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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..948747d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65906 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65906) diff --git a/old/65906-0.txt b/old/65906-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 31e0b2d..0000000 --- a/old/65906-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6277 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of My Story That I Like Best, by Ray Long - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: My Story That I Like Best - -Authors: Edna Ferber - Irvin S. Cobb - Peter B. Kyne - James Oliver Curwood - -Editor: Ray Long - -Release Date: July 23, 2021 [eBook #65906] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images generously - made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY STORY THAT I LIKE -BEST *** - - -MY STORY THAT -I LIKE BEST - - - -_By_ - -EDNA FERBER - -IRVIN S. COBB - -PETER B. KYNE - -JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD - -MEREDITH NICHOLSON - -H. C. WITWER - - - -_With an Introduction_ - -_by_ - -RAY LONG - -_Editor of Cosmopolitan_ - -1925 - -NEW YORK - - - - -Copyright 1925, by -International Magazine Company -New York - -FIFTH EDITION -Printed November, 1925 - - - - -_THIS BOOK IS -DEDICATED -TO -THAT GREAT NUMBER OF -INTELLIGENT -AMERICANS -WHO ARE -CONSTANT READERS -OF -COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE -IT IS SENT TO YOU -WITH THE -CORDIAL GOOD WISHES -OF THE WRITERS -AND -THE EDITOR_ - - - - -CONTENTS - -Introduction By Ray Long -The Gay Old Dog By Edna Ferber -The Escape Of Mr. Trimm By Irvin S. Cobb -Point By Peter B. Kyne -Kazan By James Oliver Curwood -The Third Man By Meredith Nicholson -Money To Burns By H. C. Witwer - - -[Illustration: RAY LONG] - - - - -_INTRODUCTION by RAY LONG_ - - -In presenting this volume to you I am imagining that I am host for an -evening. I have invited six of the distinguished writers of our time and -asked them to relax over their coffee and in a mood of friendliness to -discuss their own work. They have permitted me to have you sit with me -and listen. - -An interesting group, surely. Miss Ferber, black-haired, dark-eyed, -vivid, animation itself; Irvin Cobb, tall, heavy-set, with, as his -daughter says, two chins in front and a spare in the rear; Peter B. -Kyne, about five foot six, with the face and figure of a well-fed -priest; Jim Curwood, tall, wiry, outdoorsy in every line and movement; -Nicholson, my idea of an ambassador to the Court of St. James; Harry -Witwer, with the poise and quickness that one learns in the ring. (He -did fight as a youngster; that's why he can make you see a prize ring -when he describes it.) - -Yes, an interesting group. Just as interesting to me today, after years -of friendship, as to you, who may meet them for the first time. The sort -of folks that wear well. The sort that haven't been spoiled by success. -For each of them realizes the simplicity of the recipe that won his -success. It can be told in few words: _Think better and work harder than -your competitor._ - -If you get to know these authors well, you will see that is all there -has been to it: they have thought better and worked harder than the -other fellow. And they are still doing it--thinking better and working -harder: that's why their success endures. That's why their names are -trade-marks for interesting, satisfying reading matter. As the -manufacturer who establishes a trade-mark must not let his product -deteriorate, lest he lose his customers, just so the successful writer -must keep his product to high standard lest he lose his readers. - -I have asked each of the six to tell you which of all the stories he has -written he likes best, but before they begin let me tell you what -inspired my request. - -I grow irritated every now and then when some self-appointed critic -arises to say that he has selected the best short stories for the year. -What he means, of course, is that he has selected the stories which _in -his opinion_ are best. More often than not, his opinion is worthless; it -may even be harmful. For if those studying for a career in writing -accept his views, they may be misled in what really constitutes the -story of distinction. - -In this discussion there will be no effort to say that these stories -excel in any year. What they represent is the selection by each of six -authors of his own story which he likes best of all he has written. And -inasmuch as each of these writers has been years at his trade, this -forms a collection not only interesting to you and myself, but -informative and valuable to the student of writing. - -Distinction in writing is determined by one test: endurance in public -favor. Not the favor of any one or two persons, but of the great mass of -readers. - -A critic here and there may--and often does--select some writer of -freakish material and call him a genius, but that sort of genius is -short-lived. - -Freakish writing never lasts. Individual manner of telling a story, -yes--that is essential to distinction. But individuality that endures -results from personality that pleases. - -No matter how much it may interest you to see a freak in a side-show, -you would not want one as a lifelong friend. No matter how much it may -interest you to see a piece of freakish writing, you would not keep it -handy on your library shelves or table. As a curiosity, possibly; as a -companion, never. - -You will want lifelong friendship with the stories of the six writers -here. They are real writing by real writers. And I am proud of the -privilege of introducing you thus informally to these six writers, just -as I am proud of the fact that they are such vital factors in the -success of Cosmopolitan Magazine under my editorship. I think I may -boast that no editor ever brought together a more distinguished group. -But enough of myself and my views. Let's listen to my guests. - - - - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration: EDNA FERBER] - - - - -_FOREWORD_ - - -_Most writers lie about the way in which they came to write this or that -story. I know I do. Perhaps, though, this act can't quite be classified -as lying. It is not deliberate falsifying. Usually we roll a -retrospective eye while weaving a fantastic confession that we actually -believe to be true. It is much as when a girl says to her sweetheart, -"When did you begin to love me?" and he replies, "Oh, it was the very -first time I saw you, when----" etc. Which probably isn't true at all. -But he thinks it is, and she wants to think it is. And that makes it -almost true._ - -_It is almost impossible to tell just how a story was born. The process -is such an intricate, painful, and complicated one. Often the idea that -makes up a story is only a nucleus. The finished story may represent an -accumulation of years. It was so in the case of the short story entitled -"The Gay Old Dog."_ - -_I like "The Gay Old Dog" better than any other short story I've written -(though I've a weakness for "Old Man Minick") because it is a human -story without being a sentimental one; because it presents a picture of -everyday American family life; because its characters are of the type -known as commonplace, and I find the commonplace infinitely more -romantic and fascinating than the bizarre, the spectacular, the rich, or -the poor; it is a story about a man's life, and I like to write about -men; because it is a steadily progressive thing; because its ending is -inevitable._ - -_It seems to me that I first thought of this character as short-story -material (and my short stories are almost invariably founded on -character, rather than on plot or situation) when I read in a Chicago -newspaper that the old Windsor Hotel, a landmark, was to be torn down. -The newspaper carried what is known as a feature story about this. The -article told of a rather sporty old Chicago bachelor who had lived at -this hotel for years. Its red plush interior represented home for him. -Now he was to be turned out of his hotel refuge. The papers called him -The Waif of the Loop. That part of Chicago's downtown which is encircled -by the elevated tracks is known as the Loop. I thought, idly, that here -was short-story material; the story of this middle-aged, well-to-do -rounder whose only home was a hotel. Why had he lived there all these -years? Was he happy? Why hadn't he married? I put it down in my -note-book (yes, we have them)--The Waif of the Loop. Later I discarded -that title as being too cumbersome and too difficult to grasp. -Non-Chicagoans wouldn't know what the Loop meant._ - -_So there it was in my note-book. A year or two went by. In all I think -that story must have lain in my mind for five years before I actually -wrote it. That usually is the way with a short story that is rich, deep, -and true. The maturing process is slow. It ripens in the mind. In such -cases the actual mechanical matter of writing is a brief business. It -plumps into the hand like a juicy peach that has hung, all golden and -luscious, on the tree in the sun._ - -_From time to time I found myself setting down odd fragments related -vaguely to this character. I noticed these overfed, gay-dog men of -middle age whom one sees in restaurants, at the theater, accompanied, -usually, by a woman younger than they--a hard, artificial expensively -gowned woman who wears a diamond bracelet so glittering that you -scarcely notice the absence of ornament on the third finger of the left -hand. Bits of characterization went into the note-book . . . "The kind -of man who knows head waiters by name . . . the kind of man who insists -on mixing his own salad dressing . . . he was always present on first -nights, third row, aisle, right." I watched them. They were lonely, -ponderous, pathetic, generous, wistful, drifting._ - -_Why hadn't he married? Why hadn't he married? It's always interesting -to know why people have missed such an almost universal experience as -marriage. Well, he had had duties, responsibilities. Um-m-m--a mother, -perhaps, and sisters. Unmarried sisters to support. The thing to do then -was to ferret out some business that began to decline in about 1896 and -that kept going steadily downhill. A business of the sort to pinch Jo's -household and make the upkeep of two families impossible for him. It -must, too, be a business that would boom suddenly, because of the War, -when Jo was a middle-aged man. I heard of a man made suddenly rich in -1914 when there came a world-wide demand for leather--leather for -harnesses, straps, men's wrist watches. Slowly, bit by bit, the story -began to set--to solidify--to take shape._ - -_Finally, that happened which always reassures me and makes me happy and -confident. The last paragraph of the story came to me, complete. I set -down that last paragraph, in lead pencil, before the first line of the -story was written. That ending literally wrote itself. I had no power -over it. People have said to me: "Why didn't you make Emily a widow when -they met after years of separation? Then they could have married."_ - -_The thing simply hadn't written itself that way. It was unchangeable. -The end of the story and the beginning both were by now inevitable. I -knew then that no matter what happened in the middle, that story would -be--perhaps not a pleasant story, nor a happy one, though it might -contain humor--but a story honest, truthful, courageous and human._ - - -[Illustration] - - -_The_ GAY OLD DOG[1] - -By Edna Ferber - - -Those of you who have dwelt--or even lingered--in Chicago, Illinois -(this is not a humorous story), are familiar with the region known as -the Loop. For those others of you to whom Chicago is a transfer point -between New York and San Francisco there is presented this brief -explanation: - -The Loop is a clamorous, smoke-infested district embraced by the iron -arms of the elevated tracks. In a city boasting fewer millions, it would -be known familiarly as downtown. From Congress to Lake Street, from -Wabash almost to the river, those thunderous tracks make a complete -circle, or loop. Within it lie the retail shops, the commercial hotels, -the theaters, the restaurants. It is the Fifth Avenue (diluted) and the -Broadway (deleted) of Chicago. And he who frequents it by night in -search of amusement and cheer is known, vulgarly, as a Loop-hound. - -Jo Hertz was a Loop-hound. On the occasion of those sparse first nights -granted the metropolis of the Middle West he was always present, third -row, aisle, left. When a new Loop cafĂ© was opened Jo's table always -commanded an unobstructed view of anything worth viewing. On entering he -was wont to say, "Hello, Gus," with careless cordiality to the head -waiter, the while his eye roved expertly from table to table as he -removed his gloves. He ordered things under glass, so that his table, at -midnight or thereabouts, resembled a hotbed that favors the bell system. -The waiters fought for him. He was the kind of man who mixes his own -salad dressing. He liked to call for a bowl, some cracked ice, lemon, -garlic, paprika, salt, pepper, vinegar, and oil and make a rite of it. -People at near-by tables would lay down their knives and forks to watch, -fascinated. The secret of it seemed to lie in using all the oil in sight -and calling for more. - -That was Jo--a plump and lonely bachelor of fifty. A plethoric, -roving-eyed and kindly man, clutching vainly at the garments of a youth -that had long slipped past him. Jo Hertz, in one of those pinch-waist -belted suits and a trench coat and a little green hat, walking up -Michigan Avenue of a bright winter's afternoon, trying to take the curb -with a jaunty youthfulness against which every one of his fat-incased -muscles rebelled, was a sight for mirth or pity, depending on one's -vision. - -The gay-dog business was a late phase in the life of Jo Hertz. He had -been a quite different sort of canine. The