore to win.” - -“Thompson ain't onlikely to be plenty right about this,” said Cherokee, -“an' I reckons, Enright, we-alls better take this trick ourse'ves.” - -The mission was not a success. When the worthy pair of peace-preservers -appeared in the presence of “The Cactus,” and made the inquiries noted, -the scorn of that damsel was excited beyond the power of words to -describe. - -“What be you-alls doin' in my kitchen?” she cried, her face a-flush -with rage and noonday cookery. “Who sends you-alls curvin' over to me, -a-makin' of them insultin' bluffs? I demands to know!” - -“An' yere,” said Cherokee Hall, relating the exploit in the Red Light -immediately thereafter, “she stamps her foot like a buck antelope, an' -lets fly a stovelifter at us; an' all with a proud, high air, which -reminds me a mighty sight of a goddess.” - -At the time, it would seem, the duo attempted to show popular cause -for their presence, and made an effort to point out to “The Cactus” the -crying public need of some decision on her part. - -“You-all don't want the young male persons of this village to take to -shootin' of each other all up none, do you?” asked Enright. - -“I wants you two beasts to get outen my kitchen!” replied “The Cactus” - vigorously; “an' I wants you to move some hurried, too. Don't never let -me find your moccasin tracks 'round yere no more, or I'll turn in an' -mark you up.” - -[Illustration: 0287] - -“Yere, you!” she continued as the ambassadors were about to leave, -something cast down by the conference; “you-alls can tell the folks of -this town, that if they're idiots enough to go makin' a gun play over -me, to make it. They has shore pestered me enough!” - -“Which I don't wonder none at Thompson bein' reluctant an' doobious -about seein' this Cactus lady,” said Enright, as the two walked away. - -“She's some fiery, an' that's a fact!” observed Cherokee in assent. - -The result of the talk with “The Cactus” found its way about Wolfville, -and in less than an hour bore its hateful fruit. The peaceful quiet of -the Red Light, which, as a rule, was wounded by no harsher notes than -the flutter of a stack of chips, was rudely broken. - -“Gents who ain't interested, better hunt a lower limb!” - -It was the voice of Cottonwood Wasson. The trained instincts of -Wolfville at once grasped the trouble, and proceeded to hide its many -heads behind barrels, tables, counters, and anything which promised -refuge from the bullets. - -All but one; Cape Jinks. He knew it meant him the moment Cottonwood -Wasson uttered the first syllable, and his pistol came bluntly to the -fore without a word. His rival's was already there, and the shooting set -in like a hailstorm. As a result, Cottonwood Wasson received an injury -that crippled his arm for days, while Cape Jinks was picked up with -a hole in his side, which even the sanguine sentiment of Wolfville, -inclined to a hardy optimism at all times, called dangerous. - -“Well!” said Old Man Enright, drawing a deep, troubled breath, after -the duellists were cared for at the O. K. House, “yere we be ag'in an' -nothin' settled! Thar's all this shootin', an' this blood-lettin', an' -the camp gets all torn up; an' thar's as many of these people now as -thar is before, an' most likely the whole deal to go over ag'in.” - -“I shore 'bominates things a-splittin' even that a-way!” said Cherokee. - -The next day a new face was given the affair when “The Cactus” was -observed, clothed in her best frock and with two violent red roses in -her straw hat, to take the stage for Tucson. The stage company reported, -in deference to the excited state of the Wolfville mind, that “The -Cactus” would return in a week. - -“Goin' for her weddin' trowsoo, most likely,” said Dan Boggs, as he -gazed after the stage. - -“Let's drink to the hope she wins out a red dress!” remarked Texas -Thompson. “Set up the bottles, bar-keep, an' don't let no gent pass up -the play. Which red is my fav'rite colour!” - -No one seemed to know the intentions of “The Cactus.” The shooting would -appear to have in nowise disturbed her. That may have been her obdurate -heart, or it may have come from a familiarity with the evanescent tenure -of human life, born of her years on the border. Be that as one will, she -expressed not the least concern touching her brace of wounded lovers, -and took the stage without saying good-bye to any one. - -“An' some fools say women is talkers!” remarked Jack Moore, the Marshal, -in high disgust. - -Three days later Old Monte, the stage driver, came in with thrilling -news. “The Cactus” had wedded a man in Tucson, and would bring him to -Wolfville in a week. - -“When I first hears of it,” went on Old Monte with a groan, “an' when -I thinks of them two pore boys a-layin' in Wolfville, an' their claims -bein' raffled off in that heartless way, I shore thinks I'll take my -Winchester an' stop them marriage rites if I has to crease the preacher. -But, pards, the Tucson marshal wouldn't have it. He stan's me off. So -she nails him; an' the barkeep at the Oriental Saloon tells me over -thar, how she's been organisin' to wed this yere prairie dog before she -ever hops into Wolfville at all. I sees him afterwards; an', gents! for -looks, he don't break even with horned toads!” - -“Thar you be!” said Enright, making a deprecatory gesture, “another case -of woman, lovely woman! However, even if this Cactus lady has done rung -in a cold hand onto us, we must still prance 'round an' show her a good -time when she trails in with her prey. Where the honour of the camp is -concerned, we whoops it up! Of course the Cactus don't please us none -with this deal; but most likely she pleases herse'f, which, after all, -is the next best thing. Gents,” concluded Enright, after a pause, “the -return of the new couple will be the signal of a general upheaval in -their honour. It's to be hoped our young friends, Cottonwood an' Jinks, -will by then be healthful enough to participate tharin. Barkeep! the -liquor, please! Boys, the limit's off; wherefore drink hearty!” - -“Which I has preemonitions from the first, this yere Cactus female is -a brace game,” remarked Texas Thompson, as he filled his glass; “that's -whatever!” - -“Oh! I don't know!” replied Cherokee Hall thoughtfully. “She has her -right to place her bets to please herse'f, an' win or lose, this -camp should be proud to turn for her. Wolfville can't always make a -killin'--can't always be on velvet; but as long as the Cactus an' her -victim pitches camp yere, Wolfville can call herse'f ahead on the deal. -I sees no room for cavil, an' I yereby freights my glass to the Cactus -an' the shorthorn she's tied down.” - - - - -ANNA MARIE - - -Anna Marie was to be a new woman. She had decided that for herself. In -the carrying out of her destinies, Anna Marie had cut her hair short. -She also made a specialty of very mannish costumes, and, outwardly, at -least, became as virile as a woman might be with a make-up the basis of -which was bound to be a skirt. - -Anna Marie was motherless, and at the age of nineteen, when she -determined to become a new woman, had no advice save her father's to -depend on. When she discussed an adoption of broader and more masculine -methods on her girlish part with her father, the old gentleman looked -puzzled, and said: - -“Well, my dear! I have great confidence in your judgment. There is -nothing like experience, so go ahead. You will find, however, before you -have gone far, that you labour under many structural defects. The -great Architect didn't lay you out for a man, Anna Marie; you were not -intended for such a fate.” However, Anna Marie kept on. She was looking -for a fuller liberty and a wider field. She was too delicately and too -accurately determined in her tastes to be a fool to cigarettes, or swept -down in a current of profanity. Bad language she would leave to the real -man; in her career as a new woman nothing so vigorous was needed. - -But men did other things, had other freedoms; and from that long male -list of liberties Anna Marie proceeded to pick out a line of freedom -for herself. She had had enough of that pent-up Utica which confines the -conventional woman. What she wanted was more room: that is, of proper, -decorous sort. - -Of course, as Anna Marie proceeded up the long trail of masculinity, it -was noted by critics that she still continued essentially feminine as to -many common male accomplishments. She could not throw a stone, except in -that vague, pawey, overhand fashion usual with ladies, and which confers -on the missile neither direction nor force. And when Anna Marie essayed -to run, she still put everybody in mind of a cow trying to keep an -engagement. - -While others noted those solemn truths, Anna Marie did not. She thought -she was making strenuous progress, and combed her short hair as a man -combs his, and walked with long, decided stride. - -Anna Marie rode a bike, and decided to don bloomers for this ceremony. -She came to the bloomer decision hesitatingly, but made up her mind at -last. Secretly she regarded bloomers as the Rubicon. It was bloomers -which flowed between herself and the new woman in full standing; and -once Anna Marie had broken on the world in this ill-considered costume, -she would feel herself graduated, and no longer at school to Destiny. -Therefore, there dawned a day when Anna Marie came down the avenue on -her bike, be-bloomered to heart's content. She had made the plunge; the -Rubicon was crossed, and Anna Marie felt now like a female Cæsar who -must conquer or die. - -On the bike-bloomer occasion Anna Marie was weak enough to hurry. She -put her unbridled steed to fullest speed, and flashed by the onlookers -like unto some sweet meteor. She blamed herself afterward for being -such a craven, but concluded that by sticking to her bloomers she would -acquire heart and slacken speed in time. - -The worst feature about the bloomer business was that Anna Marie wotted -not how hideous she looked. She did not know that a printer on his way -to his case, caught a fleeting impression of her as she sped by, and -that he at once “put on a sub.,” took a night off, and became dejectedly -yet fully drunk. Nor did she wist that a nervous person was so affected -by the awful tout ensemble of herself, bike, and bloomers that he -repaired to Bloomingdale and sternly demanded admission as a right. - -No; Anna Marie rode all too frightened and too fast to reap these -truths. Still, she might not have altered her system if she had known. -For Anna Marie was resolute. Bent as Anna Marie was on her completion as -a new woman, she resolved to inhabit bloomers and ride her two-wheeled -vehicle even unto a grey old age. How else, indeed, could she be a new -woman? A girl friend who had stood appalled at the vigour of Anna Marie -asked her as to the bloomers. - -“They are good things,” observed Anna Marie. “There's a comfort in -bloomers which lurks not in the tangled wilderness of the ordinary -skirt. Their fault is that in donning bloomers one does not put them on -over one's head. It is a great defect. As it is, one never feels more -than half-dressed.” Anna Marie declared that the great want of the -day was bloomers, through which one thrust one's arms and head in the -process of harnessing. - -Anna Marie had a brother George. This youth was twelve years of age. -George was essentially masculine. Anna Marie could see that, and it -came to her as a thought that in the course of becoming a new woman of -fullest feather, a good, ripe method would be to study George. Should -she do as George did, young though he was, she was sure to succeed. -George would do from instinct what she must do by imitation. Anna Marie -felt these things without really and definitely thinking them. It so -fell out that, without telling George, Anna Marie began to take him -as guide, philosopher and friend. And all without really knowing it -herself. - -Unconsciously, George loved her all the better because of this, and, -moved by a warm, ingenuous lack of years, began to take Anna Marie into -his confidence like true comrade. Anna Marie encouraged his frankness. - -“George,” said Anna Marie, one day, “whenever you are about to do -anything peculiarly boyish and interesting, always tell me, so that I -may join you in your sport.” - -George said he would, and he did. - -It so befell one day, as the fruit of this comradeship, that George -changed the channel of Anna Marie's manly determination, and caused her -to abandon the rôle of a new woman. This is the story, and it all taught -Anna Marie, with the rush of a landslide, that, however industriously -she might prune and train her habits to the trellis of the male, -she would never be able to bring her nature to that state of icy, -egotistical, cold-blooded hardihood absolutely necessary to the perfect -man, and therefore indispensable to the new woman. But the story. - -“Anna Marie,” said George, coming on her one day, “Anna Marie, me and -Billy Sweet wants you.” - -“What is it, George?” asked Anna Marie. - -“We're going to hang a dog out back of the barn,” explained George. “Me -and Billy are to be the jury, and we want you for judge. Hurry up, now! -that's a good fellow!” - -Anna Marie felt a shock at thought of taking the life of anything. Her -first feeling was that George was a brute--a mere animal himself. But -Anna Marie quickly reflected, that, whatever George might be, at least -his hardened sex was the promontory the new woman must steer by. She put -down the garment she was sewing and sought the scene of canine trial. - -“You see, Anna Marie!” explained George, pointing to a saffron-coloured -dog, which stood with dolorous tail between his legs and looked very -repentant, “he murdered a kitten, and we are going to try to convict and -hang him. You sit down there by the fence, and the trial won't take a -minute. Billy and me have got our minds made up, and we won't take no -time to decide. There's the rope, and we're going to hang him to the -limb of that maple.” - -Anna Marie felt worried. Still, she allowed herself to be installed, and -the trial proceeded. It was very brief. George produced the defunct -kitten,--which looked indeed, very dead,--with the remark, “Say, you -yellow dog! you're charged with murdering this cat; have you got -anything to say against being hung?” - -The yellow cur feebly wagged his disreputable tail, and looked at Anna -Marie in a fashion of sneaking appeal. He said as plain as words: “Save -me!” - -“I wouldn't hang the poor thing, George,” said Anna Marie, and she began -to pat the felon yellow cur. - -“You're a great judge!” remonstrated George, indignantly. “It ain't for -you to decide; it's for me and Billy. We are the jury, and in favour of -hanging him, ain't we, Billy?” - -Billy nodded emphatically. - -“But, George,” expostulated Anna Marie, “it is so cruel! so brutal!” - -“Brutal!” scoffed George. “Don't they hang folks for murder every day? -You wear bloomers and talk of being a new woman and having the rights -of a man! I have heard you with that Sanford girl! And now you come -out here and try to talk off a yellow dog who is guilty of murder, and -admits it by his silence! You would act nice if it was a real man and a -real murder case! Come on, Billy; let's string him up.” - -Here George seized on the cowering victim of lynch law, and started -for the maple, where the rope already dangled for its prey. Anna Marie -became utterly feminine at this, and burst into tears. Her nineteen -years and her progress toward a new womanhood did not save her. In her -distress she turned to the other member of the jury. - -Billy Sweet, at the age of thirteen, was an ardent admirer of George's -sister, loved her dearly, if secretly, and meant to marry her in ten -or fifteen years, when he grew up. At present he played with George -and kept a loving eye on his future bride. Anna Marie knew of Billy's -partiality, so she cunningly turned on this admirer, like a true -daughter of the olden woman. - -“You think as I do, don't you, Billy?” And Anna Marie's tone had a -caress in it which made Billy's ears a happy red. - -“Yes, ma'am!” said Billy. - -George was disgusted. - -“You are the kind of a juryman,” said George, full of contempt, “that -makes me tired. There, Anna Marie, take your yellow dog, and don't try -to play with me no more. You are too soft!” - -Anna Marie felt that some vast deposit of good, hard sense lay hidden -in George's last remark. On her way to the house she did a good deal -of thinking, as girls whose mothers are dead do now and then. The -development of her cogitations was told in a remark to her girl friend: - -“It's so tiresome, this being a new woman! I am going to give it up. I -am afraid, as father says, I am 'not built right.'” - -And thus it ended. Marie is exceedingly the olden woman now. She has -beaten her sword into a pruning-hook, her bike into a spinning-wheel! -She no longer walks with long, decided stride. She is a woman in all -things, and will scream and chase a street car as if it were the last -going that way for a week, like the tenderest and frailest of her kind. -She has retracted as to bloomers. Anna Marie has returned to the agency, -and forever abandoned the warpath of a new and manly womanhood. - - - - -THE PETERSENS - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -WHEN Chucky came into the little doggery where we were wont to -converse, there arrived with him an emphatic odour of kerosene. Also -Chucky's face was worn and sad, and his hands were muffled with many -bandages. To add to it all Chucky was not in spirits. - -“What's the trouble?” I asked. - -“We've been havin 'd' run in' of our lives,” replied Chucky, as he -called to the barkeeper for his usual bracer, “an' our tenement is just -standin' on its nut right now, an' that's for straight!” - -“Tell me about it,” I urged. - -“D' racket this time over to d' joint,” said Chucky, “is about a Swede -skirt named Petersen who croaks herself be d' gas play last night. D' -place is full of cops an' hobos an' all sorts of blokes, pipin' off d' -play, while a corner mug is holdin' an inkwest over d' stiff, see! What -you smells is d' coal oil on me mits. I soaks me hooks in it to take d' -boin away. Me Rag gives me d' tip; an' say! it's a winner at that. D' -boins ain't half so bad as dey was.” - -“But I don't understand,” I replied. “How did you come to burn your -hands? If the gas was burning, I don't see how the woman could have -committed suicide.” - -“Youse is gettin' away on d' wrong hoof,” said Chucky. “I don't boin me -fins over d' Petersen moll croakin' herself. I cremates 'em puttin' out -d' flames when d' Petersen kid takes fire d' day before. This inkwest -which d' cor'oner guy is holdin' to-day, is d' secont one. He holds d' -foist yesterday over d' kid. - -“On d' level! I don't catch on to d' need of inkwests anyhow. If a -mark's dead, he's dead. It don't need no sawbones an' a mob of snoozers -to be 'panelled for a jury, see! to put youse on. It looks to me like -a dead case of shakin' down d' public for d' fees; these inkwests do, -Cor'ners, I s'spose, has to have some excuse for livin', so when some -poor duck croaks, dey comes chasin' 'round wit' a inkwest to see if -he's surely done up, an' to put a bit of dough in their kecks. Well! I -figgers it's law all right, all right, an' mebby it's d' proper caper. -Anyhow, I passes it up. - -“What about this Petersen push? Well, if ever a household strikes it -hard, I'm here to say it's d' Petersens. When it comes to d' boss hard -luck story, I'll place me bets wit' that outfit every time. - -“It's two spaces back when this Petersen gang comes ashore at Ellis -Island. There's t'ree of 'em; husband, wife, an' kid, see! Dey comes -in as steerage, an' naturally, d' Ellis Island gezebos collars 'em -an' t'rows 'em into hock d' moment dey hits d' pier. Nit; dey ain't -arrested. But youse is on, how dey puts d' clamps to emigrants. Dey -'detains' 'em, as it's called. - -“Every mug who comes steerage has to spring his plant when he lands, an' -if he ain't as strong as $30, dey--d' offishuls--don't do a t'ing but -chase him back on d' nex' boat. He's a pauper, see! an' he gets d' -razzle dazzle an 'd' gran' rinky dink. Back he goes where he hails from, -like a bundle of old clothes. Paupers is barred at Ellis Island; dey -don't go wit' these United States, not on your overshoes! - -“So d' Petersens is stood up, like I tells youse, at Ellis Island to see -be dey tramps. It toins out, nit. Dey ain't paupers. Petersen has more'n -enough money to get be d' gate, see! Petersen has a hundred an' fifty -plunks, an' bein' there's only t'ree, it's plenty to go 'round an' show -$30 for each. - -“Still them Ellis Island snoozers detains d' Petersens a week just d' -same. D' place where dey stays is worse'n any holdover or station house -I'm ever in; an', bein' d' weather's winter, an' this 'detention' pen -is wet an' cold, Petersen himself cops off d' pneumonia an' out goes his -light before ever he leaves Ellis Island at all. Dey plants him in d' -graveyard dey has for emigrants, an 'd' wife an' kid comes over to d' -city alone. - -“That's d' foist I knows of d' Petersens. D' mother an' kid takes a -back-room in our tenement; an' after dey gets 'quainted, she tells me -Rag about her man dyin'. She ain't so old, this Petersen woman, an' only -she's all broke up about her man croakin', she ain't a bad looker, see! -wit' blue eyes an' a mop of gold hair. D' kid's name is Hilda, an,' -except she's only seven years an' no bigger'n a drink of whiskey, she's -a ringer for her mother. - -“Well! like I says, d' Petersens--what's left of 'em after d' man quits -livin'--organised in d' back room on our floor. An' because folks who -wants to chew must woik, d' Petersen woman gets a curve on an' goes to -doin' stunts wit' a tub. She chases 'round doin' washin', see! - -“It's when d' old goil is away slingin' suds that I gets nex' wit 'd' -kid. She's dropped her ragbaby down be a gratin' one day an' her heart -is broke. She t'inks it's a cinch case of all over wit' d' poor ragbaby, -an' she's cryin' to beat d' band. - -“But she gets it ag'in. Me an' a big fat cop who comes waddlin' along, -tears up d' gratin' an' fishes out Hilda's doll, an' after that me an' -her gets to be dead chummy; what youse might call * pals.' - -“Hilda's shy at foist, an' a bit leary of me--I ain't no bute at me -best--but she gets used to seein' me about, an' as I stakes her to -or'nges onct or twict, at last she gets stuck on me. - -“D' Petersens, an' me, an' me Rag is neighbours on d' same floor for -near two years. An' days when I comes home early, an' me breat' ain't -smellin' of booze--for d' kid welches every time she sniffs d' lush -on me, see!