staid and harassed brother of -three unwed and selfish sisters is an under dog. The tale of how Jo -Hertz came to be a Loop-hound should not be compressed within the limits -of a short story. It should be told as are the photoplays, with frequent -throwbacks and many cut-ins. To condense twenty-three years of a man's -life into some five or six thousand words requires a verbal economy -amounting to parsimony. - -At twenty-seven Jo had been the dutiful, hard-working son (in the -wholesale harness business) of a widowed and gummidging mother, who -called him Joey. If you had looked close you would have seen that now -and then a double wrinkle would appear between Jo's eyes--a wrinkle that -had no business there at twenty-seven. Then Jo's mother died, leaving -him handicapped by a death-bed promise, the three sisters and a -three-story-and-basement house on Calumet Avenue. Jo's wrinkle became a -fixture. - -Death-bed promises should be broken as lightly as they are seriously -made. The dead have no right to lay their clammy fingers upon the -living. - -"Joey," she had said, in her high, thin voice, "take care of the girls." - -"I will, Ma," Jo had choked. - -"Joey," and the voice was weaker, "promise me you won't marry till the -girls are all provided for." Then as Joe had hesitated, appalled: "Joey, -it's my dying wish. Promise!" "I promise, Ma," he had said. - -Whereupon his mother had died, comfortably, leaving him with a -completely ruined life. - -They were not bad-looking girls, and they had a certain style, too. That -is, Stell and Eva had. Carrie, the middle one, taught school over on the -West Side. In those days it took her almost two hours each way. She said -the kind of costume she required should have been corrugated steel. But -all three knew what was being worn, and they wore it--or fairly faithful -copies of it. Eva, the housekeeping sister, had a needle knack. She -could skim the State Street windows and come away with a mental -photograph of every separate tuck, hem, yoke, and ribbon. Heads of -departments showed her the things they kept in drawers, and she went -home and reproduced them with the aid of a two-dollar-a-day seamstress. -Stell, the youngest, was the beauty. They called her Babe. She wasn't -really a beauty, but someone had once told her that she looked like -Janice Meredith (it was when that work of fiction was at the height of -its popularity). For years afterward, whenever she went to parties, she -affected a single, fat curl over her right shoulder, with a rose stuck -through it. - -Twenty-three years ago one's sisters did not strain at the household -leash, nor crave a career. Carrie taught school, and hated it. Eva kept -house expertly and complainingly. Babe's profession was being the family -beauty, and it took all her spare time. Eva always let her sleep until -ten. - -This was Jo's household, and he was the nominal head of it. But it was -an empty title. The three women dominated his life. They weren't -consciously selfish. If you had called them cruel they would have put -you down as mad. When you are the lone brother of three sisters, it -means that you must constantly be calling for, escorting, or dropping -one of them somewhere. Most men of Jo's age were standing before their -mirror of a Saturday night, whistling blithely and abstractedly while -they discarded a blue polka-dot for a maroon tie, whipped off the maroon -for a shot-silk, and at the last moment decided against a shot-silk, in -favor of a plain black-and-white, because she had once said she -preferred quiet ties. Jo, when he should have been preening his feathers -for conquest, was saying: - -"Well, my God, I _am_ hurrying! Give a man time, can't you? I just got -home. You girls have been laying around the house all day. No wonder -you're ready." - -He took a certain pride in seeing his sisters well dressed, at a time -when he should have been reveling in fancy waistcoats and brilliant-hued -socks, according to the style of that day, and the inalienable right of -any unwed male under thirty, in any day. On those rare occasions when -his business necessitated an out-of-town trip, he would spend half a day -floundering about the shops selecting handkerchiefs, or stockings, or -feathers, or fans, or gloves for the girls. They always turned out to be -the wrong kind, judging by their reception. - -From Carrie, "What in the world do I want of a fan!" - -"I thought you didn't have one," Jo would say. - -"I haven't. I never go to dances." - -Jo would pass a futile hand over the top of his head, as was his way -when disturbed. "I just thought you'd like one. I thought every girl -liked a fan. Just," feebly, "just to--to have." - -"Oh, for pity's sake!" - -And from Eva or Babe, "I've _got_ silk stockings, Jo." Or, "You brought -me handkerchiefs the last time." - -There was something selfish in his giving, as there always is in any -gift freely and joyfully made. They never suspected the exquisite -pleasure it gave him to select these things; these fine, soft, silken -things. There were many things about this slow-going, amiable brother of -theirs that they never suspected. If you had told them he was a dreamer -of dreams, for example, they would have been amused. Sometimes, -dead-tired by nine o'clock, after a hard day downtown, he would doze -over the evening paper. At intervals he would wake, red-eyed, to a -snatch of conversation such as, "Yes, but if you get a blue you can wear -it anywhere. It's dressy, and at the same time it's quiet, too." Eva, -the expert, wrestling with Carrie over the problem of the new spring -dress. They never guessed that the commonplace man in the frayed old -smoking-jacket had banished them all from the room long ago; had -banished himself, for that matter. In his place was a tall, debonair, -and rather dangerously handsome man to whom six o'clock spelled evening -clothes. The kind of man who can lean up against a mantel, or propose a -toast, or give an order to a man-servant, or whisper a gallant speech in -a lady's ear with equal ease. The shabby old house on Calumet Avenue was -transformed into a brocaded and chandeliered rendezvous for the -brilliance of the city. Beauty was here, and wit. But none so beautiful -and witty as She. Mrs.--er--Jo Hertz. There was wine, of course; but no -vulgar display. There was music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter. And -he the gracious, tactful host, king of his own domain---- - -"Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore, go to bed!" - -"Why--did I fall asleep?" - -"You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A person would think -you were fifty instead of thirty." - -And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, gray, commonplace brother of three -well-meaning sisters. - -Babe used to say petulantly: "Jo, why don't you ever bring home any of -your men friends? A girl might as well not have any brother, all the -good you do." - -Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. But a man who has -been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow, of comradeship -with men. He acquires, too, a knowledge of women, and a distaste for -them, equaled only, perhaps, by that of an elevator-starter in a -department store. - -Which brings us to one Sunday in May. Jo came home from a late Sunday -afternoon walk to find company for supper. Carrie often had in one of -her school-teacher friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or -even Eva a staid guest of the old-girl type. There was always a Sunday -night supper of potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee, and perhaps a -fresh cake. Jo rather enjoyed it, being a hospitable soul. But he -regarded the guests with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were -just so many petticoats, timid of the night streets and requiring escort -home. If you had suggested to him that some of his sisters' popularity -was due to his own presence, or if you had hinted that the more -kittenish of these visitors were probably making eyes at him, he would -have stared in amazement and unbelief. - -This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie's friends. - -"Emily," said Carrie, "this is my brother, Jo." - -Jo had learned what to expect in Carrie's friends. Drab-looking women in -the late thirties, whose facial lines all slanted downward. - -"Happy to meet you," said Jo, and looked down at a different sort -altogether. A most surprisingly different sort, for one of Carrie's -friends. This Emily person was very small, and fluffy, and blue-eyed, -and sort of--well, crinkly-looking. You know. The corners of her mouth -when she smiled, and her eyes when she looked up at you, and her hair, -which was brown, but had the miraculous effect, somehow, of being -golden. - -Jo shook hands with her. Her hand was incredibly small, and soft, so -that you were afraid of crushing it, until you discovered she had a firm -little grip all her own. It surprised and amused you, that grip, as does -a baby's unexpected clutch on your patronizing forefinger. As Jo felt it -in his own big clasp, the strangest thing happened to him. Something -inside Jo Hertz stopped working for a moment, then lurched sickeningly, -then thumped like mad. It was his heart. He stood staring down at her, -and she up at him, until the others laughed. Then their hands fell -apart, lingeringly. - -"Are you a school-teacher, Emily?" he said. - -"Kindergarten. It's my first year. And don't call me Emily, please." - -"Why not? It's your name. I think it's the prettiest name in the world." -Which he hadn't meant to say at all. In fact, he was perfectly aghast to -find himself saying it. But he meant it. - -At supper he passed her things, and stared, until everybody laughed -again, and Eva said acidly, "Why don't you feed her?" - -It wasn't that Emily had an air of helplessness. She just made you feel -you wanted her to be helpless, so that you could help her. - -Jo took her home, and from that Sunday night he began to strain at the -leash. He took his sisters out, dutifully, but he would suggest, with a -carelessness that deceived no one, "Don't you want one of your girl -friends to come along? That little What's-her-name--Emily, or something. -So long's I've got three of you, I might as well have a full squad." - -For a long time he didn't know what was the matter with him. He only -knew he was miserable, and yet happy. Sometimes his heart seemed to ache -with an actual physical ache. He realized that he wanted to do things -for Emily. He wanted to buy things for Emily--useless, pretty, expensive -things that he couldn't afford. He wanted to buy everything that Emily -needed, and everything that Emily desired. He wanted to marry Emily. -That was it. He discovered that one day, with a shock, in the midst of a -transaction in the harness business. He stared at the man with whom he -was dealing until that startled person grew uncomfortable. - -"What's the matter, Hertz?" - -"Matter?" - -"You look as if you'd seen a ghost or found a gold mine. I don't know -which." - -"Gold mine," said Jo. And then, "No. Ghost." - -For he remembered that high, thin voice, and his promise. And the -harness business was slithering downhill with dreadful rapidity, as the -automobile business began its amazing climb. Jo tried to stop it. But he -was not that kind of business man. It never occurred to him to jump out -of the down-going vehicle and catch the up-going one. He stayed on, -vainly applying brakes that refused to work. - -"You know, Emily, I couldn't support two households now. Not the way -things are. But if you'll wait. If you'll only wait. The girls -might--that is, Babe and Carrie----" - -She was a sensible little thing, Emily. "Of course I'll wait. But we -mustn't just sit back and let the years go by. We've got to help." - -She went about it as if she were already a little match-making matron. -She corralled all the men she had ever known and introduced them to -Babe, Carrie, and Eva separately, in pairs, and _en masse._ She arranged -parties at which Babe could display the curl. She got up picnics. She -stayed home while Jo took the three about. When she was present she -tried to look as plain and obscure as possible, so that the sisters -should show up to advantage. She schemed, and planned, and contrived, -and hoped; and smiled into Jo's despairing eyes. - -And three years went by. Three precious years. Carrie still taught -school, and hated it. Eva kept house, more and more complainingly as -prices advanced and allowance retreated. Stell was still Babe, the -family beauty; but even she knew that the time was past for curls. -Emily's hair, somehow, lost its glint and began to look just plain -brown. Her crinkliness began to iron out. - -"Now, look here!" Jo argued, desperately, one flight. "We could be -happy, anyway. There's plenty of room at the house. Lots of people begin -that way. Of course, I couldn't give you all I'd like to, at first. But -maybe, after a while----" - -No dreams of salons, and brocade, and velvet-footed servitors, and satin -damask now. Just two rooms, all their own, all alone, and Emily to work -for. That was his dream. But it seemed less possible than that other -absurd one had been. - -You know that Emily was as practical a little thing as she looked -fluffy. She knew women. Especially did she know Eva, and Carrie, and -Babe. She tried to imagine herself taking the household affairs and the -housekeeping pocket-book out of Eva's expert hands. Eva had once -displayed to her a sheaf of aigrettes she had bought with what she saved -out of the housekeeping money. So then she tried to picture herself -allowing the reins of Jo's house to remain in Eva's hands. And -everything feminine and normal in her rebelled. Emily knew she'd want to -put away her own freshly laundered linen, and smooth it, and pat it. She -was that kind of woman. She knew she'd want to do her own delightful -haggling with butcher