--I used to go in an' kiss Hilda same as she's me own. An' -between youse an' me,” and here a drop gathered in Chucky's cold eye, -“I ain't above tippin' it off on d' quiet, I t'inks a heap of this -young-one, an' feels better every time I gets me lamps on her. - -“D' finish comes t'ree days ago. D' old goil Petersen is away woikin', -an' Hilda, for all it's so cold, is playin' in d' passage-way. There's -one of them plumber hold-ups fixin 'd' water pipe where it's sprung a -leak, an' he's got one of them dinky little fire pots which plumbers lug -'round wit' em. - -“While this plumber stiff is busy wit' his graft, poor little Hilda -t'inks she'll warm her dolly's mits be d' blaze. She's holdin' her -ragbaby's hooks over d' plumber's fire as I comes up d' stairs; an' as -she hears me foot, an' toins smilin' to make sure it's me, her frock -catches, an' when she chases screechin' into me arms, she's a bundle of -live flame. Say! I'd sooner ten to one it was me, an' that's no bluff! - -“I wraps me coat over her, an' gives d' fire d' quick smother, see! An' -I boins me dukes until it comes to bein' mighty near a case of stumps -wit' Chucky d' balance of his joiney to d' tomb. - -“But what th' 'ell! It all don't do no good. D' poor kid has swallered d' -fire, an' she's d' deadest ever before even I takes her out of me coat. - -“We lays Hilda out, me Rag an' me, on d' Petersens' bed; an' d' cor'ner -sucker, as I says at d' be-ginnin', comes sprintin' over an' goes to -holdin' his inkwests. - -“Bimeby, d' mother gets home from her tubs, an' that's where d' hard -play comes in. Me Rag tells her as easy as she can; but youse could see -it was a centre shot all d' same. It soaked her where she lived. - -“'Foist d' man, an' then d' baby!' says d' Petersen woman, as she sets -on d' floor an' mourns; 'now I'll soon go hunt for 'em.' - -“Me Rag tries to get her to come in wit' us, but she won't stan' for it. -All t'rough d' night we hears her mournin' an' groanin' on d' floor be -d' side of little Hilda's coffin. - -“D' kid's fun'ral was yesterday, an' a pulpit sharp from one of d' -Missions gets in on d' play, an' offishiates. Sure! it's a case of -Potter's Field--for d' mother ain't got d' dough to make good for a -grave--but me an' me Rag gets a car, an' takes d' mother out to see -little Hilda planted. No, she don't cry much at that; but me Rag toins -in an' don't do a t'ing but break d' record for tears. If Hilda was her -own kid, she couldn't have made more of a row. When it comes to what -youse might call 'd' outward evidences of grief,' me Rag simply lose d' -Petersen mother. - -“D' mother was feelin' it all d' same. She keeps whisperin' to herself: -'Soon I'll go find 'em!' like that; an' that's d' limit of what youse -could get out of her. - -“It's last night, after little Hilda's put away,--it's mebby, say, t'ree -this mornin', when wit'out a woid of warnin' me Rag sets up straight in -bed an' gives a sniff. - -“'Be d' mother of d' Holy Mary! it's gas!' she says, an' nex' she makes -a straight wake for d' Petersen door. - -“An' me Rag guesses right d' very foist time, like d' kid in d' song. -Gas it was; d' poor Petersen mother toins it on full blast. She's -croaked an' cold as a wedge, hours before we tumbles to her game. - -“That's d' finish. As I states d' foist dash out of d' box, it's d' -dandy hard luck story of d' year. D' whole Petersen push is wiped out, -same as that bar-keep would swab off his bar. On d' dead! it's all too -many for me! What's d' use of folks bein' born at all, if dey's goin' to -get yanked in like that--t'ree at a clatter, an' all young! - -“Do dey have re-latiffs? Some in d' old country, I takes it. There's a -note d' Petersen woman leaves for me Rag, astin' her to write d' hist'ry -of d' last round an' wind-up to d' folks at home, an' givin' d' address. -But me ownliest own says 'nit!' an* chucks d' note in d' stove. - -“'Dey's better off not knowin',' says me Rag.” - - - - -BOWLDER'S BURGLAR - - -Bowlder's wife and offspring were away at the time; and the time was a -night last summer. Mrs. B. was in Long Branch, and Bowlder, left lonely -and forlorn, to look after the house and earn money, was having a sad, -bad time, indeed. - -Not that Bowlder really lacked anything; but he missed his wife and -little ones. Where before the merry prattle of his children made the -racket of a boiler shop, all was solemn peace and hush. The Bowlder -mansion was like a graveyard. - -Naturally Bowlder felt lonesome; and to avoid, as much as might be, -having his loneliness thrust upon him by the empty desolation of the -house, he made it a rule during his wife's absence not to go home until -3 o'clock A. M. - -He was “dead on his legs” by that time, as he expressed it, and went at -once to sleep, before the absence of Mrs. B. began to prey upon him. - -On the night, or more properly morning, in question, Bowlder wended -homeward at sharp 3. He had been missing Mrs. B. painfully all the -evening, and, to uphold himself, subscribed to divers drinks. These -last Bowlder put safely away within his belt, and they cherished him and -taught him resignation, and he didn't miss his wife as much as he had. - -The hoary truth is that as Bowlder drew near his home, he had so far -conquered his sense of abandonment that he wasn't even thinking of his -wife. He was plodding along in the middle of the street for fear of -footpads, whom he fancied might be sauntering in the shadows on either -side, and was really in quite a happy, fortunate frame of mind. As -Bowlder turned in toward his door he was softly repeating the lines: - - “'Tis sweet to hear the watch dog's honest bark, - - Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home, - - 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark - - Our coming, and grow brighter when we come.” - -Not that Bowlder had a watch dog, honest or otherwise, to bay him -deep-mouthed welcome. And inasmuch as they had discharged the exile from -Erin, who aforetime did service as the Bowlder maid-of-all-work, when -Mrs. B. took flight for the summer, there was slight hope of an eye on -the premises to grow brighter when he came. - -No; it was not that Bowlder was really looking for deep-mouthed bays or -brightening eyes; he was naturally musical and poetical, and the drinks -he had corralled had unlocked his nature in that behalf. Bowlder was -reciting the lines quoted for the pleasure he drew from their beauty; -not from the prophecy they put forth of any meeting to which he looked -forward. A remark which escaped Bowlder as he climbed his steps and -dexterously fitted his night key to the day keyhole showed this. - -“I ought to have stayed at a hotel,” said Bowlder. “There's nobody here -to rake me over the coals for it, and I'm going to have a great head on -me when I wake up.” - -Bowlder at last by mistake got his latchkey into the keyhole to which -it related, and the door swung inward. This was a distinct success and -Bowlder heaved a breath of relief. This door, which had grown singularly -obdurate since Mrs. B.'s departure, had been known to hold Bowlder at -bay for twenty minutes. - -Bowlder had just cast his hat on the hall floor--he intended to hang -it up in the morning when he would have more time--and got as far on a -journey to the second story as one step, when a noise in the basement -dining-room enlisted Bowlder's attention. His curiosity rather than his -fears was aroused; another happy effect of his libations. - -Without one thought of burglars, Bowlder deferred his journey upstairs, -and repaired instead to the dining-room below. Bowlder would investigate -the untoward noises which, while soft and light, were still of such -volume as might tell upon the ear. - -“Wonder 'f the houshe is haunted?” observed Bowlder as he went deviously -below. - -It has already been noted that Bowlder not once bethought him of -burglars. In truth he had often scoffed at burglars while conversing -with Mrs. B. on this subject so interesting to ladies. Bowlder had said -that no burglar could make day wages robbing the house. - -It had all the thrill of perfect surprise then when, as Bowlder -turned into his dining-room, he beheld a bull's-eye lantern shedding a -malevolent stream of light in his face, and caught the shadowy outlines -of a tall man behind it who seemed engaged in pointing a pistol at him. - -“Hold up your hands!” said the tall man, “and don't come a step further, -or out goes your light!” - -[Illustration: 0307] - -“Well! I like thish!” squeaked Bowlder, in a tone of querulous -complaint, at the same time, however, clasping his hands above his head; -“I like thish! What's the row here?” - -The tall man made no reply, but came across and deftly ran his hands -over Bowlder for possible arms. Bowlder had no gun. The tall man seemed -satisfied, and stepping back, told Bowlder he might sit down on a chair -and rest his hands in his lap. Bowlder took advantage of the permission. - -“Any 'bjections to me lighting a shegar?” queried Bowlder. - -“Not at all,” said the tall man. - -Bowlder was soon puffing away. Being friendly, not to say polite by -nature, Bowlder bestowed one on his visitor. - -“Is it a mild cigar?” asked the burglar. - -“Colorado claro,” said Bowlder. - -“That's all right!” assented the other. “I don't like a strong smoke; it -makes my head ache.” - -As the visitor lighted the cigar, Bowlder noticed that he wore a black -mask across his eyes, and that the latter shone through the apertures -cut for their convenience like beads. The mask gave Bowlder a chill -which the pistol had not evoked. Indeed, it came very near destroying -the whole force of the drinks he had accumulated. - -When the stranger had lighted his cigar, Bowlder and he puffed at each -other a moment without a word. - -“What are you doing in my houshe?” at last demanded Bowlder. - -The stranger smiled and puffed on. Then he kicked a large sack with his -foot. Bowlder had not observed this sack before. As the stranger touched -it with his foot, it gave out a metallic clinking. - -Bowlder's eyes roamed instinctively to the sideboard. There wasn't much -light; enough, however, to show Bowlder that the sideboard's burden -of silverware was gone. With such a start, Bowlder was able to infer a -great deal. - -“Made a clean shweep, eh?” remarked Bowlder. - -The masked stranger nodded. - -“If you've got all there is loose and little in the houshe,” said -Bowlder--he was talking plainer every moment now--“you've got $1,500 -worth. Been up-shtairs yet?” - -Again the man of the mask nodded. Also he exhibited symptoms of being -about to depart. - -“Don't go yet!” remonstrated Bowlder. “Want to talk to you. Did you get -the old lady's jewellery upstairs?” - -Again the burglar nodded. He seemed disinclined to use his voice unless -it was necessary. - -“Thash's bad!” remarked Bowlder reflectively; referring to the conquest -of his wife's jewellery. “The old lady won't do a thing but make me buy -her some more. And the worst of it is, she'll put up the figures on what -jimcracks you've got, and insisht they're worth four times their true -value. I'm lucky if she don't put it higher than $1,000. And they ain't -worth $200; you'll be lucky if you get that on 'em.” - -The burglar looked hopeful as well as he could with a mask, but retorted -nothing to Bowlder. The latter mused sorrowfully over his wife's jewels. - -“You see it putsh me in the hole!” said Bowlder. “I get it going and -coming. You come along and rob me; and then Mrs. B. comes home and robs -me again. Don't you think that's a little rough?” - -The stranger said it was rough. He didn't nod this time, but used his -voice. Encouraged by the agreement with his views, Bowlder urged the -return of his wife's jewellery. - -“Just gimme back what's hers,” said Bowlder, “and you can keep the rest. -That'll let me out with her, and I don't care for the balance.” - -But the man of midnight stoutly objected. It would be a dead loss of -$200, he said, and worse yet, it would be unprofessional. - -Bowlder thought deeply a moment. Then he took a new tack. - -“Any 'bjections to taking a drink with me?” he asked. - -“None in the world!” said the burglar. - -Bowlder explored his coat pocket for a bottle he'd brought home to -restore him after his sleep. He proffered the bottle to the burglar. - -“After you is manners!” said that person. - -Bowlder drank and then the burglar did the same. - -“You a Republican?” demanded Bowlder suddenly. “I s'pose even burglars -have their politics!” - -“Administration Republican!” said the burglar; “that's what I am. I -believe in Imperialism and a sound currency.” - -“I'm an Administration Republican, too,” remarked Bowlder. “I knew -we'd find common ground at last. Now, as a member of the same party as -yourself, I want to ask a favour of you. You've got about $1,500 worth -of plunder there; and yet, you see yourself, there's a good deal of -furniture you're leaving behind; piano upstairs and all that. I'll -play you one game of ten-point seven-up to see whether you take all or -nothing. Come, now, as a favour!” - -The burglar hesitated. He feared there was a trap in it. Bowlder gave -him his word as a goldbug that he made the proffer in all honesty. - -“If you win,” said Bowlder, “you can cart the furniture away to-morrow. -I'll order you a waggon as I go down, and you can sleep in the house and -see that I don't carry off anything or hold out on you.” - -“But it ain't worth as much as what I've got,” demurred the burglar. - -“Well, see here!” said Bowlder--sober he was now--“to avoid spoiling -sport I'll throw in my watch and $30. That's square!” - -The burglar admitted that the proposal was fair, but stuck for seven -points. - -“I like straight seven-up,” he said. “Make it a seven-point game and -I'll go you.” - -Bowlder produced a deck of cards from the sewing-machine drawer. At the -burglar's own suggestion they lighted one gas jet. - -“Cut for deal!” said Bowlder. - -The burglar cut a ten-spot, Bowlder a deuce. The burglar had the deal. - -The king of diamonds was turned as trump. - -“Beg!” said Bowlder. - -“Take it!” remarked the burglar. - -The hands were played. Bowlder had the queen and six-spot of diamonds; -the marauder had the ten, nine, and seven of diamonds. Bowlder took -high, low and the burglar counted game. - -“No jack out!” remarked Bowlder. - -“No,” said the other. And then in an abused tone; “Say! you don't beg -nor nuthin', do you? The idee of a gent's beggin' in a two-hand game, -a-holdin' of the queen and six.” - -They played three hands; Jack had been out once. Bowlder was keeping -score. It stood: - -“Bowl, I I I I I I.” - -“Burg, I I I I.” - -It was Bowlder's deal. He riffled the cards with the deftness of one who -plays often and well. - -“Bound to settle it this time!” said the burglar. “The score stands 6 to -4. You bet your life! I'll stand on the bare jack if I get it.” - -Bowlder threw the cards around and turned trump with a snap. It was the -jack of clubs. - -The burglar looked at it wistfully, even sadly. - -“That's square, is it?” he said to Bowlder in a tone of half reproach. -“You ain't the party to go and turn a jack on a poor crook from the -bottom of the deck, and you only one to go?” - -Bowlder assured him the transaction was perfectly honest. - -“Yes, I guess it was,” said the burglar, rising. “I was watching you, -and I guess it was straight. It's just my luck, that's all. Well! I must -go; it's getting along towards 4: 30 o'clock.” - -“Have a drink!” said Bowlder, “and take another cigar!” - -The cracksman took a drink. Then he selected a cigar from Bowlder's -proffered case. - -“If it's all the same to youse,” said the burglar, “I'll smoke this -later on--after breakfast.” And he put the cigar in his pocket. - -“Here; let me show you out this way,” said Bowlder, leading the way to -the front basement door. - -“I hates to ask it of a stranger,” said the burglar, as he hesitated -just outside the door, “but the Eight' Avenoo cars'll be runnin' in a -little while now, and would you mind lendin' me a nickel? I lives down -be the Desbrosses Ferry.” - -Of course Bowlder would lend him car-fare. This somewhat raised the -burglar's spirits, made sad by seven-up. As he closed the door behind -him, the burglar looked back at Bowlder. - -“Do you know, pard,” he said, “if it wasn't for my weakness for -gamblin', I'd been a rich man a dozen times.” - - - - -ANGELINA McLAURIN - -(By the Office Boy) - - -Angelina McLaurin's was a rare face; a beautiful face. It had but one -defect: Angelina's nose was curved like the wing of a gull. This gave -her an air of resolution and command that affected the onlooker like a -sign which says: “Look out for the engine.” - -Still, Angelina McLaurin was bewitchingly lovely, a result much aided -in its coming about by a form so admirably upholstered that to look upon -her would have made Diana tired. - -It was a soft, sensuous September afternoon. Angelina McLaurin was -impatiently holding down a richly cushioned chair in the library of the -noble McLaurin mansion--one of those stately piles which are the pride -of Washington Heights. She was awaiting the coming of her affianced -husband, George Maurice St. John. - -“Why does he prove so dilatory?” she murmured. “Methinks true love would -not own such leaden feet!” - -As Angelina McLaurin arose to gaze from the window she rocked on the -tail of the ample Angora cat. - -The cat made it a point to hang out in the library every afternoon. On -this occasion, while Angelina McLaurin was dreaming of her lover, the -cat had taken advantage of her abstraction to deftly bestow his tail -beneath the rocker of her chair. When Angelina arose, as stated, the cat -got the worst of it. - -As the rocker came down on the cat's tail, the cat exploded into -observations in Angorese that are unfit for these pages. Angelina was -not only startled out of herself, but almost out of her frock. Angelina -and the cat arose hastily, and stood there panting. - -As the shrieks of the wronged exile from Angora were uplifted into -space, the door of the library burst violently open. - -“What is the matter, dearest? Are you injured? Why do you cry for help?” - -It was George Maurice St. John who asked the question. As he did so, he -caught Angelina McLaurin in his powerful arms, while the Angora cat, his -worst fears now realised, chased himself down the hall with tail excited -to lamp-cleaner size. - -“What is it, love?” asked George Maurice St. John, as he tenderly -unloaded his delicious burden onto a sofa, “Speak! it is the voice of -your George who bids you. Has any one dared to insult the coming bride -of a St. John?” - -“Bear with me, George!” she whispered. “Believe me, I will be better -anon!” - -After a few moments she recovered, and was able to smile through her -tears at the alarm of her dear one. Then she told George all: how the -cat had been ass enough to leave his tail lying around loose while -asleep; how, in the intensity of her waiting, she had put a crimp in it -with the fell rocker of the chair; and how the cat had been drawn into -statements, by sheer dint of agony, which it was impolitic as well as -useless to repeat. - -“So I was just in time, Angelina, to relieve both you and the cat of -what was doubtless an awkward situation.” And George Maurice St. John -laughed gaily. - -Then he kissed her with a fervour that left nothing to be wished for, -and Angelina took a brace and sat erect on the sofa. - -“I feel better now!” she remarked. - -George tried to get in another kiss, but she stood him off. - -“Don't crowd your luck, dear!” she said, with a sweet softness. “I am -yours for ever, and there is not the slightest need for any excess of -osculatory zeal. You are to have me with you always, so set a brake or -two and take the grades easy.” - -Thus repulsed, George Maurice St. John sat abashed. A pained look seamed -his features; he bit his lips and was silent. - -***** - -Daylight became twilight, and twilight retreated into the darkness of -a new night. It struck eight o'clock in the adjoining tower, and George -Maurice St John was a-hungered. His stomach was the first to tip it off -to him. - -“Don't we feed to-night?” asked George Maurice St. John. - -The lovers for two hours had chattered aimlessly, as ones wandering in a -wilderness of bliss. This was the first pointed remark. - -“Anon! love; we will feed anon!” replied Angelina McLaurin dreamily. -“But, George, before we get in our gustatory work, I would a word with -you--indeed! sundry words.” - -“Aim low, and send 'em along!” said George. “What is it my Queen would -learn from her slave?” - -In his ecstacy he achieved a “half Nelson” on the lovely girl, and -caught her in the back of the neck with a kiss. - -The Angora cat, who was stealthily threading the hall, intending to play -a return game with the library rug, gave a great convulsive start, -at the kiss, which carried him out of the mansion, and over the alley -fence. - -“They're a mark too high for me!” said the Angora to himself. - -Then inflating his lungs to the last limit of expansion, the Angora sent -a song of invitation down the line that set every Tabby in the block to -washing her face and combing her ears. - -“Your Queen wants a square heel-and-toe talk, George,” said the sweet -girl, as she tucked up her silken locks, dishevelled by his caresses -into querulous little rings. “And your Queen wants straight goods -this time, and no guff! Oh, darling!” continued Angelina McLaurin in a -passionate outburst, “be square with me, and make me those promises upon -which my life's happiness depends!” - -George Maurice St. John strained Angelina to his bosom. - -“I'll promise anything!” he said. “What wouldst thou have me do? My -life, my fortune, my honour--my all, I lay at your feet! Monkey with -them as thou wilt.” - -“Then listen!” said Angelina. - -***** - -“George, we are to be wedded in a month, are we not?” - -“We are!” he cried exultantly; and again he essayed the “half Nelson,” - and attempted to bury his nose in her mane. - -“Don't get gay, George!” she said mournfully, as she broke George's -lock, and gently but firmly pushed his bows off a point; “don't get -funny! but hear me.” - -“Go on,” said George, and his tones showed that his failure pierced him -like a javelin. “We are to be wedded in a month. What then, lady?” - -“George,” said Angelina McLaurin, and the tear-jewels shone in her eyes, -“don't think me unwomanly, but you know how I am fixed;--father and -mother both dead! I am an orphan, George, and must heel-and-handle -myself.” - -“Even so!” said George, and his face showed his sympathy. - -“Then, George, before we take that step to the altar,” she went on -steadily enough, but with a quaver in her voice which his ear, made -sensitive by great love, did not fail to detect: “before we take that -step, I say, from which there is no retreat, I must know certain things. -You must make me certain promises.” - -“Name them,” he whispered, and his deep voice overran her like a melody. - -“Then, George,” she said, “is it too much to ask that $100,000 worth of -property be settled upon me at this time?” - -“My solicitors have already received my instructions to make it -a million.” George Maurice St. John's voice dwelt fondly on the -settlement. “It is but a beggarly ante in such a game of table-stakes as -this!” This time Angelina McLaurin did not decline his endearments. When -he let up, she continued: - -“And it's dead sure I go to the Shore each summer?” - -“It is a welded cinch,” he replied, as he drew her nearer to him. “You -take in the coast from Bar Harbour to the Florida Keys.” - -“And servants?” - -“A mob shall minister unto thee,” he said. - -“Then I have but one more boon, George,” she murmured, “grant that, and -I am thine forever.” - -“Board the card!” cried George; “I promise before you ask.” - -“Say not so,” she said with a sweet sadness; “but muzzle your lips and -listen. You must quit golf.” - -“What!” shrieked George, with an energy that sent the Angora backward -off a shed-roof of dubious repute, from which he was carolling to his -low companions; “what!” he repeated. “Woman, think!” - -“I have thought, George,” responded Angelina Mc-Laurin, with an air of -sorrowful firmness. “There is but one alternative: saw short off,--saw -short off on golf, or give me up forever!” - -“Is this some horrid dream?” he hissed, as he strode up and down the -library. - -At last he paused before her. - -“Woman,” he said sternly, “look on me! Is this some lightsome bluff, or -does it go? Dost mean it, woman?” - -“Ay! I mean it!” answered Angelina, while her cheek paled and her breath -came quick and fast. “Don't make any mistake on that; I mean it. My talk -goes. And my hand is off my chips.” - -“Is this your love?” he sneered, bitterly. - -“It is,” she faltered. “I have spoken, and I abide your answer.” - -“Then, girl,” said George Maurice St. John, and his words were cold and -hard, “all is over between us. You would drive me into a corner and take -away my golf! I say No! No! a thousand times, No!” - -At this outbreak the curve in Angelina's nose became more intense. She -dried her eyes. Her features, too, became as flint. She even cut loose a -low, mocking laugh. - -“Be it so!” she said; “sirrah, take your ring!” - -He seized the bauble and ground it beneath his heel. As he did so her -strength failed her, and she sank to the floor. - -“That knocked her out!” he muttered, and he started to count: -“One!--Two!--Three--Four!