and vegetable peddler. She knew she'd want to muss -Jo's hair, and sit on his knee, and even quarrel with him, if necessary, -without the awareness of three ever-present pairs of maiden eyes and -ears. - -"No! No! We'd only be miserable. I know. Even if they didn't object. And -they would, Jo. Wouldn't they?" - -His silence was miserable assent. Then, "But you do love me, don't you, -Emily?" - -"I do, Jo. I love you--and love you--and love you. But, Jo, I--can't." - -"I know it, dear. I knew it all the time, really. I just thought, maybe, -somehow----" - -The two sat staring for a moment into space, their hands clasped. Then -they both shut their eyes, with a little shudder, as though what they -saw was terrible to look upon. Emily's hand, the tiny hand that was so -unexpectedly firm, tightened its hold on his, and his crushed the absurd -fingers until she winced with pain. - -That was the beginning of the end, and they knew it. - -Emily wasn't the kind of girl who would be left to pine. There are too -many Jo's in the world whose hearts are prone to lurch and then thump at -the feel of a soft, fluttering, incredibly small hand in their grip. One -year later Emily was married to a young man whose father owned a large, -pie-shaped slice of the prosperous state of Michigan. - -That being safely accomplished, there was something grimly humorous in -the trend taken by affairs in the old house on Calumet. For Eva married. -Of all people, Eva! Married well, too, though he was a great deal older -than she. She went off in a hat she had copied from a French model at -Field's, and a suit she had contrived with a home dressmaker, aided by -pressing on the part of the little tailor in the basement over on -Thirty-first Street. It was the last of that, though. The next time they -saw her, she had on a hat that even she would have despaired of copying, -and a suit that sort of melted into your gaze. She moved to the North -Side (trust Eva for that), and Babe assumed the management of the -household on Calumet Avenue. It was rather a pinched little household -now, for the harness business shrank and shrank. - -"I don't see how you can expect me to keep house decently on this!" Babe -would say contemptuously. Babe's nose, always a little inclined to -sharpness, had whittled down to a point of late. "If you knew what Ben -gives Eva." - -"It's the best I can do, Sis. Business is something rotten." - -"Ben says if you had the least bit of----" Ben was Eva's husband, and -quotable, as are all successful men. - -"I don't care what Ben says," shouted Jo, goaded into rage. "I'm sick of -your everlasting Ben. Go and get a Ben of your own, why don't you, if -you're so stuck on the way he does things." - -And Babe did. She made a last desperate drive, aided by Eva, and she -captured a rather surprised young man in the brokerage way, who had made -up his mind not to marry for years and years. Eva wanted to give her -wedding things, but at that Jo broke into sudden rebellion. - -"No, sir! No Ben is going to buy my sister's wedding clothes, -understand? I guess I'm not broke--yet. I'll furnish the money for her -things, and there'll be enough of them, too." - -Babe had as useless a trousseau, and as filled with extravagant -pink-and-blue and lacy and frilly things as any daughter of doting -parents. Jo seemed to find a grim pleasure in providing them. But it -left him pretty well pinched. After Babe's marriage (she insisted that -they call her Estelle now) Jo sold the house on Calumet. He and Carrie -took one of those little flats that were springing up, seemingly -overnight, all through Chicago's South Side. - -There was nothing domestic about Carrie. She had given up teaching two -years before, and had gone into Social Service work on the West Side. -She had what is known as a legal mind--hard, clear, orderly--and she -made a great success of it. Her dream was to live at the Settlement -House and give all her time to the work. Upon the little household she -bestowed a certain amount of grim, capable attention. It was the same -kind of attention she would have given a piece of machinery whose oiling -and running had been entrusted to her care. She hated it, and didn't -hesitate to say so. - -Jo took to prowling about department store basements, and household -goods sections. He was always sending home a bargain in a ham, or a sack -of potatoes, or fifty pounds of sugar, or a window clamp, or a new kind -of paring knife. He was forever doing odd little jobs that the janitor -should have done. It was the domestic in him claiming its own. - -Then, one night, Carrie came home with a dull glow in her leathery -cheeks, and her eyes alight with resolve. They had what she called a -plain talk. - -"Listen, Jo. They've offered me the job of first assistant resident -worker. And I'm going to take it. Take it! I know fifty other girls -who'd give their ears for it. I go in next month." - -They were at dinner. Jo looked up from his plate, dully. Then he glanced -around the little dining-room, with its ugly tan walls and its heavy, -dark furniture (the Calumet Avenue pieces fitted cumbersomely into the -five-room flat). - -"Away? Away from here, you mean--to live?" - -Carrie laid down her fork. "Well, really, Jo! After all that -explanation." - -"But to go over there to live! Why, that neighborhood's full of dirt, -and disease, and crime, and the Lord knows what all. I can't let you do -that, Carrie." - -Carrie's chin came up. She laughed a short little laugh. "Let me! That's -eighteenth-century talk, Jo. My life's my own to live. I'm going." - -And she went. - -Jo stayed on in the apartment until the lease was up. Then he sold what -furniture he could, stored or gave away the rest, and took a room on -Michigan Avenue in one of the old stone mansions whose decayed splendor -was being put to such purpose. - -Jo Hertz was his own master. Free to marry. Free to come and go. And he -found he didn't even think of marrying. He didn't even want to come or -go, particularly. A rather frumpy old bachelor, with thinning hair and a -thickening neck. Much has been written about the unwed, middle-aged -woman; her fussiness, her primness, her angularity of mind and body. In -the male that same fussiness develops, and a certain primness, too. But -he grows flabby where she grows lean. - -Every Thursday evening he took dinner at Eva's, and on Sunday noon at -Stell's. He tucked his napkin under his chin and openly enjoyed the -home-made soup and the well-cooked meats. After dinner he tried to talk -business with Eva's husband, or Stell's. His business talks were the -old-fashioned kind, beginning: - -"Well, now, looka here. Take, f'rinstance your rawhides and leathers." - -But Ben and George didn't want to "take, f'rinstance, your rawhides and -leathers." They wanted, when they took anything at all, to take golf or -politics or stocks. They were the modern type of business man who -prefers to leave his work out of his play. Business, with them, was a -profession--a finely graded and balanced thing, differing from Jo's -clumsy, downhill style as completely as does the method of a great -criminal detective differ from that of a village constable. They would -listen, restively, and say, "Uh-uh," at intervals, and at the first -chance they would sort of fade out of the room, with a meaning glance at -their wives. Eva had two children now. Girls. They treated Uncle Jo with -good-natured tolerance. Stell had no children. Uncle Jo degenerated, by -almost imperceptible degrees, from the position of honored guest, who is -served with white meat, to that of one who is content with a leg and one -of those obscure and bony sections which, after much turning with a -bewildered and investigating knife and fork, leave one baffled and -unsatisfied. - -Eva and Stell got together and decided that Jo ought to marry. - -"It isn't natural," Eva told him. "I never saw a man who took so little -interest in women." - -"Me!" protested Jo, almost shyly. "Women." - -"Yes. Of course. You act like a frightened schoolboy." - -So they had in for dinner certain friends and acquaintances of fitting -age. They spoke of them as "splendid girls." Between thirty-six and -forty. They talked awfully well, in a firm, clear way, about civics, and -classes, and politics, and economics, and boards. They rather terrified -Jo. He didn't understand much that they talked about, and he felt humbly -inferior, and yet a little resentful, as if something had passed him by. -He escorted them home, dutifully, though they told him not to bother, -and they evidently meant it. They seemed capable, not only of going home -quite unattended, but of delivering a pointed lecture to any highwayman -or brawler who might molest them. - -The following Thursday Eva would say, "How did you like her, Jo?" - -"Like who?" Jo would spar feebly. - -"Miss Matthews." - -"Who's she?" - -"Now, don't be funny, Jo. You know very well I mean the girl who was -here for dinner. The one who talked so well on the immigration -question." - -"Oh, her! Why, I liked her all right. Seems to be a smart woman." - -"Smart! She's a perfectly splendid girl." - -"Sure," Jo would agree cheerfully. - -"But didn't you like her?" - -"I can't say I did, Eve. And I can't say I didn't. She made me think a -lot of a teacher I had in the fifth reader. Name of Himes. As I recall -her, she must have been a fine woman. But I never thought of her as a -woman at all. She was just Teacher." - -"You make me tired," snapped Eva impatiently. "A man of your age. You -don't expect to marry a girl, do you? A child!" - -"I don't expect to marry anybody," Jo had answered. - -And that was the truth, lonely though he often was. - -The following spring Eva moved to Winnetka. Anyone who got the meaning -of the Loop knows the significance of a move to a North Shore suburb, -and a house. Eva's daughter, Ethel, was growing up, and her mother had -an eye on society. - -That did away with Jo's Thursday dinner. Then Stell's husband bought a -car. They went out into the country every Sunday. Stell said it was -getting so that maids objected to Sunday dinners, anyway. Besides, they -were unhealthy, old-fashioned things. They always meant to ask Jo to -come along, but by the time their friends were placed, and the lunch, -and the boxes, and sweaters, and George's camera, and everything, there -seemed to be no room for a man of Jo's bulk. So that eliminated the -Sunday dinners. - -"Just drop in any time during the week," Stell said, "for dinner. Except -Wednesday--that's our bridge night--and Saturday. And, of course, -Thursday. Cook is out that night. Don't wait for me to phone." - -And so Jo drifted into that sad-eyed, dyspeptic family made up of those -you see dining in second-rate restaurants, their paper propped up -against the bowl of oyster crackers, munching solemnly and with -indifference to the stare of the passer-by surveying them through the -brazen plate-glass window. - -And then came the War. The war that spelled death and destruction to -millions. The war that brought a fortune to Jo Hertz, and transformed -him, overnight, from a baggy-kneed old bachelor, whose business was a -failure, to a prosperous manufacturer whose only trouble was the -shortage in hides for the making of his product--leather! The armies of -Europe called for it. Harnesses! More harnesses! Straps! Millions of -straps. More! More! - -The musty old harness business over on Lake Street was magically changed -from a dust-covered, dead-alive concern to an orderly hive that hummed -and glittered with success. Orders poured in. Jo Hertz had inside -information on the War. He knew about troops and horses. He talked with -French and English and Italian buyers--noblemen, many of -them--commissioned by their countries to get American-made supplies. And -now, when he said to Ben and George "Take f'rinstance your rawhides and -leathers," they listened with respectful attention. - -And then began the gay-dog business in the life of Jo Hertz. He -developed into a Loop-hound, ever keen on the scent of fresh pleasure. -That side of Jo Hertz which had been repressed and crushed and ignored -began to bloom, unhealthily. At first he spent money on his rather -contemptuous nieces. He sent them gorgeous fans, and watch bracelets, -and velvet bags. He took two expensive rooms at a downtown hotel, and -there was something more tear-compelling than grotesque about the way he -gloated over the luxury of a separate ice-water tap in the bathroom. He -explained it. - -"Just turn it on. Ice-water! Any hour of the day or night." - -He bought a car. Naturally. A glittering affair; in color a bright blue, -with pale blue leather straps and a great deal of gold fittings, and -wire wheels. Eva said it was the kind of thing a soubrette would use, -rather than an elderly business man. You saw him driving about in it, -red-faced and rather awkward at the wheel. You saw him, too, in the -Pompeian room at the Congress Hotel of a Saturday afternoon when -doubtful and roving-eyed matrons in kolinsky capes are wont to -congregate to sip pale amber drinks. Actors grew to recognize the -semi-bald head and the shining, round, good-natured face looming out at -them from the dim well of the parquet, and sometimes, in a musical show, -they directed a quip at him, and he liked it. He could pick out the -critics as they came down the aisle, and even had a nodding acquaintance -with two of them. - -"Kelly, of the _Herald_," he would say carelessly. "Bean, of the _Trib._ -They're all afraid of him." - -So he frolicked, ponderously. In New York he might have been called a -Man About Town. - -And he was lonesome. He was very lonesome. So he searched about in his -mind and brought from the dim past the memory of the luxuriously -furnished establishment of which he used to dream in the evenings when -he dozed over his paper in the old house on Calumet. So he rented an -apartment, many-roomed and expensive, with a man-servant in