-” - -“Oh, not necessarily!” she said, struggling to her feet. “I'm still in -it; and I say again, give up golf, or give up me!” - -“The die is cast!” and as he spoke the fatal words, the eyes of George -Maurice St. John took on the firm, irrevocable expression of a fish's -set in death. “I wouldn't give up golf for the best woman that ever put -a dress on over her head. Maiden, you ask too much; you come too high! -Damsel, I quit you cold!” - -***** - -George Maurice St. John rushed from the scene. The ponderous door, as it -slammed behind him, echoed and re-echoed through the vaulted apartments -of the McLaurin mansion. Angelina McLaurin listened until his footsteps -died away far up the street. - -“He has flew the coop on me!” she wailed. - -Then she gave way to a torrent of tears. In her distress Angelina -McLaurin was more beautiful than ever. Two minutes! Five minutes! Ten -minutes went by! Her tears still fell like rain. - -“I have turned the hose on my hopes!” she said. - -This was the thought that crossed her mind; but she desperately womanned -(word coined since advent of new woman) herself to bear it. - -Still afloat on the sad currents of her tears, her head bowed, a light -sound beat upon the tympanum of Angelina McLaurin. She looked quickly up -and squared herself to emit a glad cry, if one should be necessary. - -What was it? - -Something had come back. - -True! it was the Angora cat. - -As the Angora flung himself upon the rug with an air of reckless -abandon, Angelina McLaurin gazed at him with a wistful fixedness. One -eye was closed, his fur was torn, blood dripped from his lacerated ears. -He was, in good sooth, but a tattered Angora! Angelina McLaurin laughed -long and wildly. - -“He, too,' has got it in the neck!” - - - - -DINKY PETE - -(Annals of The Bend) - - -Do we have romances on t' East Side!” and Chucky's voice was vibrant -with the scorn my doubts provoked. “Do we have romances! Well, I don't -t'ink! Say! there's days when we don't have nothin' else.” - -At this crisis Chucky called for another glass; did it without -invitation. This last spoke of and betrayed a sense of injury. - -“Let me tell youse,” continued Chucky, “an' d' yarn don't cost you a -cent, see! how Dinky Pete sends Jimmy d' barkeep back to his wife. It's -what I calls romantic for a hundred plunks. - -“Not that Jimmy ever leaves her, for that matter; that is, he don't -leave her for fair! But he's sort o' organisin' for d' play when Dinky -Pete puts d' kybosh on d' notion, an' wit' that Jimmy don't chase at -all, see! - -“Jimmy d' barkeep is some soft in d' nut, see! Nit, he ain't really got -w'eels; ain't bad enough for d' bug house; but he's a bit funny in his -cocoa--mostly be way of bein' dead stuck on himself. - -“An' bein' weak d' way I says, Jimmy is a high roller for clothes; -always sports a w'ite t'ree-sheet, wit' a rock blazin' in d' centre, big -enough to trip a dog. An' say! his necktie's a dream, an' his hat's d' -limit! - -“What's a t'ree-sheet? an' what's a rock? I don't want to give you no -insultin' tips, but on d' square! youse ought to take a toim at night -school. Why! a t'ree-sheet is his shirt, an' d' rock I names is Jimmy's -spark! Of course, d' spark ain't d' real t'ing; only a rhinestone; but -it goes in d' Bend all d' same for a 2-carat headlight. - -“Jimmy makes a tidy bit of dough, see! He gets, mebby it's fifteen bones -a week, an' I makes no doubt he shakes down d' bar for ten more, which -is far from bad graft. So it ain't s'prisin' one day when Jimmy gets it -stuck in his frizzes he'll be married. - -“Jimmy's Bundle is all right at that. Her name's Annie, an' she's a -proper straight chip. An' that ain't no song an' dance; square as a die -she was. An' a bute! She was d' pick of d' Bowery crush, an' don't youse -doubt it. - -“Well, Jimmy an' Annie goes on wit' their courtships, I takes it, same -as if dey lives on Fift' Avenoo. Annie's a mil'ner, an' while she don't -have money to t'row to d' boids, she woiks for enough so it's as good as -a stan'-off on livin', which is all her hand calls for an' all she asts. -If she don't quit winner after trimmin' hats a week, at any rate she -don't get in d' hole, see! - -“Oh, yes; she an' Jimmy gets action on d' sights. Now an' then it's -Coney Island; then ag'in it's a front seat at d' People's; or mebby if -some of d' squeeze has a dance, dey pulls on their skates an' steps in -on d' spiel. An' say! as a spieler Annie's a wonder, an' don't youse -forget it. I has d' woid for it from me own Rag, an' when it comes to -pickin' out a dancer, you can trust me Rag to be dead on in a minute. D' -loidy can do a dizzy stunt or two on a wax floor herself when it comes -to a show-down. - -“But about me romance. Jimmy has chased around wit' Annie, say it's -t'ree mont's. An' all this time his strong play is voylets, see! Annie -is gone on voylets, so each evenin' Jimmy toins in on Dinky Pete, who -sells poipers an' peanuts, an' some of this hard, bum candy you breaks -your teet's on. Dinky also deals a little flower game, wit' about a -5-cent limit, an' that's what gets Jimmy. Just as I says, each evenin' -Jimmy sticks in a nickel for a bunch of voylets at Dinky's an' sends -some kid--Dinky's joint is a great hang-out for d' kids--to take 'em up -to Annie. - -“An' them voylets tickles Annie to death. - -“At last all goes well, an' Jimmy an' Annie gets spliced. An' it's -all right at that! Me Rag, who calls on 'em, says Jimmy an' Annie's d' -happiest ever, an' gettin 'd' boss run for their money. - -“It's about a year when Annie don't do a t'ing but have a kid. At foist -Jimmy likes it, an' lets on it's d' racket of his career. But after a -while Jimmy gets chilly--sort o' gets sore on d' kid. Me Rag gives me -a pointer it's mostly Annie's fault. She stars d' kid too heavy, an' it -makes Jimmy feel like a deuce in a bum deck; makes him t'ink he ain't so -strong--ain't so warm as he was. An' it toins out' Annie, bein' always -busy monkeyin' wit 'd' young-one, an' givin' Jimmy d' languid eye, d' -nex' news you get, Jimmy is back on d' street when he is off watch, -tryin' to pipe off some fun. - -“I never knows where she catches on wit' Jimmy, but it ain't no time -when one of them razzle-dazzle blondes has him on d' string. She's doin' -d' grand at that, see! an' givin' him d' haughty stand-off. - -“Mebby Jimmy met her on d' street onct or twict, when for d' foist time, -Goldie--which is this blonde tart's name--says Jimmy can come an' see -her. - -“It's been mont's since Jimmy's done d' flower act at Dinkey Pete's. But -d' sucker t'inks it's d' night of his life, an' so he chases in an' goes -ag'inst Pete's counter for a bunch. - -“This Dinky Pete's a dead queer little mug. He's a short, sawed-off -mark, wit' a humpy back an' a bum lamp. But you can gamble your life Î -Dinky Pete's heart is on straight, whether his back is or not. - -“It's be chanct I'm in Dinky Pete's meself d' time Jimmy is out to meet -this blonde mash. Now, at d* time I ain't onto Jimmy's curves; I don't -tumble to d' play till a week later, when me Rag puts me on. - -“W'at was I doin' in Dinky Pete's? Flowers? Nit; not on your life! -Naw; I wants to change me luck. I'd got d' gaff at draw poker d' night -before, an' I'm layin' for Dinky Pete for to rub his hump on d' sly. -Sure! Youse'll have luck out of sight. Only you mustn't let d' humpback -guy get on. If he notices you rubbin' his hump it'll give youse bad -luck, see! - -“Jimmy comes in, an' at foist, be force of habit, I s'spose, he's goin' -to plunge on voylets. But he t'inks of Annie, an' he can't stand for it. -Wit' that, Jimmy shifts his brush an' tells Dinky Pete to toin him out -some roses. - -“'An' make 'em d' reddest in d' joint, see!' says Jimmy. - -“Dinky Pete's got his mits on some voylets, but when Jimmy says 'roses' -Dinky comes to a stan' still. - -“' W'at! roses?' says Dinky Pete, an' his ratty eyes--one of 'em on d' -hog, as I states--looks dead sharp at Jimmy. 'Roses?' he repeats. - -“'That's what I says!' is d' way Jimmy comes back. - -“' Better take voylets,' says Dinky, an' he stops foolin' wit 'd' -flowers an' gives Jimmy d' gimlet eye. - -“'Nit,' declares Jimmy; * I'm dead onto me needs. Give me roses.' - -“'But roses won't last,' says Dinky, an' his look is sharp an' soft an' -sad all at onct. 'Roses won't last, an' that's for fair,' says Dinky, -'while voylets is stayers. Better take voylets, Jimmy!' - -“But Jimmy gets sullen an' won't have no voylets, see! An' he swings an' -rattles wit' Dinky that he wants roses--roses red as blood. - -“'Roses has thorns,' goes on Dinky, still holdin' his lamps on Jimmy -in d' same queer way; 'you don't want roses, Jimmy; you just t'inks you -want roses! Be a square bloke, Jimmy; be yourself an' take voylets!' - -“An' I'm damned!” declares Chucky, “if Jimmy don't begin to look like a -whipped kid, an' d' foist t'ing I knows, he welches on roses, grabs off -a bunch of voylets big enough to make a salad, an' goes chasin' home to -Annie. Me Rag is there when Jimmy pours in. - -“Say! It's d' finish of d' blonde! She ain't in it! Me rag, on d' quiet, -gives Annie d' chin-chin of her existence, an' shows her Jimmy ain't -gettin' a square deal. An' Annie--who, for all she's nutty about d' kid, -is a dead wise fowl just d' same--takes a tumble, an' from that time -she makes d' bettin' even money on* bot 'd' young-one an' Jimmy. D' last -time I sees Jimmy he stops to tell me that Annie's a peach, an' d' kid's -a wonder. An' he's lookin' like a nine-times winner himself. Now don't -youse call that a romance for Dinky Pete to get onto Jimmy's game so -quick, an' stickin' to him till he takes d' voylet steer? Ain't it a -romance? Well! I should kiss a pig!” - - - - -CRIB OR COFFIN? - - -I - -YOUNG Jones stood in the telegraph office--the one at Twenty-third -Street and Broadway. There was an air of triumph about Jones, an -atmosphere of insolent sagacity, which might belong to one who, by some -sudden, skilful sleight had caught a starling. Yet Jones's victory was -in nowise uncommon. Others had achieved it many a time and oft. It was -simply a baby; young Jones had become a papa, and it was this that gave -him those frills which we have chronicled. The presence of young Jones -in the telegraph office might be explained by looking over his shoulder. -This is the message he wrote: - -New York City, Dec. 8, '99. - -Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps, - -Albany, N. Y. - -I still take it you are interested in the census of your family. Recent -events in this city have altered the figures. Don't attempt to write a -history of the tribe of Van Epps without consulting Sanford Jones. - -“There!” said young Jones, “that ought to fetch him. He won't know -whether I mean the birth of a baby or Mary's death. If he doesn't come -to see her now, I will mark him off my list for good. I would as it -stands, if it were not for Mary.” - -“Won't father worry, dear?” asked Mary, when young Jones repeated the -ambiguous message he had aimed at his up-the-State father-in-law. - -“I expect him to shed apprehensive tears all the way to New York,” - replied young Jones. “But don't fret, Mary; I am sure he will come; and -a tear or two won't hurt him. They will help his eyes, even though -they do his heart no good. I don't resent his treatment of me, but his -neglect of you is not so easy to forgive.” - - -II - -This was the story: - -Back four years, Albany would have shown you young Jones opening his law -office in that hamlet. Mary was “Mary Van Epps.” At that time seventeen -years was all the family register allowed to her for age. - -Her father, Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps, was one of the leading citizens -of Albany. While not a millionaire, he was of sufficient wealth to -dazzle the local eye, and he was always mentioned by the denizens of his -native place as “rich.” - -Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps had a weakness. He was slave to the pedigree -habit. Never a day went by but he called somebody's attention to those -celebrities who aforetime founded and set flowing the family of Van -Epps; and he proposed at some hour in the future to write a history of -that eminent house. With his wealth and his family pride to prompt him, -it came easy one day for Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps to object with -decision and vigour to a match between young Jones and his daughter -Mary. - -“They were both fools!” he said. - -Then he pointed out that the day would never dawn when a plebeian like -unto Jones, without lineage or lucre, boasting nothing better than a law -office vacant of practice, and on which the rent was in arrears three -months, would wed a daughter of the Van Epps. Colonel Stuyvesant Van -Epps, in elaboration of his objection, showed that beyond a taste to -drink whiskey and a speculative bent toward draw poker, he knew of -nothing which young Jones possessed. Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps closed, -as he began, with the emphatic announcement that no orange blossoms -would ever blow for the nuptials of young Jones and Mary Van Epps. - -Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps in his attitude will have the indorsement -of all good Christian people. He was right as a father. As a prophet -touching orange blossoms, however, he was what vulgar souls call “off.” - Of that anon. - - -III - -YOUNG Jones more than half believed that Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps -was right. So far as whiskey and draw poker were concerned, he went with -him; but with Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps' objections to him, based on -the lack of pedigree and a failure of pocket-book, he didn't sympathise. - -“I may be poor, and my family tree may be a mullein stalk, but I am -still a fitting mate for any member of the Van Epps tribe.” - -Thus spake young Jones to Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps. He then took the -earliest private occasion to kiss Mary good-bye, give her his picture, -and make her his promise to wed her within five years. - -“Would she wait?” - -“I would wait a century,” said Mary. - -Young Jones kissed Mary again after that. The next day Albany was short -one citizen, and that citizen was young Jones. Albany is short to this -day. - - -IV - -Let us drop details. Good luck came to young Jones, hard on the lonely -heels of his evacuation of Albany. He was named a junior partner of -a New York City law firm. His income equalled his hope. He dismissed -whiskey and draw poker, and he wrote to Mary Van Epps: - -“Could he claim her now?” - -Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps said “No” again. Young Jones still lacked -ancestry, and a taste for whiskey and four aces still lurked in his -blood. Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps would not consent. This served for a -time to abate the bridal preparations. - - -V - -Two years deserted the future for the past. A great deal of water will -run under a bridge in two years. Mary Van Epps was nineteen. She went on -a visit to a Trenton relative. Young Jones became abundant in Trenton -at that very time. They took in a parson while on a stroll one day, and -when that experienced divine got through with them they were man and -wife. They wired their entangled condition to Colonel Stuyvesant Van -Epps. He sent them a message of wrath. - -“I cast Mary off for ever! Never let me see her face again!” - -“Very well!” remarked young Jones as he read the wire; “I shall need -Mary myself, in New York. Casting her off, therefore, at Albany, cuts no -great figure. As for Mary's face, I will look at it all the more to make -up for her brutal dad's abatement of interest therein.” - -Then he kissed Mary as if the feat were entirely fresh. And while Mary -wept, she still felt very happy. Next they came to a modest home in the -city. - - -VI - -Two years more trailed the otners into history. Young Jones was held a -fortunate man. His work was a success. Whiskey and poker were now so far -astern as to be hull-down in the horizon. And he loved Mary better than -ever. She was the triumph of his life, and he told her so every day. - -“It is certainly wonderful,” he said, “how much more beautiful you -become every day.” - -This pleased Mary; and while her heart turned to her hard old father, -she did not repent that episode at Trenton, which changed her name to -Jones. - -Once a month Mary faithfully addressed a letter, new and fresh each time -with the love that fails and fades not, to “Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps, -Albany, N. Y.” And once a month Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps read it, -gulped a little, and made no reply. - -“I will never see her again!” Colonel Stuyvesant - -Van Epps remarked to himself on these letter occasions. - -All the time he knew he lived for nothing else. But he thought of his -family and mustered his pride, and of course became a limitless fool at -once, as do those who give way to an attack of pedigree. - -But the Jones baby was born; and young Jones concluded to try his -hand on Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps. Mary wanted him to come, and that -settled the whole matter so far as young Jones was concerned. In his -new victory as a successful father, he felt that he could look down on -Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps. He therefore wrote the message referred -to in our first chapter with perfect confidence, that, turn as matters -might, he had nothing to fear. - -“The past, at least, is secure!” said young Jones; “and, come what may, -I have Mary and the baby.” Both Mary and young Jones, however, awaited -the returns from Albany with anxiety;--Mary, because she loved her -father and mourned for his old face, and young Jones because he loved -Mary. They were relieved when the bell rang at 7 P. M., and a bicycle -boy handed in a yellow paper, which read: “Will be there to-morrow on -the 8:30.--Stuyvesant Van Epps.” - -Mary was all gladness. Young Jones was calm, but gave way sufficiently -to say: - -“Mary, we will call the cub 'Stuyvesant Van Epps Jones.'” - -[Illustration: 0335] - - -VII - -YOUNG Jones met Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps at the Forty-Second -Street station. The old gentleman had been torn by doubts and grievous -misgivings all the way down. What did young Jones' ambiguous message -mean? Was Mary dead? Was he bound to a funeral? or a christening? -Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps knew that something tremendous had happened. -But what? - -Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps walked up to young Jones at the station, and -without pausing to greet him, remarked: - -“Crib or coffin?” - -“Crib!” said young Jones. - -[Illustration: 0335] - -Then Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps fell into a storm of tears, and began -to shake young Jones by the hand for the first time in his life. - - -VIII - -The three happiest people in the world that night were Colonel -Stuyvesant Van Epps, Mary and young Jones. The baby was the one -member of the family who did not give way to emotion. He received his -grandfather with a stolid phlegm which became a Van Epps. - -“And his name is Stuyvesant Van Epps Jones,” said Mary. - -Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps kissed Mary again at this cheering news, and -shook hands with young Jones for the second time in his life. - -That is all there is to a very true story. Colonel Stuyvesant Van Epps -lives now in New York City, and Albany is shy a second citizen. Mary is -happy, young Jones feels like a conqueror, and the infant, Stuyvesant -Van Epps Jones, beneath the eye of his grandsire, waxes apace. - - - - -OHIO DAYS - - - - -I--AT THE LEES - -Aunt Ann, be we goin' to the spellin' to-night at the Block -schoolhouse?” - -Jim Lee always called his wife “Aunt Ann.” So did everybody except her -daughter Lydia. She called Aunt Ann “Mother.” But to Jim Lee and the -other inhabitants of Stowe Township, she was “Aunt Ann Lee.” - -As Jim Lee asked Aunt Ann the question, he threw down the armful of -maple wood and retreated to the back door to stamp the snow off his -boots. - -“I want to know,” he said, “so's to do the chores in time.” - -Aunt Ann was chopping mince-meat. She was a clean, beautiful woman of -the buxom sort. Her eyes were very blue, while her hair was very black -with not a strand of silver, for all her forty-seven years. Jim Lee held -Aunt Ann in great respect. Aunt Ann on her part was a tender soul and -true, although Jim Lee had found her quite firm at times. - -“Now and then she's a morsel hard on the bit,” said Jim Lee, -descriptively. - -Perhaps the two old-maid Spranglers meant the same thing when they said: -“There never was a body with blue eyes and black hair who didn't have -the snap in 'em.” - -“Yes,” replied Aunt Ann to Jim Lee's question “yes, of course we'll go. -I've got to see Mrs. Au about some rag carpets she's weavin' for me, and -she be there. Better get the Morgan colt and the cutter ready, father; -we'll go in that.” - -“That'll only hold two,” said Jim Lee. “How Lide goin' to go?” - -“Lide's goin' with Ed Church. She's over to Jenn Ruple's now; she and -Jen are goin' to choose up for the spellin' bee. But she'll be back in -time, and Ed Church is comin' for her at half-past seven.” - -Jim Lee's face showed that he didn't like Ed Church He said nothing for -five minutes, and pulling off his kip-skin boots began to give them a -coat of tallow. - -“Where's Ezra?” at last he asked. Ezra was the heir of the house of Lee. -His age was eleven; he was twenty. - -“Ezra's down cellar sortin' over that bin of peach blows,” said Aunt -Ann, busy with her mince-me; and chopping-bowl; “they'd started to rot.” - -“I wanted to send him to the Corners for the mail,” suggested Jim Lee, -as he kneaded the wax tallow into the instep of his boot to soften the -leather. - -[Illustration: 0341] - -“You'd better hitch up the colt a mite early,” answered - -Aunt Ann, “and go to the Corners before we start to the spellin'. Ezra's -got to churn as soon; he's done the peachblows.” - -There was another pause. Jim Lee softly drew on his freshly tallowed -boots, and then stood up an tried them by raising his heels one after -the other bending the boots at the toes as if testing a couple of -Damascus sword blades. - -“I don't like this here Ed Church sparkin' our Lide,” remarked Jim Lee -at last; “bimeby they'll want to get married.” - -“Father!” said Aunt Ann, raising her blue eyes with a look of cold -criticism from the mince-meat she was massacring. - -“Has he asked Lide yet?” said Jim Lee. - -“No, he ain't,” replied Aunt Ann, “but he's goin' to.” - -“How do you know?” - -“How do I know?” repeated Aunt Ann, as she set the chopping-bowl on the -kitchen table, and turned to put a few select sticks of maple into the -oven to the end that they become kiln-dried and highly inflammable; “how -do I know Ed Church is goin' to marry Lide? Humph! I can see it.” - -“I'm goin' to put a stop to it,” said Jim Lee. “This Church boy is goin' -to keep away from Lide.” - -“Father, you're goin' to do nothing of the kind,” and Aunt Ann's eyes -began to sparkle. “You can run the farm and Ezra, father; I'll run Lide -and the house. The only person who's goin' to have a syllable to say -about Lide's marryin' when the time comes, is Lide herself. If she wants -Ed Church she's goin' to have him.” - -“Aunt Ann, I'm s'prised at you upholdin' for this Church boy!” Jim Lee -threw into his tone a strain of strong reproof. “Ed Church drinks.” - -“Ed Church don't drink,” retorted Aunt Ann sharply. - -“How about that time two years ago last summer? Waren't Ed Church drunk -over at the Royalton Fair?” - -“Yes, he was,” answered Aunt Ann, “and that's the only time. But so was -my father drunk once at a barn-raisin' when he was a boy, for I've heerd -him tell it; and I guess my father, William H. Pickering, was as good as -any Lee who ever greased his boots. One swallow don't make a summer, and -one drunk don't make a drunkard. Ed Church told me himself that he ain't -took a drop since.” - -“I'm goin' to break up this nonsense between him and Lide, at any rate,” - said Jim Lee. His mood was dogged, and it served to irritate Aunt Ann. - -“All you've got ag'inst Ed Church, father,” said Aunt Ann, “is that his -father voted