charge, and -furnished it in styles and periods ranging through all the Louis's. The -living-room was mostly rose-color. It was like an unhealthy and bloated -boudoir. And yet there was nothing sybaritic or uncleanly in the sight -of this paunchy, middle-aged man sinking into the rosy-cushioned luxury -of his ridiculous home. It was a frank and naĂŻve indulgence of -long-starved senses, and there was in it a great resemblance to the -rolling-eyed ecstasy of a schoolboy smacking his lips over an all day -sucker. - -The War went on, and on, and on. And the money continued to roll in--a -flood of it. Then, one afternoon, Eva, in town on shopping bent, entered -a small, exclusive, and expensive shop on Michigan Avenue. Exclusive, -that is, in price. Eva's weakness, you may remember, was hats. She was -seeking a hat now. She described what she sought with a languid -conciseness, and stood looking about her after the saleswoman had -vanished in quest of it. The room was becomingly rose-illumined and -somewhat dim, so that some minutes had passed before she realized that a -man seated on a raspberry brocade settee not five feet away--a man with -a walking stick, and yellow gloves, and tan spats, and a check suit--was -her brother Jo. From him Eva's wild-eyed glance leaped to the woman who -was trying on hats before one of the many long mirrors. She was seated, -and a saleswoman was exclaiming discreetly at her elbow. - -Eva turned sharply and encountered her own saleswoman returning, -hat-laden. "Not today," she gasped. "I'm feeling ill. Suddenly." And -almost ran from the room. - -That evening she told Stell, relating her news in that telephone -pidgin-English devised by every family of married sisters as protection -against the neighbors and Central. Translated, it ran thus: - -"He looked straight at me. My dear, I thought I'd die! But at least he -had sense enough not to speak. She was one of those limp, willowy -creatures with the greediest eyes that she tried to keep softened to a -baby stare, and couldn't, she was so crazy to get her hands on those -hats. I saw it all in, one awful minute. You know the way I do. I -suppose some people would call her pretty. I don't. And her color! Well! -And the most expensive-looking hats. Aigrettes, and paradise, and -feathers. Not one of them under seventy-five. Isn't it disgusting! At -his age! Suppose Ethel had been with me!" - -The next time it was Stell who saw them. In a restaurant. She said it -spoiled her evening. And the third time it was Ethel. She was one of the -guests at a theater party given by Nicky Overton II. You know. The North -Shore Overtons. Lake Forest. They came in late, and occupied the entire -third row at the opening performance of "Believe Me!" And Ethel was -Nicky's partner. She was growing like a rose. When the lights went up -after the first act Ethel saw that her uncle Jo was seated just ahead of -her with what she afterward described as a blonde. Then her uncle had -turned around, and seeing her, had been surprised into a smile that -spread genially all over his plump and rubicund face. Then he had turned -to face forward again, quickly. - -"Who's the old bird?" Nicky had asked. Ethel had pretended not to hear, -so he had asked again. - -"My uncle," Ethel answered, and flushed all over her delicate face, and -down to her throat. Nicky had looked at the blonde, and his eyebrows had -gone up ever so slightly. - -It spoiled Ethel's evening. More than that, as she told her mother of it -later, weeping, she declared it had spoiled her life. - -Eva talked it over with her husband in that intimate, kimonoed hour that -precedes bedtime. She gesticulated heatedly with her hair brush. - -"It's disgusting, that's what it is. Perfectly disgusting. There's no -fool like an old fool. Imagine! A creature like that. At his time of -life." - -There exists a strange and loyal kinship among men. "Well, I don't -know," Ben said now, and even grinned a little. "I suppose a boy's got -to sow his wild oats sometime." - -"Don't be any more vulgar than you can help," Eva retorted. "And I think -you know, as well as I, what it means to have that Overton boy -interested in Ethel." - -"If he's interested in her," Ben blundered, "I guess the fact that -Ethel's uncle went to the theater with someone who wasn't Ethel's aunt -won't cause a shudder to run up and down his frail young frame, will -it?" - -"All right," Eva had retorted. "If you're not man enough to stop it, -I'll have to, that's all. I'm going up there with Stell this week." - -They did not notify Jo of their coming. Eva telephoned his apartment -when she knew he would be out, and asked his man if he expected his -master home to dinner that evening. The man had said yes. Eva arranged -to meet Stell in town. They would drive to Jo's apartment together, and -wait for him there. - -When she reached the city Eva found turmoil there. The first of the -American troops to be sent to France were leaving. Michigan Boulevard -was a billowing, surging mass: Flags, pennants, banners, crowds. All the -elements that make for demonstration. And over the whole--quiet. No -holiday crowd, this. A solid, determined mass of people waiting patient -hours to see the khaki-clads go by. Three years of indefatigable reading -had brought them to a clear knowledge of what these boys were going to. - -"Isn't it dreadful!" Stell gasped. - -"Nicky Overton's only nineteen, thank goodness." Their car was caught in -the jam. When they moved at all it was by inches. When at last they -reached Jo's apartment they were flushed, nervous, apprehensive. But he -had not yet come in. So they waited. - -No, they were not staying to dinner with their brother, they told the -relieved houseman. - -Jo's home has already been described to you. Stell and Eva, sunk in -rose-colored cushions, viewed it with disgust, and some mirth. They -rather avoided each other's eyes. - -"Carrie ought to be here," Eva said. They both smiled at the thought of -the austere Carrie in the midst of those rosy cushions, and hangings, -and lamps. Stell rose and began to walk about, restlessly. She picked up -a vase and laid it down; straightened a picture. Eva got up, too, and -wandered into the hall. She stood there a moment, listening. Then she -turned and passed into Jo's bedroom. And there you knew Jo for what he -was. - -This room was as bare as the other had been ornate. It was Jo, the -clean-minded and simple-hearted, in revolt against the cloying luxury -with which he had surrounded himself. The bedroom, of all rooms in any -house, reflects the personality of its occupant. True, the actual -furniture was paneled, cupid-surmounted, and ridiculous. It had been the -fruit of Jo's first orgy of the senses. But now it stood out in that -stark little room with an air as incongruous and ashamed as that of a -pink tarleton _danseuse_ who finds herself in a monk's cell. None of -those wall-pictures with which bachelor bedrooms are reputed to be hung. -No satin slippers. No scented notes. Two plain-backed military brushes -on the chiffonier (and he so nearly hairless!). A little orderly stack -of books on the table near the bed. Eva fingered their titles and gave a -little gasp. One of them was on gardening. - -"Well, of all things!" exclaimed Stell. A book on the War, by an -Englishman. A detective story of the lurid type that lulls us to sleep. -His shoes ranged in a careful row in the closet, with a shoe-tree in -every one of them. There was something speaking about them. They looked -so human. Eva shut the door on them, quickly. Some bottles on the -dresser. A jar of pomade. An ointment such as a man uses who is growing -bald and is panic-stricken too late. An insurance calendar on the wall. -Some rhubarb-and-soda mixture on the shelf in the bathroom, and a little -box of pepsin tablets. - -"Eats all kinds of things at all hours of the night," Eva said, and -wandered out into the rose-colored front room again with the air of one -who is chagrined at her failure to find what she has sought. Stell -followed her furtively. - -"Where do you suppose he can be?" she demanded. "It's"--she glanced at -her wrist--"why, it's after six!" - -And then there was a little dick. The two women sat up, tense. The door -opened. Jo came in. He blinked a little. The two women in the rosy room -stood up. - -"Why--Eve! Why, Babe! Well! Why didn't you let me know?" - -"We were just about to leave. We thought you weren't coming home." - -Jo came in, slowly. - -"I was in the jam on Michigan, watching the boys go by." He sat down, -heavily. The light from the window fell on him. And you saw that his -eyes were red. - -And you'll have to learn why. He had found himself one of the thousands -in the jam on Michigan Avenue, as he said. He had a place near the curb, -where his big frame shut off the view of the unfortunates behind him. He -waited with the placid interest of one who has subscribed to all the -funds and societies to which a prosperous, middle-aged business man is -called upon to subscribe in war time. Then, just as he was about to -leave, impatient at the delay, the crowd had cried, with a queer -dramatic, exultant note in its voice, "Here they come! Here come the -boys!" - -Just at that moment two little, futile, frenzied fists began to beat a -mad tattoo on Jo Hertz's broad back. Jo tried to turn in the crowd, all -indignant resentment. "Say, look here!" - -The little fists kept up their frantic beating and pushing. And a -voice--a choked, high little voice--cried: "Let me by! I can't see! You -man, you! You big fat man! My boy's going by--to war--and I can't see! -Let me by!" - -Jo scrooged around, still keeping his place. He looked down. And -upturned to him in agonized appeal was the face of little Emily. They -stared at each other for what seemed a long, long time. It was really -only the fraction of a second. Then Jo put one great arm firmly around -Emily's waist and swung her around in front of him. His great bulk -protected her. Emily was clinging to his hand. She was breathing -rapidly, as if she had been running. Her eyes were straining up the -street. - -"Why, Emily, how in the world----" - -"I ran away. Fred didn't want me to come. He said it would excite me too -much." - -"Fred?" - -"My husband. He made me promise to say good-by to Jo at home." - -"Jo?" - -"Jo's my boy. And he's going to war. So I ran away. I had to see him. I -had to see him go." - -She was dry-eyed. Her gaze was straining up the street. - -"Why, sure," said Jo. "Of course you want to see him." And then the -crowd gave a great roar. There came over Jo a feeling of weakness. He -was trembling. The boys went marching by. - -"There he is," Emily shrilled, above the din. "There he is! There he is! -There he----" And waved a futile little hand. It wasn't so much a wave -as a clutching. A clutching after something beyond her reach. - -"Which one? Which one, Emily?" - -"The handsome one. The handsome one. There!" Her voice quavered and -died. - -Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. "Point him out," he commanded. -"Show me." And the next instant: "Never mind. I see him." - -Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among the hundreds. Had -picked him as surely as his own father might have. It was Emily's boy. -He was marching by, rather stiffly. He was nineteen, and fun-loving, and -he had a girl, and he didn't particularly want to go to France and--to -go to France. But more than he had hated going, he had hated not to go. -So he marched by, looking straight ahead, his jaw set so that his chin -stuck out just a little. Emily's boy. - -Jo looked at him, and his face flushed purple. His eyes, the hard-boiled -eyes of a Loop-hound, took on the look of a sad old man. And suddenly he -was no longer Jo, the sport; old J. Hertz, the gay-dog. He was Jo Hertz, -thirty, in love with life, in love with Emily, and with the stinging -blood of young manhood coursing through his veins. - -Another minute and the boy had passed on up the broad street--the fine, -flag-bedecked street--just one of a hundred service-hats bobbing in -rhythmic motion like sandy waves lapping a shore and flowing on. - -Then he disappeared altogether. - -Emily was clinging to Jo. She was mumbling something, over and over. "I -can't. I can't. Don't ask me to. I can't let him go. Like that. I -can't." - -Jo said a queer thing. - -"Why, Emily! We wouldn't have him stay home, would we? We wouldn't want -him to do anything different, would we? Not our boy. I'm glad he -enlisted. I'm proud of him. So are you glad." - -Little by little he quieted her. He took her to the car that was -waiting, a worried chauffeur in charge. They said good-by, awkwardly. -Emily's face was a red, swollen mass. - -So it was that when Jo entered his own hallway half an hour later he -blinked, dazedly, and when the light from the window fell on him you saw -that his eyes were red. - -Eva was not one to beat about the bush. She sat forward in her chair, -clutching her bag rather nervously. - -"Now, look here, Jo. Stell and I are here for a reason. We're here to -tell you that this thing's got to stop." - -"Thing? Stop?" - -"You know very well what I mean. You saw me at the milliner's that day. -And night before last, Ethel. We're all disgusted. If you must go about -with people like that, please have some sense of decency." - -Something gathering in Jo's face should have warned her. But he was -slumped down in his chair in such a huddle, and he looked so old and fat -that she did not heed it. She went on. "You've got us to consider. Your -sisters. And your nieces. Not to speak of your own----" - -But he got to his feet then, shaking, and at what she saw in his face -even Eva faltered and stopped. It wasn't at all the face of a fat, -middle-aged sport. It was a face Jovian, terrible. - -"You!" he began, low-voiced, ominous. "You!" He raised a great fist -high. "You two murderers! You didn't consider me, twenty years ago. You -come to me with talk like that. Where's my boy! You killed him, you two, -twenty years ago. And now he belongs to somebody else. Where's my son -that should have gone marching by today?" He flung his arms out in a -great gesture of longing. The red veins stood out on his forehead. -"Where's my son! Answer me that, you two selfish, miserable women. -Where's my son!" Then, as they huddled together, frightened, wild-eyed: -"Out of my house! Out of my house! Before I hurt you!" - -They fled, terrified. The door banged behind them. - -Jo stood, shaking, in the center of the room. Then he reached for a -chair, gropingly, and sat down. He passed one moist, flabby hand over -his forehead and it came away wet. The telephone rang. He sat still. It -sounded far away and unimportant, like something forgotten. I think he -did not even hear it with his conscious ear. But it rang and rang -insistently. Jo liked to answer his telephone, when at home. - -"Hello!" He knew instantly the voice at the other end. - -"That you, Jo?" it said. - -"Yes." - -"How's my boy?" - -"I'm--all right." - -"Listen, Jo. The crowd's coming over tonight. I've fixed up a little -poker game for you. Just eight of us." - -"I can't come tonight, Gert." - -"Can't! Why not?" - -"I'm not feeling so good." - -"You just said you were all right." - -"I am all right. Just kind of tired." - -The voice took on a cooing note. "Is my Joey tired? Then he shall be all -comfy on the sofa, and he doesn't need to play if he don't want to. No, -sir." - -Jo stood staring at the black mouthpiece of the telephone. He was seeing -a procession go marching by. Boys, hundreds of boys, in khaki. - -"Hello! Hello!" The voice took on an anxious note. "Are you there?" - -"Yes," wearily. - -"Jo, there's something the matter. You're sick. I'm coming right over." - -"No!" - -"Why not? You sound as if you'd been sleeping. Look here----" - -"Leave me alone!" cried Jo, suddenly, and the receiver clacked onto the -hook. "Leave me alone. Leave me alone." Long after the connection had -been broken. - -He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes. Then he turned -and walked into the front room. All the light had gone out of it. Dusk -had come on. All the light had gone out of everything. The zest had gone -out of life. The game was over--the game he had been playing against -loneliness and disappointment. And he was just a tired old man. A -lonely, tired old man in a ridiculous, rose-colored room that had grown, -all of a sudden, drab. - - -[Footnote 1: _From Edna Ferber's Cheerful by Request. Copyright, 1918, -1922, by Doubleday, Page & Co. By permission of the publishers._] - - -[Illustration: IRVIN S. COBB] - - - - -_FOREWORD_ - - -_My favorite short story of all the short stories I have written is "The -Escape of Mr. Trimm." It was the first piece of avowed fiction I wrote. -It was written more than twelve years ago._ - -_At the time, I was on the city staff of the New York Evening World. I -was a reasonably busy person in those days. I did assignments, both -special and ordinary; I handled my share of the "re-write"--that is, the -building, inside the office, of news-stories based on details telephoned -in by "leg men" or outside workers; I covered most of the big criminal -trials that coincidentally took place; I wrote a page of alleged humor -for the color section of the Sunday World and for the McClure syndicate; -and every week I turned out a given number of shorter and also -supposedly humorous articles for the magazine page of the Evening -World._ - -_In the run of my contemporaneous duties I was detailed to report the -trial, in Federal Court, of a famous financier. This trial lasted -several weeks. What most deeply impressed me was the bearing of the -accused man. Although he had distinguished counsel, he practically -conducted his own defense. When the jurors came in with a verdict of -guilty and the judge sentenced him to a long term of imprisonment at -hard labor, he kept his nerve and his wits. I said to myself that this -man would never serve out his sentence; he was too smart for that; he -would find a way to beat the law, even though his appeals were denied. -And he did._ - -_On the concluding day of the trial I fell to wondering just what -possibly could defeat the will of such a man as this man was. At once a -notion jumped into my head and, then and there, sitting at the -reporters' table, I decided to write a story focusing about this central -idea._ - -_I had written fiction before--every reporter has--fiction masquerading -as the lighter side of the news. But I said to myself that this story -should be out-and-out fiction. Such small reputation as I had as a -special writer largely was founded on my efforts at humor. But I made up -my mind that this story should contain no humor at all._ - -_Not until six months had passed did I get my chance. In the following -summer I went on my annual vacation of two weeks. In the concluding two -days of that vacation I wrote the first draft of the yarn, and, back at -the shop, in odd moments, I wrote it over again, making, though, only a -few changes in the original text, and none at all in the sequence of -imaginary events._ - -_I sent the manuscript to Mr. George Horace Lorimer, Editor of the -Saturday Evening Post. He accepted it and invited me to submit other -manuscripts to him. But I had to wait another full year--until vacation -time came again--before there was opportunity for any more short-story -writing. Then I did two more stories. Mr. Lorimer bought them both, and -thereby I was encouraged to give up my newspaper job, with its guarantee -of a pay envelope every Saturday, for the less certain but highly -alluring rĂ´le of a free-lance contributor to weekly and monthly -periodicals._ - -_Maybe I like "The Escape of Mr. Trimm" best of all my stories because -it was this story which opened the door for me into magazine work. A -writer's estimate of his own output rarely agrees with the judgment of -his friends. But, after a period of consideration, after weighing this -against that, after trying to forget what some of the professional -reviewers have had to say about certain of my efforts, and striving -instead to remember only what more gentle critics, out of the goodness -of the heart, sometimes have told me, I still find myself committed to -the belief that the story which appears in this volume is--so far as my -prejudiced opinion goes--the best story I have ever written._ - - -[Illustration] - - - - -_The_ ESCAPE _of_ MR. TRIMM[2] - -By IRVIN S. COBB - - -Mr. Trimm, recently president of the late Thirteenth National Bank, was -taking a trip which was different in a number of ways from any he had -ever taken. To begin with, he was used to parlor cars and Pullmans and -even luxurious private cars when he went anywhere; whereas now he rode -with a most mixed company in a dusty, smelly day coach. In the second -place, his traveling companion was not such a one as Mr. Trimm would -have chosen had the choice been left to him, being a stupid-looking -German-American with a drooping, yellow mustache. And in the third -place, Mr. Trimm's plump white hands were folded in his lap, held in a -close and enforced companionship by a new and shiny pair of Bean's -Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs. Mr. Trimm was on his way to the -Federal penitentiary to serve twelve years at hard labor for breaking, -one way or another, about all the laws that are presumed to govern -national banks. - - * * * * * - -All the time Mr. Trimm was in the Tombs, fighting for a new trial, a -certain question had lain in his mind unasked and unanswered. Through -the seven months of his stay in the jail that question had been always -at the back part of his head, ticking away there like a little watch -that never needed winding. A dozen times a day it would pop into his -thoughts and then go away, only to come back again. - -When Copley was taken to the penitentiary--Copley being the cashier who -got off with a lighter sentence because the judge and jury held him to -be no more than a blind accomplice in the wrecking of the Thirteenth -National--Mr. Trimm read closely every line that the papers carried -about Copley's departure. But none of them had seen fit to give the -young cashier more than a short and colorless paragraph. For Copley was -only a small figure in the big intrigue that had startled the country; -Copley didn't have the money to hire big lawyers to carry his appeal to -the higher courts for him; Copley's wife was keeping boarders; and as -for Copley himself, he had been wearing stripes several months now. - -With Mr. Trimm it had been vastly different. From the very beginning he -had held the public eye. His bearing in court when the jury came in with -their judgment; his cold defiance when the judge, in pronouncing -sentence, mercilessly arraigned him and the system of finance for which -he stood; the manner of his life in the Tombs; his spectacular fight to -beat the verdict, had all been worth columns of newspaper space. If Mr. -Trimm had been a popular poisoner, or a society woman named as -corespondent in a sensational divorce suit, the papers could not have -been more generous in their space allotments. And Mr. Trimm in his cell -had read all of it with smiling contempt, even to the semi-hysterical -outpourings of the lady special writers who called him The Iron Man of -Wall Street and undertook to analyze his emotions--and missed the mark -by a thousand miles or two. - -Things had been smoothed as much as possible for him in the Tombs, for -money and the power of it will go far toward ironing out even the -corrugated routine of that big jail. He had a large cell to himself in -the airiest, brightest corridor. His meals were served by a caterer from -outside. Although he ate them without knife or fork, he soon learned -that a spoon and the fingers can accomplish a good deal when backed by a -good appetite, and Mr. Trimm's appetite was uniformly good. The warden -and his underlings had been models of official kindliness; the -newspapers had sent their brightest young men to interview him whenever -he felt like talking, which wasn't often; and surely his lawyers had -done all in his behalf that money--a great deal of money--could do. -Perhaps it was because of these things that Mr. Trimm had never been -able to bring himself to realize that he was the Hobart W. Trimm who had -been sentenced to the Federal prison; it seemed to him, somehow, that -he, personally, was merely a spectator standing at one side watching the -fight of another man to dodge the penitentiary. - -However, he didn't fail to give the other man the advantage of every -chance that money would buy. This sense of aloofness to the whole thing -had persisted even when his personal lawyer came to him one night in the -early fall and told him that the court of last possible resort had -denied the last possible motion. Mr. Trimm cut the lawyer short with a -shake of his head as the other began saying something about the chances -of a pardon from the President. Mr. Trimm wasn't in the habit of letting -men deceive him with idle words. No President would pardon him, and he -knew it. - -"Never mind that, Walling," he said steadily, when the lawyer offered to -come to see him again before he started for prison the next day. "If -you'll see that a drawing-room on the train is reserved for me--for us, -I mean--and all that sort of thing, I'll not detain you any further. I -have a good many things to do tonight. Good night." - -"Such a man, such a man," said Walling to himself as he climbed into his -car; "all chilled steel and brains. And they are going to lock that -brain up for twelve years. It's a crime," said Walling, and shook his -head. Walling always said it was a crime when they sent a client of his -to prison. To his credit be it said, though, they sent very few of them -there. Walling made as high as eighty thousand a year at criminal law. -Some of it was very criminal law indeed. His specialty was picking holes -in the statutes faster than the legislature could make them and provide -them and putty them up with amendments. This was the first case he had -lost in a good long time. - - * * * * * - -When Jerry, the turnkey, came for him in the morning Mr. Trimm had made -as careful a toilet as the limited means at his command permitted, and -he had eaten a hearty breakfast and was ready to go, all but putting on -his hat. Looking the picture of well-groomed, close-buttoned, iron-gray -middle age, Mr. Trimm followed the turnkey through the long corridor and -down the winding iron stairs to the warden's office. He gave no heed to -the curious eyes that followed him through the barred doors of many -cells; his feet rang briskly on the flags. - -The warden, Hallam, was there in the private office with another man, a -tall, raw-boned man with a drooping, straw-colored mustache and the -unmistakable look about him of the police officer. Mr. Trimm knew -without being told that this was the man who would take him to prison. -The stranger was standing at a desk, signing some papers. - -"Sit down, please, Mr. Trimm," said the warden with a nervous -cordiality. "Be through here in just one minute. This is Deputy Marshal -Meyers," he added. - -Mr. Trimm started to tell this Mr. Meyers he was glad to meet him, but -caught himself and merely nodded. The man stared at him with neither -interest nor curiosity in his dull blue eyes. The warden moved over -toward the door. - -"Mr. Trimm," he said, clearing his throat, "I took the liberty of -calling a cab to take you gents up to the Grand Central. It's out front -now. But there's a big crowd of reporters and photographers and a lot of -other people waiting, and if I was you I'd slip out the back way--one of -my men will open the yard gate for you--and jump aboard the subway down -at Worth Street. Then you'll miss those fellows." - -"Thank you, Warden--very kind of you," said Mr. Trimm