ag'in you for pathmaster, and I'm glad he did. What under -the sun you ever wanted to be pathmaster for, and go about ploughin' -up good roads to make 'em bad, was more'n I could see. I'm glad you was -beat.” - -“I'm goin' to stop this Church boy hangin' 'round Lide, jest the same,” - was the closing remark of Jim Lee. At this point he went out to the barn -to put some straw in the cutter and harness the Morgan colt. Aunt Ann -turned again to her duties. - -“Father is so exasperatin',” remarked Aunt Ann, as she poured some -boiling water over a dozen slices of salt pork to “freshen it,” in the -line of preparing them for the evening frying-pan. “He'll find out, -though, that I'll have a tolerable lot to say about Lide's marriage.” - - - - -II--ED CHURCH AND LIDE - -At half-past seven, Ed Church swung into Jim Lee's yard, with a horse -all bells, and a cutter a billow of buffalo robes. He did not dare leave -Grey Eagle, his pet colt, for Grey Eagle was restless with the wintry -evening air and wanted to go. So Ed Church notified Lide of his coming -by shouting, “House!” with a great voice. - -Grey Eagle made a plunge at the sound, but was brought up by the bit. - -“How'dy do, Ed,” said Lide, as she came out the side door. She looked -rosy and pretty with her muskrat muff and cape. - -“Hello, Lide,” said Ed. “You'll have to scramble in yourself. I can -hardly hold the colt this weather, when he don't have nothin' to do but -eat.” - -Lide scrambled in. As Ed Church stood up in the cutter to allow Lide a -chance to be seated, her face came close to his. Taking his eyes from -Grey Eagle for the mere fraction of a second, he kissed her dexterously. -Lide received the caress with the most admirable composure, and Ed -Church himself did not act as if the idea was a discovery or the -experiment new. - -“Let him out, Ed!” said Lide, when they were well into the road. - -There was a foot of snow on the ground. The fence corners showed great -drifts, while each rail of the fence had a ruffle of its own of cold, -white snow. As far as one could see in the moonlight, the fields to -each side were like milk. In the background stood the grey woods laced -against the sky. Here and there a lamp shone in a neighbour's window -like an eye of fire. - -Stowe Township was out that night. The steady beat of the bells could -be heard ahead and behind. Ed Church sent Grey Eagle forward with long -strides, the cutter following over the hard, packed snow with no more of -resistance than a feather. Lide held her muff to her face, so that -she might open her mouth to talk without catching any of the flying -snowballs from Grey Eagle's nervous hoofs. - -“It'll be a big spellin'-school to-night,” said Lide. - -“Yes, I guess it will,” replied Ed. “I hear folks are comin' clear from -Hammond Corners.” - -“If that Gentry girl comes,” said Lide, “mind! you're not to speak to -her, Ed. If you do, you can go home alone.” - -Ed grinned with an air of pleased superiority. - -“Get up,” he said to Grey Eagle. Then to Lide: “Go on! You're jealous!” - -“No, I ain't!” said Lide, with a lofty intonation. “Speak to her if you -want to! What do I care!” - -“I won't speak to her, Lide.” - -Ed looked at his sweetheart to see how she received his submission. As -the road was level and straight at this point, and Grey Eagle had worn -away the wire edge of his appetite to “go,” Ed put his face in behind -the muskrat muff and kissed Lide again. The victim abetted the outrage. - -“I saw ye!” yelled a happy voice behind. It was Ben Francis with Jennie -Ruple. They also were enthroned in a cutter. - -“What if you did?” retorted Lide with a toss. - -“Do it again if I want to!” shouted Ed Church with much joyous -hardihood. - -“I never asked you to marry me yet, did I, Lide?” observed Ed Church, -after two minutes of silence. - -“No, you didn't,” said Lide from behind the muskrat muff. The words -would have sounded hard, if it were not for the sudden soft sweetness of -the voice, which was half a whisper. - -“Well, I'll do it now,” said Ed, with much resolution, but a little -shake in the tone. “You'll marry me, Lide, when we get ready?” - -“Ed, what do you think father 'll say?” - -Ed Church knew Lide's father found no joy in him. The next time his -voice took on a moody, half-sullen sound. - -“Don't care what he says! I ain't marryin' the hull Lee family.” - -“But s'pose he says we can't?” - -“If he does, I'll run away with you, Lide,” and Ed Church's tones were -touched with storm. “I'm goin* to marry you even if all the Lees in the -state stand in the way!” - -Lide crowded a bit closer to Ed at this, and, holding the muskrat muff -against her face to keep her nose from getting red, said nothing. Lide -was thinking what a noble fellow Ed was, and how much she admired him. - - - - -III--THE SPELLING SCHOOL - -The Block schoolhouse was crowded. Lide and Ed made their way toward the -back benches. Jim Lee spoke to his daughter and growled gruffly at Ed. - -The latter half growled back. Aunt Ann was all smiles and approval -of Ed. At this, Ed thought her the best woman on earth except his own -mother, and mentally put her next that excellent old lady in his heart. - -It was a Mr. Parker who taught at the Block school-house. At 8 o'clock -he rapped on the teacher's desk with a ruler, and everybody who was -standing up hunted for a seat. Those who could find none--they were all -young men and boys--crouched down along the walls of the big school-room -and made seats of their heels. Mr. Parker came down from his desk -and opened the stove door with the end of the ruler. The stove--a -long-bodied air-tight--was raging red hot from the four-foot wood -blazing in its interior. When the door was opened the heat almost singed -Mr. Parker's eyebrows. At this he started back nervously, and Ben Weld -and Will Jenkins, two very small boys, laughed. The stove on its part -began to cool off and the cherry colour faded from its hot sides, -leaving them brown and rusty. - -“Lydia Lee and Jennie Ruple have been selected to choose sides for the -spelling contest,” said Mr. Parker. - -Lide and Jennie seated themselves side by side on the bench which ran -along the rear of the room. It was Lide's first choice. - -“Ed Church,” called Lide in a low voice. - -Several young persons giggled, while Ed, blushing deeply to have his -sweetheart's preference thus forced into prominence, blundered along the -aisle and sat down by Lide. It was Jennie's choice. Jennie selected Ben -Francis. - -“Of course!” said Ada Farr in a loud whisper to - -Myrtle Jones, “they'd choose their beaux first, so as to sit by 'em.” - -There was no gainsaying the Farr girl's statement. The “choosing up,” - however, went on. At last everybody, young and old, from the grey-headed -grandpa to the five-year-old just sent to his first school that winter, -had been chosen by Lide or Jennie. Then Mr. Parker began to give out the -words. - -Ed Church failed on the first word. It was “emphasis.” Ed thought there -was an “f” in it. He straightway sat down and spelled no more that -night. Lide made a better showing, and lasted through five words. She -tripped on “suet” upon which she conferred an “i.” Lide then joined Ed -among the silenced ones. - -“Lide Lee missed on purpose,” whispered the Farr girl to her neighbour -Myrtle Jones, “so she could sit and talk with Ed.” - -Jim Lee spelled well, but fell a prey to “moustache.” - -At last only three were left standing--Nellie Brad-dock, a girl from -Hammond Corners, and Aunt Ann. Mr. Parker turned over to the back part -of the spelling book where the hard words lived. Nellie Braddock fell -before “umbrageous.” - -The struggle between the girl from Hammond Corners and Aunt Ann was a -battle of the giantesses. The girl from Hammond Corners was the champion -speller of her region, and had spelled down every school so far that -winter. The interest was intense, as first to Aunt Ann and then to the -girl from Hammond Corners, Mr. Parker put out: - -“Fantasy.” - -“Autobiographer.” - -“Thaumaturgie.” - -“Cosmography.” - -At last the girl from Hammond Corners tripped on: - -“Sibylline.” - -She made it “syb.” Mr. Parker had to show her the spelling book to -convince the girl from Hammond Corners that she had missed. She glanced -in the spelling book where Mr. Parker's finger pointed, and then burst -into tears. At this an unknown young man, presumably from Hammond -Corners, got up and excitedly declared the book to be wrong. Nobody took -any notice of him, however, and Aunt Ann Lee was named the victor. She -had spelled down the school. - - - - -IV--THE FIGHT - -Ed CHURCH left Lide talking with the girls in the schoolhouse while -he went back to the waggon shed to get Grey Eagle and bring him and the -cutter to the door. As Ed was in the entry of the schoolhouse he was -stopped by little Joe Barnes. - -“Say! Fan Brown's out there waitin' for you.” - -“What about Fan Brown?” asked Ed Church. - -Fan Brown was the bully of Hinckley. He boasted that he could thrash any -man between Bath Lakes and the Hinckley Ridge. - -“He says he's goin' to wallop you for shootin' his dawg last summer,” - said little Joe Barnes. - -“Joe, will you do something for me?” asked Ed. - -“Yep!” - -“You go and tell Lide Lee in there that I'm goin' over to Square -Chanler's to get a neck-yoke he borrowed and I'll be right back. Tell -her to wait in the school-house till I come.” - -“He's afraid of Fan Brown and is runnin' over to Square Chanler's to get -the constable,” said little Joe Barnes to himself. For this he despised -Ed Church very much, but went in and delivered the message. - -“All right!” said Lide, and then went on gossiping with the girls. - -Ed Church stepped out of the schoolhouse and started for the -horse-sheds. - -He noticed a knot of men standing at the rear corner of the building; -among them he discerned the stocky, bull-necked bully of Hinckley, Fan -Brown. - -“Here he comes now!” said one, as Ed approached. - -“Let him come!” gritted the bully; “I'll fix him! I'll show him whose -dog he's been shootin! As fine a coon dog, boys, as ever went into a -corn field. He shot him, and I ain't goin' back to Hinckley till I mash -his face.” - -“What's the row here?” said Ed Church, walking straight to the little -huddle about Fan Brown. His tones were brittle and bold; a note of ready -war ran through them. Not at all the voice in which he talked to Lide. -“I understand somebody's lookin' for me. Who is it?” - -“It's me, by G--d! You killed my dog last summer, and I'm goin'----” - -“No, you ain't,” said Ed, interrupting; “you ain't goin' to do a thing. -You may be the bully of Hinckley, Fan Brown, but you can't scare me. -Your dog was killin' sheep; he was a good deal like you; but bein' a dog -I could shoot him.” - -“Yes, and I ain't goin' back to Hinckley until I maul you so you won't -shoot another dog as long as you live.” - -“Enough said!” replied Ed, “come right down in the hollow back of the -horse sheds, where the folks won't see, and do it.” - -Just then a small, meagre man approached. He walked with a lounging -gait, and when he spoke he had a thin, mealy voice. - -“What's the matter here?” piped the meagre little man. - -His name was Dick Bond. He was renowned widely as a wrestler. Gladiators -had come from far and near, and at town meetings and barn raisings, -wrestled with little Dick Bond. Where a hundred tried not one succeeded. - -He had not lost a “fall” for four years. His skill had given birth to a -half proverb, and when somebody said he would do something, and somebody -else doubted it, the latter would observe with laughing scorn: “Yes; -you'll do it when somebody throws Dick Bond.” - -Such was the fell repute of this invincible little man that when his -shrill, light voice made the inquiry chronicled, a silence fell on the -crowd and no one answered. - -“Who's goin' to fight?” asked Dick Bond more pointedly. - -“I'm goin' to fight Fan Brown,” said Ed. - -There was a load of ferocity in the way he said it, which showed that -Ed, himself, had a latent hunger for battle. - -“I guess I'll go 'long and see it,” said Dick Bond