in that crisp, -businesslike way of his. He had been crisp and businesslike all his -life. He heard a door opening softly be hind him, and when he turned to -look he saw the warden slipping out, furtively, in almost an embarrassed -fashion. - -"Well," said Meyers, "all ready?" - -"Yes," said Mr. Trimm, and he made as if to rise. - -"Wait one minute," said Meyers. - -He half turned his back on Mr. Trimm and fumbled at the side pocket of -his ill-hanging coat. Something inside of Mr. Trimm gave the least -little jump, and the question that had ticked away so busily all those -months began to buzz, buzz in his ears; but it was only a handkerchief -the man was getting out. Doubtless he was going to mop his face. - -He didn't mop his face, though. He unrolled the handkerchief slowly, as -if it contained something immensely fragile and valuable, and then, -thrusting it back in his pocket, he faced Mr. Trimm. He was carrying in -his hands a pair of handcuffs that hung open-jawed. The jaws had little -notches in them, like teeth that could bite. The question that had -ticked in Mr. Trimm's head was answered at last--in the sight of these -steel things with their notched jaws. - -Mr. Trimm stood up and, with a movement as near to hesitation as he had -ever been guilty of in his life, held out his hands, backs upward. - -"I guess you're new at this kind of thing," said Meyers, grinning. "This -here way--one at a time." - -He took hold of Mr. Trimm's right hand, turned it sideways and settled -one of the steel cuffs over the top of the wrist, flipping the notched -jaw up from beneath and pressing it in so that it locked automatically -with a brisk little click. Slipping the locked cuff back and forth on -Mr. Trimm's lower arm like a man adjusting a part of machinery, and then -bringing the left hand up to meet the right, he treated it the same way. -Then he stepped back. - -Mr. Trimm hadn't meant to protest. The word came unbidden. - -"This--this isn't necessary, is it?" he asked in a voice that was husky -and didn't seem to belong to him. - -"Yep," said Meyers, "Standin' orders is play no favorites and take no -chances. But you won't find them things uncomfortable. Lightest pair -there was in the office, and I fixed 'em plenty loose." - -For half a minute Mr. Trimm stood like a rooster hypnotized by a -chalkmark, his arms extended, his eyes set on his bonds. His hands had -fallen perhaps four inches apart, and in the space between his wrists a -little chain was stretched taut. In the mounting tumult that filled his -brain there sprang before Mr. Trimm's consciousness a phrase he had -heard or read somewhere, the title of a story or, perhaps, it was a -headline--The Grips of the Law. The Grips of the Law were upon Mr. -Trimm--he felt them now for the first time in these shiny wristlets and -this bit of chain that bound his wrists and filled his whole body with a -strange, sinking feeling that made him physically sick. A sudden sweat -beaded out on Mr. Trimm's face, turning it slick and wet. - -He had a handkerchief, a fine linen handkerchief with a hemstitched -border and a monogram on it, in the upper breast pocket of his buttoned -coat. He tried to reach it. His hands went up, twisting awkwardly like -crab claws. The fingers of both plucked out the handkerchief. Holding it -so, Mr. Trimm mopped the sweat away. The links of the handcuffs fell in -upon one another and lengthened out again at each movement, filling the -room with a smart little sound. - -He got the handkerchief stowed away with the same clumsiness. He raised -the manacled hands to his hat brim, gave it a downward pull that brought -it over his face and then, letting his short arms slide down upon his -plump stomach, he faced the man who had put the fetters upon him, -squaring his shoulders back. But it was hard, somehow, for him to square -his shoulders--perhaps because of his hands being drawn so closely -together. And his eyes would waver and fall upon his wrists. Mr. Trimm -had a feeling that the skin must be stretched very tight on his jawbones -and his forehead. - -"Isn't there some way to hide these--these things?" - -He began by blurting and ended by faltering it. His hands shuffled -together, one over, then under the other. - -"Here's a way," said Meyers. "This'll help." - -He bestirred himself, folding one of the chained hands upon the other, -tugging at the white linen cuffs and drawing the coat sleeves of his -prisoner down over the bonds as far as the chain would let them come. - -"There's the notion," he said. "Just do that-a-way and them bracelets -won't hardly show a-tall. Ready? Let's be movin', then." - -But handcuffs were never meant to be hidden. Merely a pair of steel -rings clamped to one's wrists and coupled together with a scrap of -chain, but they'll twist your arms and hamper the movements of your body -in a way constantly to catch the eye of the passer-by. When a man is -coming toward you, you can tell that he is handcuffed before you see the -cuffs. - -Mr. Trimm was never able to recall afterward exactly how he got out of -the Tombs. He had a confused memory of a gate that was swung open by -someone whom Mr. Trimm saw only from the feet to the waist; then he and -his companion were out on Lafayette Street speeding south toward the -subway entrance at Worth Street, two blocks below, with the marshal's -hand cupped under Mr. Trimm's right elbow and Mr. Trimm's plump legs -almost trotting in their haste. For a moment it looked as if the -warden's well-meant artifice would serve. - -But New York reporters are up to the tricks of people who want to evade -them. At the sight of them a sentry reporter on the corner shouted a -warning which was instantly caught up and passed on by another picket -stationed half-way down the block; and around the wall of the Tombs came -pelting a flying mob of newspaper photographers and reporters, with a -choice rabble behind them. Foot passengers took up the chase, not -knowing what it was about, but sensing a free show. Truckmen halted -their teams, jumped down from their wagon seats and joined in. A -man-chase is one of the pleasantest outdoor sports that a big city like -New York can offer its people. - -Fairly running now, the manacled banker and the deputy marshal shot down -the winding steps into the subway a good ten yards ahead of the foremost -pursuers. But there was one delay, while Meyers skirmished with his free -hand in his trousers pocket for a dime for the tickets, and another -before a northbound local rolled into the station. Shouted at, jeered -at, shoved this way and that, panting in gulping breaths, for he was -stout by nature and staled by lack of exercise, Mr. Trimm, with Meyers -clutching him by the arm, was fairly shot aboard one of the cars, at the -apex of a human wedge. The astonished guard sensed the situation as the -scrooging, shoving, noisy wave rolled across the platform toward the -doors which he had opened and, thrusting the officer and his prisoner -into the narrow platform space behind him, he tried to form with his -body a barrier against those who came jamming in. - -It, didn't do any good. He was brushed away, protesting and blustering. -The excitement spread through the train, and men, and even women, left -their seats, overflowing the aisles. - -There is no cruder thing than a city crowd, all eyes and morbid -curiosity. But Mr. Trimm didn't see the staring eyes on that ride to the -Grand Central. What he saw was many shifting feet and a hedge of legs -shutting him in closely--those and the things on his wrists. What the -eyes of the crowd saw was a small, stout man who, for all his bulk, -seemed to have dried up inside his clothes so that they bagged on him -some places and bulged others, with his head tucked on his chest, his -hat over his face and his fingers straining to hold his coat sleeves -down over a pair of steel bracelets. - -Mr. Trimm gave mental thanks to a Deity whose existence he thought he -had forgotten when the gate of the train-shed clanged behind him, -shutting out the mob that had come with them all the way. Cameras had -been shoved in his face like gun muzzles, reporters had scuttled -alongside him, dodging under Meyers' fending arm to shout questions in -his ears. He had neither spoken nor looked at them. The sweat still ran -down his face, so that when finally he raised his head in the -comparative quiet of the train-shed his skin was a curious gray under -the jail paleness like the color of wet wood ashes. - -"My lawyer promised to arrange for a compartment--for some private place -on the train," he said to Meyers. "The conductor ought to know." - -They were the first words he had uttered since he left the Tombs. Meyers -spoke to a jaunty Pullman conductor who stood alongside the car where -they had halted. - -"No such reservation," said the conductor, running through his sheaf of -slips, with his eyes shifting from Mr. Trimm's face to Mr. Trimm's hands -and back again, as though he couldn't decide which was the more -interesting part of him; "must be some mistake. Or else it was for some -other train. Too late to change now--we pull out in three minutes." - -"I reckon we better git on the smoker," said Meyers, "if there's room -there." - -Mr. Trimm was steered back again the length of the train through a -double row of pop-eyed porters and staring trainmen. At the steps where -they stopped the instinct to stretch out one hand and swing himself up -by the rail operated automatically and his wrists got a nasty twist. -Meyers and a brakeman practically lifted him up the steps and Meyers -headed him into a car that was hazy with blue tobacco smoke. He was -confused in his gait, almost as if his lower limbs had been fettered, -too. - -The car was full of shirt-sleeved men who stood up, craning their necks -and stumbling over each other in their desire to see him. These men came -out into the aisle, so that Meyers had to shove through them. - -"This here'll do as well as any, I guess," said Meyers. He drew Mr. -Trimm past him into the seat nearer the window and sat down alongside -him on the side next the aisle, settling himself on the stuffy plush -seat and breathing deeply, like a man who had got through the hardest -part of a not easy job. - -"Smoke?" he asked. - -Mr. Trimm shook his head without raising it. - -"Them cuffs feel plenty easy?" was the deputy's next question. He lifted -Mr. Trimm's hands as casually as if they had been his hands and not Mr. -Trimm's, and looked at them. - -"Seem to be all right," he said as he let them fall back. "Don't pinch -none, I reckon?" There was no answer. - -The deputy tugged a minute at his mustache, searching his arid mind. An -idea came to him. He drew a newspaper from his pocket, opened it out -flat and spread it over Mr. Trimm's lap so that it covered the chained -wrists. Almost instantly the train was in motion, moving through the -yards. - -"Be there in two hours more," volunteered Meyers. It was late afternoon. -They were sliding through woodlands with occasional openings which -showed meadows melting into wide, flat lands. - -"Want a drink?" said the deputy, next. "No? Well, I guess I'll have a -drop myself. Travelin' fills a feller's throat full of dust." He got up, -lurching to the motion of the flying train, and started forward to the -water cooler behind the car door. He had gone perhaps two-thirds of the -way when Mr. Trimm felt a queer, grinding sensation beneath his feet; it -was exactly as though the train were trying to go forward and back at -the same time. Almost slowly, it seemed to him, the forward end of the -car slued out of its straight course, at the same time tilting up. There -was a grinding, roaring, grating sound, and before Mr. Trimm's eyes -Meyers vanished, tumbling forward out of sight as the car floor buckled -under his feet. Then, as everything--the train, the earth, the sky--all -fused together in a great spatter of white and black, Mr. Trimm was -plucked from his seat as though a giant hand had him by the collar and -shot forward through the air over the seat-backs, his chained hands -aloft, clutching wildly. He rolled out of a ragged opening where the -smoker had broken in two, flopped gently on the sloping side of the -right-of-way and slid easily to the bottom, where he lay quiet and still -on his back in a bed of weeds and wild grass, staring straight up. - -How many minutes he lay there Mr. Trimm didn't know. It may have been -the shrieks of the victims or the glare from the fire that brought him -out of the daze. He wriggled his body to a sitting posture, got on his -feet, holding his head between his coupled hands, and gazed full-face -into the crowning railroad horror of the year. - -There were numbers of the passengers who had escaped serious hurt, but -for the most part these persons seemed to have gone daft from terror and -shock. Some were running aimlessly up and down and some, a few, were -pecking feebly with improvised tools at the wreck, an indescribable -jumble of ruin, from which there issued cries of mortal agony, and from -which, at a point where two locomotives were lying on their sides, -jammed together like fighting bucks that had died with locked horns, a -tall flame already rippled and spread, sending up a pillar of black -smoke that rose straight, poisoning the clear blue of the sky. Nobody -paid any attention to Mr. Trimm as he stood swaying upon his feet. There -wasn't a scratch on him. His clothes were hardly rumpled, his hat was -still on his head. He stood a minute and then, moved by a sudden -impulse, he turned round and went running straight away from the -railroad at the best speed his pudgy legs could accomplish, with his -arms pumping up and down in front of him and his fingers interlaced. It -was a grotesque gait, rather like a rabbit hopping on its hindlegs. - -Instantly, almost, the friendly woods growing down to the edge of the -fill swallowed him up. He dodged and doubled back and forth among the -tree trunks, his small, patent-leathered feet skipping nimbly over the -irregular turf, until he stopped for lack of wind in his lungs to carry -him another rod. When he had got his breath back Mr. Trimm leaned -against a tree and bent his head this way and that, listening. No sound -came to his ears except the sleepy calls of birds. As well as Mr. Trimm -might judge he had come far into the depths of a considerable woodland. -Already the shadows under the low limbs were growing thick and confused -as the hurried twilight of early September came on. - -Mr. Trimm sat down on a natural cushion of thick green moss between two -roots of an oak. The place was clean and soft and sweet-scented. For -some little time he sat there motionless, in a sort of mental haze. Then -his round body slowly slid down fiat upon the moss, his head lolled to -one side and, the reaction having come, Mr. Trimm's limbs all relaxed -and he went to sleep straightway. - -After a while, when the woods were blade and still, the half-grown moon -came up and, sifting through a chink in the canopy of leaves above, -shone down full on Mr. Trimm as he lay snoring gently with his mouth -open and his hands rising and falling on his breast. The moonlight -struck upon the Little Giant handcuffs, making them look like -quicksilver. - -Toward daylight it turned off sharp and cool. The dogwoods which had -been a solid color at nightfall now showed pink in one light and green -in another, like changeable silk, as the first level rays of the sun -came up over the rim of the earth and made long, golden lanes between -the tree trunks. Mr. Trimm opened his eyes slowly, hardly sensing for -the first moment or two how he came to be lying under a canopy of -leaves, and gaped, seeking to stretch his arms. At that he remembered -everything; he hunched his shoulders against the tree roots and wriggled -himself up to a sitting position where he stayed for a while, letting -his mind run over the sequence of events that had brought him where he -was and taking inventory of the situation. - -Of escape he had no thought. The hue and cry must be out for him before -now; doubtless men were already searching for him. It would be better -for him to walk in and surrender than to be taken in the woods like some -animal escaped from a traveling menagerie. But the mere thought of -enduring again what he had already gone through--the thought of being -tagged by crowds and stared at, with his fetters on--filled him with a -nausea. Nothing that the Federal penitentiary might hold in store for -him could equal the black, blind shamefulness of yesterday; he knew -that. The thought of the new ignominy that faced him made Mr. Trimm -desperate. He had a desire to burrow into the thicket yonder and hide -his face and his chained hands. - -But perhaps he could get the handcuffs off and so go to meet his captors -in some manner of dignity. Strange that the idea hadn't occurred to him -before! It seemed to Mr. Trimm that he desired to get his two hands -apart more than he had ever desired anything in his whole life before. - -The hands had begun naturally to adjust themselves to their enforced -companionship, and it wasn't such a very hard matter, though it cost him -some painful wrenches and much twisting of the fingers, for Mr. Trimm to -get his coat unbuttoned and his eyeglasses in their small leather case -out of his upper waistcoat pocket. With the glasses on his nose he -subjected his bonds to a critical examination. Each rounded steel band -ran unbroken except for the smooth, almost jointless hinge and the small -lock which sat perched on the back of the wrist in a little rounded -excrescence like a steel wart. In the flat center of each lock was a -small keyhole and alongside of it a notched nub, the nub being sunk in a -minute depression. On the inner side, underneath, the cuffs slid into -themselves--two notches on each showing where the jaws might be -tightened to fit a smaller hand than his--and right over the large blue -veins in the middle of the wrists were swivel links, shackle-bolted to -the cuffs and connected by a flat, slightly larger middle link, giving -the hands a palm-to-palm play of not more than four or five inches. The -cuffs did not hurt--even after so many hours there was no actual -discomfort from them and the flesh beneath them was hardly reddened. - -But it didn't take Mr. Trimm long to find out that they were not to be -got off. He tugged and pulled, trying with his fingers for a purchase. -All he did was to chafe his skin and make his wrists throb with pain. -The cuffs would go forward just so far, then the little humps of bone -above the hands would catch and hold them. - -Mr. Trimm was not a man to waste time in the pursuit of the obviously -hopeless. Presently he stood up, shook himself and started off at a fair -gait through the woods. The sun was up now and the turf was all dappled -with lights and shadows, and about him much small, furtive wild life was -stirring. He stepped along briskly, a strange figure for that green -solitude, with his correct city garb and the glint of the steel at his -sleeve ends. - -Presently he heard the long-drawn, quavering, banshee wail of a -locomotive. The sound came from almost behind him, in an opposite -direction from where he supposed the track to be. So he turned around -and went back the other way. He crossed a half-dried-up runlet and -climbed a small hill, neither of which he remembered having met in his -flight from the wreck, and in a little while he came out upon the -railroad. To the north a little distance the rails bent round a curve. -To the south, where the diminishing rails running through the unbroken -woodland met in a long, shiny V, he could see a big smoke smudge against -the horizon. This smoke Mr. Trimm knew must come from the wreck--which -was still burning, evidently. As nearly as he could judge he had come -out of cover at least two miles above it. After a moment's consideration -he decided to go south toward the wreck. Soon he could distinguish small -dots like ants moving in and out about the black spot, and he knew these -dots must be men. - -A whining, whirring sound came along the rails to him from behind. He -faced about just as a handcar shot out around the curve from the north, -moving with amazing rapidity under the strokes of four men at the pumps. -Other men, laborers to judge by their blue overalls, were sitting on the -edges of the car with their feet dangling. For the second time within -twelve hours impulse ruled Mr. Trimm, who wasn't given to impulses -normally. He made a jump off the right-of-way, and as the handcar -flashed by he watched its flight from the covert of a weed tangle. - -But even as the handcar was passing him Mr. Trimm regretted his -hastiness. He must surrender himself sooner or later; why not to these -overalled laborers, since it was a thing that had to be done? He slid -out of hiding and came trotting back to the tracks. Already the handcar -was a hundred yards away, flitting into distance like some big, -wonderfully fast bug, the figures of the men at the pumps rising and -falling with a walking-beam regularity. As he stood watching them fade -away and minded to try hailing them, yet still hesitating against his -judgment, Mr. Trimm saw something white drop from the hands of one of -the blue-clad figures on the handcar, unfold into a newspaper and come -fluttering back along the tracks toward him. Just as he, starting -doggedly ahead, met it, the little ground breeze that had carried it -along died out and the paper dropped and flattened right in front of -him. The front page was uppermost and he knew it must be of that -morning's issue, for across the column tops ran the flaring headline: -"Twenty Dead in Frightful Collision." - -Squatting on the cindered track, Mr. Trimm patted the crumpled sheet -flat with his hands. His eyes dropped from the first of the glaring -captions to the second, to the next--and then his heart gave a great -bound inside of him and, clutching up the newspaper to his breast he -bounded off the tracks back into another thicket and huddled there with -the paper spread on the earth in front of him, reading by gulps while -the chain, that linked wrist to wrist tinkled to the tremors running -through him. What he had seen first, in staring black-face type, was his -own name leading the list of known dead, and what he saw now, broken up -into choppy paragraphs and done in the nervous English of a trained -reporter throwing a great news story together to catch an edition, but -telling a clear enough story nevertheless, was a narrative in which his -name recurred again and again. The body of the United States deputy -marshal, Meyers, frightfully crushed, had been taken from the wreckage -of the smoker--so the double-leaded story ran--and near to Meyers -another body, with features burned beyond recognition, yet still -retaining certain distinguishing marks of measurement and contour, had -been found and identified as that of Hobart W. Trimm, the convicted -banker. The bodies of these two, with eighteen other mangled dead, had -been removed to a town called Westfield, from which town of Westfield -the account of the disaster had been telegraphed to the New York paper. -In another column farther along was more about Banker Trimm; facts about -his soiled, selfish, greedy, successful life, his great fortune, his -trial, and a statement that, in the absence of any close kin to claim -his body, his lawyers had been notified. - -Mr. Trimm read the account through to the end, and as he read the sense -of dominant, masterful self-control came back to him in waves. He got -up, taking the paper with him, and went back into the deeper woods, -moving warily and watchfully. As he went his mind, trained to take hold -of problems and wring the essence out of them, was busy. Of the charred, -grisly thing in the improvised morgue at Westfield, wherever that might -be, Mr. Trimm took no heed nor wasted any pity. All his life he had used -live men to work his will, with no thought of what might come to them -afterward. The living had served him, why not the dead? - -He had other things to think of than this dead proxy of his. He was as -good as free! There would be no hunt for him now; no alarm out, no -posses combing every scrap of cover for a famous criminal turned -fugitive. He had only to lie quiet a few days, somewhere, then get in -secret touch with Walling. Walling would do anything for money. And he -had the money--four millions and more, cannily saved from the crash that -had ruined so many others. - -He would alter his personal appearance, change his name--he thought of -Duvall, which was his mother's name--and with Walling's aid he would get -out of the country and into some other country where a man might live -like a prince on four millions or the fractional part of it. He thought -of South America, of South Africa, of a private yacht swinging through -the little frequented islands of the South Seas. All that the law had -tried to take from him would be given back. Walling would work out the -details of the escape--and make it safe and sure--trust Walling for -those things. On one side was the prison, with its promise of twelve -grinding years sliced out of the very heart of his life; on the other, -freedom, ease, security, even power. Through Mr. Trimm's mind tumbled -thoughts of concessions, enterprises, privileges--the back corners of -the globe were full of possibilities for the right man. And between this -prospect and Mr. Trimm there stood nothing in the way, nothing but---- - -Mr. Trimm's eyes fell upon his bound hands. Snug-fitting, shiny steel -bands irked his wrists. The Grips of the Law were still upon him. - -But only in a way of speaking. It was preposterous, unbelievable, -altogether out of the question that a man with four millions salted down -and stored away, a man who all his life had been used to grappling with -the big things and wrestling them down into submission, a man whose luck -had come to be a byword--and had not it held good even in this last -emergency?