pipingly. - -“How do you want to fight?” asked Ed of Fan Brown when each had buttoned -up his coat tight to the chin. “Stand up, or rough and tumble?” - -“Rough and tumble,” said Fan Brown savagely. - -“All right!” - -“Now, boys,” said Dick Bond when all was ready, “I'll give the word and -then you're goin' to fight until one of you says 'enough.' And remember! -there's no bitin' no gougin', no scratchin'.” - -“Bitin' goes?” declared Fan Brown, in a fashion of savage interrogatory. - -“Bitin' don't go!” replied the lean little referee, “and if you offer to -bite or gouge, Fan Brown, I'll break your neck. You'll never go back to -Hinckley short of being carried in a blanket.” - -[Illustration: 0353] - -The battle was brief and bloody. It didn't last ten minutes. When it was -over, Ed Church, bleeding, but victorious, walked back to the sheds to -get Grey Eagle. Fan Brown was unable to rise from the snow without help. -His face was beaten badly, and he was a thoroughly whipped person. Dick -Bond expressed great satisfaction, and in his high voice said it was a -splendid fight. - -“But, Brown,” said Dick Bond to the beaten one, “I can't see how you got -it into your head you could lick Ed Church. Why, man! he was all over -you like a panther.” - -The news of the fight ran like wildfire. Everybody knew of it before an -hour passed. It was a source of general satisfaction that Ed Church had -whipped Fan Brown, the Hinckley bully, yet no one failed to stamp the -whole proceeding as disgraceful; that is, among the older men at least. - -Lide, however, when she heard of the valour of her lover felt a great -tenderness for him, and was never kinder than when they drove Grey Eagle -back from the Block schoolhouse spelling-bee that crisp winter night. - - - - -V--JIM LEE INTERFERES - -MOTHER,” sobbed Lide, as she threw herself down on the chintz lounge -without pausing to take off her hat or cape, “father has just told Ed -never to come to the house nor speak to me again.” - -Jim Lee and Aunt Ann got home before the lovers. The news of the broil -overtook them, however. Jim Lee declared it a scandal and a scorn. - -“Now you see,” he said to Aunt Ann, “what sort of ruffian the Church boy -is!” - -“Well, I'm glad he whipped that miserable Fan Brown,” said Aunt Ann. -“He's done nothin' for ten years but come over here to Stowe Township -and raise a fuss. I'm glad somebody's at last spunked up and thrashed -him. I'd done it years ago if I had been a man.” - -“Aunt Ann Lee!” said Jim Lee, hitting the Morgan colt a blow with the -whip which set that sprightly animal almost astride the thills--“Aunt -Ann, do you tell me you approve of Ed Church lickin' Fan Brown?” - -“Yes, I do,” retorted Aunt Ann, stoutly, “and so will Lide. If you -imagine, father, a woman finds fault with a man because he'll fight -other men you don't know the sex.” - -Jim Lee moaned. Absolutely! for the first time in his life Aunt Ann had -shocked him. Not another word was spoken by Jim Lee all the way home. - -Aunt Ann went into the house when they arrived, while Jim Lee remained -to put up the Morgan colt. He was busy in the barn when Ed and Lide -drove into the yard. - -“Father came up to Ed,” sobbed Lide, as she lay on the lounge, “and -called him a brawler and a drunkard, and said he'd got to keep away from -me.” - -“What did Ed say?” asked Aunt Ann, as she sat down by her daughter and -began, with kind hands, to take off her hat and cape. Every touch was -full of motherly love and tenderness. - -“Oh! Ed didn't say much,” said Lide, giving way to long-drawn sighs; a -fashion of dead swell following the storm of sobs. “He said he'd marry -me whether father was willing or not. Then he drove away.” - -Aunt Ann smiled. - -“I guess Ed Church is pretty high strung,” said Aunt Ann, “but that -won't hurt him any.” - -Jim Lee came in at that moment, looking a bit sheepish and guilty; but -over it all an atmosphere of victory. - -“That Church boy will stay away now, I guess!” said Jim Lee, as he got -the bootjack and began pulling off his boots. - -“Jim Lee, you're an awful fool!” observed Aunt Ann with the air of -a sibyl settling all things. “You're the biggest numbskull in Stowe -Township!” - -“Why?” asked Jim Lee. - -He was disturbed because Aunt Ann addressed him by his full name. -Experience had taught him that defeat ever followed hard on the heels of -his full name, when Aunt Ann made use of it. - -“Never mind why!” said Aunt Ann. - -And not another word could Jim Lee get from her. - - - - -VI--THEY DECORATE - -It was a month after the spelling-school. Stowe Township was decorating -the Church for Christmas. For time out of mind Stowe Township had had a -Christmas tree at the Church, and everybody, rich or poor, high or low, -young or old, great or small, got a present if it were nothing but a -gauze stocking full of painted popcorn. - -Aunt Ann, as usual, was at the head of the decorating committee. -The Church was full of long strings of evergreen, which Aunt Ann's -satellites were festooning about the walls, and to that end there was -much climbing of step-ladders, much standing on tip-toe, much pounding -of thumbs with caitiff tack-hammers, vilely wielded by girlish hands. -Occasionally some fair step-ladder maid gave the public a glimpse of a -well-filled woollen stocking as she went up and down, or stood on her -toes on the top step. At this, the young men present always blushed, -while the maidens tittered. Most people don't know it, but the male of -our species is more modest, more easily embarrassed, than the female. - -The Christmas tree had just arrived. It had been contributed by “Square” - Chanler. The tree was a noble hemlock; thick and feathery of bough, -perfect of general outline. Old Curl, the Rip Van Winkle of Stowe, had -cut it down and hauled it to the church on “Square” Chanler's bob-sleds. -All the smallfry of the Corners had gone with Old Curl after the -Christmas tree, and were faithful to him to the last. Every one of them -was clamorously forward in unloading the tree and getting it into the -Church. - -Then it was taken charge of by Aunt Ann, who put the smallfry to flight. -They were to be beneficiaries of the tree, and it was held that their -joy would be enhanced if they were not allowed to remain while the tree -was decorated, and were debarred all sight thereof until Christmas Eve, -when the presents would be cut from the boughs and bestowed upon their -owners. - -One little boy had a cold, and Aunt Ann let him remain in the Church. -This little boy perched himself in a window where his fellows outside -might see and envy him. There was a three-cornered hole in the window -pane near him, and the little boy was wont every few moments to place -his mouth to this crevice and say to the boys outside: - -“My! but you ought to see what Aunt Ann's tyin' on the tree now!” - -“What is it?” would chorus the outside boys. - -“Can't tell you!” - -The boy with the cold became the most unpopular child in Stowe Township, -and several of his fellows outside in their agony threatened him with -personal violence. - -“I'll lick you when I ketch you!” shouted children in the rabble rout to -the lucky child with the cold. - -“I don't care!” said the child inside, “you just ought to see the tree -now!” - -Lide Lee was aiding the others to festoon the church. Under the maternal -direction she was fitting tawdry little wax candles among the branches -of the Christmas tree, and tying on Barlow knives for all the little -boys, and “Housewives” for all the little girls. - -Lide had not seen Ed save once since the spelling-school, and then she -met him in the village drug-store by chance. But they wrote to each -other, and some progress in this way had been made toward an elopement -which was scheduled for the coming Spring. Aunt Ann in the depths of her -sagacity, suspected the arrangement, but it gave her no alarm. As -for Jim Lee, so fatuous was he that he believed he had ended all ties -between his daughter and Ed Church. - -While decorations were in progress in the church, Jim Lee suddenly drove -up. - -“Aunt Ann,” said Jim Lee, after pausing to admire the garish display, -“Aunt Ann, I've just got a line from Ludlow, and there's goin' to be a -special meetin' of the board of directors of our Ice Company, and I've -got to mosey into the city.” - -Jim Lee had an air of importance. He liked to appear before Aunt Ann in -the attitude of a much-sought-for man of business. - -“Pshaw! father, that's too bad!” said Aunt Ann. “Can't you be back by -Christmas Eve?” - -“No; Christmas Eve is only day after to-morrow, and the Ice Company -business ought to last a week, so Ludlow says.” - -“Well!” said Aunt Ann, “if you must go, you must. Ezra can do most of -the chores while you're away, and I'll have Old Curl come and do the -heaviest of 'em.” - -So Jim Lee kissed Aunt Ann, and then kissed Lide. This latter caress -was a trifle strained, for Jim Lee felt guilty when he looked at his -daughter; and Lide hadn't half forgiven him his actions toward her -idolised Ed. Since Ed had been forbidden her society, Lide loved him -much better than before. - -Thus started Jim Lee for the city on Ice Company matters, Tuesday -afternoon. Christmas Eve was the following Thursday. Jim Lee would -return on the Monday or Tuesday after. He was fated to find some -startling changes on his coming back. - - - - -VII--AUNT ANN PLOTS - -AUNT Ann found much to occupy her during the hours before Christmas -Eve. There were forty-eight of these hours. Aunt Ann needed them all. - -For one matter she made Ezra drive her over to the County Seat. She -wanted to see her brother, Will Pickering, who was Probate Judge of the -County. Aunt Ann also dispatched a letter by trusty messenger to her -sister, Mary Newton, who lived at Eastern Crossroads, some seven miles -from Stowe. As a last assignment, Aunt Ann told Ezra to go over and ask -Ed to come up to the house. - -“You'll be at the Christmas tree at the church tonight, won't you, Ed?” - asked Aunt Ann, after making some excuse for sending for him. She put -the question quite casually. - -“Well! be sure and come, Ed,” said Aunt Ann. “And more'n that, be sure -and dress yourself up. I think I'll need you to help me get things off -the high limbs.” - -Aunt Ann, as she led Lide to his side. “Now, Brother Crandall, if you -will perform the ceremony--the short form, please, and leave out the -word 'obey'--the distribution will be complete.” - -“But the licence!” gasped the Rev. Crandall. - -“There it is,” said Aunt Ann, “with my brother Will's seal and signature -as Probate Judge on it. You don't s'pose I had Ezra drive me clear to -the County Seat in the dead of winter for nothing?” - -The ceremony was over. Ed and Lide were “Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Church;” - and the entire population of Stowe, some in tears, all in earnest, were -kissing the bride and shaking hearty hands with the groom. That latter -young gentleman was dazed and happy, and looked both. - -“Now, Ed,” said Aunt Ann, after kissing him and then kissing Lide, “I'm -your mother; and I'll begin to tell you what to do. You put Lide in your -cutter and head Grey Eagle for Eastern Cross-roads. I sent Mary word you -were coming, and there's a trunk full of Lide's things gone over. Stay -a week. If you need collars, or shirts or anything, Mary will give you -some of John's. Stay a week and then come home. Father will be back from -the Ice Company Tuesday, and by Thursday of next week, when you return, -I'll have him fully convinced that all is ordered for the best, and -whatever is, is right. So kiss your mother again, children, and start. -I hear Grey Eagle's bells a-jingling, where Dick Bond's brought him to -the door.” - - -THE END - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sandburrs, by Alfred Henry Lewis - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SANDBURRS *** - -***** This file should be named 51981-0.txt or 51981-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/8/51981/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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