--would be balked by puny scraps of forged steel and a -trumpery lock or two. Why, these cuffs were no thicker than the gold -bands that Mr. Trimm had seen on the arms of overdressed women at the -opera. The chain that joined them was no larger and, probably, no -stronger than the chains which Mr. Trimm's chauffeur wrapped around the -tires of the touring-car in winter to keep the wheels from skidding on -the slush. There would be a way, surely, for Mr. Trimm to free himself -from these things. There must be--that was all there was to it. - -Mr. Trimm looked himself over. His clothes were not badly rumpled; his -patent-leather boots were scarcely scratched. Without the handcuffs he -could pass unnoticed anywhere. By night then he must be free of them and -on his way to some small inland city, to stay quiet there until the -guarded telegram that he would send in cipher had reached Walling. There -in the woods by himself Mr. Trimm no longer felt the ignominy of his -bonds; he felt only the temporary embarrassment of them and the need of -added precaution until he should have mastered them. - -He was once more the unemotional man of affairs who had stood Wall -Street on its esteemed head and caught the golden streams that trickled -from its pockets. First making sure that he was in a well-screened -covert of the woods he set about exploring all his pockets. The coat -pockets were comparatively easy, now that he had got used to using two -hands where one had always served, but it cost him a lot of twisting of -his body and some pain to his mistreated wrist bones to bring forth the -contents of his trousers pockets. The chain kinked time and again as he -groped with the undermost hand for the openings; his dumpy, pudgy form -writhed grotesquely. But finally he finished. The search produced four -cigars somewhat crumpled and frayed; some matches in a gun-metal case, a -silver cigar cutter, two five-dollar bills, a handful of silver chicken -feed, the leather case of the eyeglasses, a couple of quill toothpicks, -a gold watch with a dangling fob, a note-book and some papers. Mr. Trimm -ranged these things in a neat row upon a log, like a watchmaker putting -out his kit, and took swift inventory of them. Some he eliminated from -his design, stowing them back in the pockets easiest to reach. He kept -for present employment the match safe, the cigar cutter and the watch. - -This place where he had halted would suit his present purpose well, he -decided. It was where an uprooted tree, fallen across an incurving bank, -made a snug little recess that was closed in on three sides. Spreading -the newspaper on the turf to save his knees from soiling, he knelt and -set to his task. For the time he felt neither hunger nor thirst. He had -found out during his earlier experiments that the nails of his little -fingers, which were trimmed to a point, could invade the keyholes in the -little steel warts on the backs of his wrists and touch the locks. The -mechanism had even twitched a little bit under the tickle of the nail -ends. So, having already smashed the gun-metal match safe under his -heel, Mr. Trimm selected a slender-pointed bit from among its fragments -and got to work, the left hand drawn up under the right, the fingers of -the right busy with the lock of the left, the chain tightening and -slackening with subdued clinking sounds at each movement. - -Mr. Trimm didn't know much about picking a lock. He had got his money by -a higher form of burglary that did not require a knowledge of -lock-picking. Nor as a boy had he been one to play at mechanics. He had -let other boys make the toy fluttermills and the wooden traps and the -like, and then he had traded for them. He was sorry now that he hadn't -given more heed to the mechanical side of things when he was growing up. - -He worked with a deliberate slowness, steadily. Nevertheless, it was hot -work. The sun rose over the bank and shone on him through the limbs of -the uprooted tree. His hat was on the ground alongside of him. The sweat -ran down his face, streaking it and wilting his collar flat. The scrap -of gun metal kept slipping out of his wet fingers. Down would go the -chained hands to scrabble in the grass for it, and then the picking -would go on again. This happened a good many times. Birds, nervous with -the spirit that presages the fall migration, flew back and forth along -the creek, almost grazing Mr. Trimm sometimes. A rain crow wove a brown -thread in the green warp of the bushes above his head. A chattering red -squirrel sat up on a tree limb to scold him. At intervals, distantly, -came the cough of laboring trains, showing that the track must have been -cleared. There were times when Mr. Trimm thought he felt the lock -giving. These times he would work harder. - - * * * * * - -Late in the afternoon Mr. Trimm lay back against the bank, panting. His -face was splotched with red, and the little hollows at the sides of his -forehead pulsed rapidly up and down like the bellies of scared tree -frogs. The bent outer case of the watch littered a bare patch on the -log; its mainspring had gone the way of the fragments of the gun-metal -match safe which were lying all about, each a worn-down, twisted wisp of -metal. The spring of the eyeglasses had been confiscated long ago and -the broken crystals powdered the earth where Mr. Trimm's toes had -scraped a smooth patch. The nails of the two little fingers were worn to -the quick and splintered down into the raw flesh. There were countless -tiny scratches and mars on the locks of the handcuffs, and the steel -wristbands were dulled with blood smears and pale-red tarnishes of new -rust; but otherwise they were as stanch and strong a pair of Bean's -Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs as you'd find in any hardware store -anywhere. - -The devilish, stupid malignity of the damned things! With an acid oath -Mr. Trimm raised his hands and brought them down on the log violently. -There was a double click and the bonds tightened painfully, pressing the -chafed red skin white. Mr. Trimm snatched up his hands close to his -near-sighted eyes and looked. One of the little notches on the under -side of each cuff had disappeared. It was as if they were living things -that had turned and bitten him for the blow he gave them. - - * * * * * - -From the time the sun went down there was a tingle of frost in the air. -Mr. Trimm didn't sleep much. Under the squeeze of the tightened fetters -his wrists throbbed steadily and racking cramps ran through his arms. -His stomach felt as though it were tied into knots. The water that he -drank from the branch only made his hunger sickness worse. His -undergarments, that had been wet with perspiration, clung to him -clammily. His middle-aged, tenderly cared-for body called through every -pore for clean linen and soap and water and rest, as his empty insides -called for food. - -After a while he became so chilled that the demand for warmth conquered -his instinct for caution. He felt about him in the darkness gathering -scraps of dead wood, and, after breaking several of the matches that had -been in the gun-metal match safe, he managed to strike one and with its -tiny flame started a fire. He huddled almost over the fire, coughing -when the smoke blew into his face and twisting and pulling at his arms -in an effort to get relief from the everlasting cramps. It seemed to him -that if he could only get an inch or two more of play for his hands he -would be ever so much more comfortable. But he couldn't, of course. - -He dozed, finally, sitting crosslegged with his head sunk between his -hunched shoulders. A pain in a new place woke him. The fire had burned -almost through the thin sole of his right shoe, and as he scrambled to -his feet and stamped, the clap of the hot leather flat against his -blistered foot almost made him cry out. - - * * * * * - -Soon after sunrise a boy came riding a horse down a faintly traced -footpath along the creek, driving a cow with a bell on her neck ahead of -him. Mr. Trimm's ears caught the sound of the clanking bell before -either the cow or her herder was in sight, and he limped away, running, -skulking through the thick cover. A pendent loop of a wild grapevine, -swinging low, caught his hat and flipped it off his head; but Mr. Trimm, -imagining pursuit, did not stop to pick it up and went on bareheaded -until he had to stop from exhaustion. He saw some dark-red berries on a -shrub upon which he had trod, and, stooping, he plucked some of them -with his two hands and put three or four in his mouth experimentally. -Warned instantly by the harsh, burning taste, he spat the crushed -berries out and went on doggedly, following, according to his best -judgment, a course parallel to the railroad. It was characteristic of -him, a city-raised man, that he took no heed of distances nor of the -distinguishing marks of the timber. - -Behind a log at the edge of a small clearing in the woods he halted some -little time, watching and listening. The clearing had grown up in sumacs -and weeds and small saplings and it seemed deserted; certainly it was -still. Near the center of it rose the sagging roof of what had been a -shack or a shed of some sort. Stooping cautiously, to keep his bare head -below the tops of the sumacs, Mr. Trimm made for the ruined shanty and -gained it safely. In the midst of the rotted, punky logs that had once -formed the walls he began scraping with his feet. Presently he uncovered -something. It was a broken-off harrow tooth, scaled like a long, red -fish with the crusted rust of years. - -Mr. Trimm rested the lower rims of his handcuffs on the edge of an old, -broken watering trough, worked the pointed end of the rust-crusted -harrow tooth into the flat middle link of the chain as far as it would -go, and then with one hand on top of the other he pressed downward with -all his might. The pain in his wrists made him stop this at once. The -link had not sprung or given in the least, but the twisting pressure had -almost broken his wrist bones. He let the harrow tooth fall, knowing -that it would never serve as a lever to free him--which, indeed, he had -known all along--and sat on the side of the trough, rubbing his wrists -and thinking. - -He had another idea. It came into his mind as a vague suggestion that -fire had certain effects upon certain metals. He kindled a fire of bits -of the rotted wood, and when the flames ran together and rose slender -and straight in a single red thread he thrust the chain into it, holding -his hands as far apart as possible in the attitude of a player about to -catch a bounced ball. But immediately the pain of that grew unendurable -too, and he leaped back, jerking his hands away. He had succeeded only -in blackening the steel and putting a big water blister on one of his -wrists right where the shackle bolt would press upon it. - -Where he huddled down in the shelter of one of the fallen walls he -noticed, presently, a strand of rusted fence wire still held to -half-tottering posts by a pair of blackened staples; it was part of a -pen that had been used once for chickens or swine. Mr. Trimm tried the -wire with his fingers. It was firm and springy. Rocking and groaning -with the pain of it, he nevertheless began sliding the chain back and -forth along the strand of wire. - -Eventually, the wire, weakened by age, snapped in two. A tiny shined -spot, hardly deep enough to be called a nick, in its tarnished, smudged -surface was all the mark that the chain showed. - -Staggering a little and putting his feet down unsteadily, Mr. Trimm left -the clearing, heading as well as he could tell eastward, away from the -railroad. After a mile or two he came toil dusty wood road winding -downhill. - -To the north of the clearing where Mr. Trimm had halted were a farm and -a group of farm buildings. To the southward a mile or so was a cluster -of dwellings set in the midst of more farm lands, with a shop or two and -a small white church with a green spire in the center. Along a road that -ran northward from the hamlet to the solitary farm a ten-year-old boy -came, carrying a covered tin pail. A young gray squirrel flirted across -the wagon ruts ahead of him and darted up a chestnut sapling. The boy -put the pail down at the side of the road and began looking for a stone -to throw at the squirrel. - -Mr. Trimm slid out from behind a tree. A hemstitched handkerchief, -grimed and stained, was loosely twisted around his wrists, partly hiding -the handcuffs. He moved along with a queer, sidling gait, keeping as -much of his body as he could turned from the youngster. The ears of the -little chap caught the faint scuffle of feet and he spun around on his -bare heel. - -"My boy, would you----" Mr. Trimm began. - -The boy's round eyes widened at the apparition that was sidling toward -him in so strange a fashion, and then, taking fright, he dodged past Mr. -Trimm and ran back the way he had come, as fast as his slim brown legs -could take him. In half a minute he was out of sight round a bend. - -Had the boy looked back he would have seen a still more curious -spectacle than the one that had frightened him. He would have seen a man -worth four million dollars down on his knees in the yellow dust, pawing -with chained hands at the tight-fitting lid of the tin pail, and then, -when he had got the lid off, drinking the fresh, warm milk which the -pail held with great, choking gulps, uttering little mewing, animal -sounds as he drank, while the white, creamy milk ran over his chin and -splashed down his breast in little, spurting streams. - -But the boy didn't look back. He ran all the way home and told his -mother he had seen a wild man on the road to the village; and later, -when his father came in from the fields, he was soundly thrashed for -letting the sight of a tramp make him lose a good tin bucket and half a -gallon of milk worth nine cents a quart. - - * * * * * - -The rich, fresh milk put life into Mr. Trimm. He rested the better for -it during the early part of that night in a haw thicket. Only the sharp, -darting pains in his wrists kept rousing him to temporary wakefulness. -In one of those intervals of waking the plan that had been sketchily -forming in his mind from the time he had quit the clearing in the woods -took on a definite, fixed shape. But how was he with safety to get the -sort of aid he needed, and where? - -Canvassing tentative plans in his head, he dozed off again. - - * * * * * - -On a smooth patch of turf behind the blacksmith shop three yokels were -languidly pitching horseshoes--"quaits," they called them--at a stake -driven in the earth. Just beyond, the woods shredded out into a long, -yellow and green peninsula which stretched up almost to the back door of -the smithy, so that late of afternoons the slanting shadows of the -nearmost trees fell on its roof of warped shingles. At the extreme end -of this point of woods Mr. Trimm was squatted behind a big boulder, -squinting warily through a thick-fringed curtain of ripened goldenrod -tops and sumacs, heavy-headed with their dark-red tapers. He had been -there more than an hour, cautiously waiting his chance to hail the -blacksmith, whose figure he could make out in the smoky interior of his -shop, passing back and forth in front of a smudgy forge fire and -rattling metal against metal in intermittent fits of professional -activity. - -From where Mr. Trimm watched to where the horseshoe-pitching game went -on was not more than sixty feet. He could hear what the players said and -even see the little puffs of dust rise when one of them clapped his -hands together after a pitch. He judged by the signs of slackening -interest that they would be stopping soon and, he hoped, going clear -away. - -But the smith loafed out of his shop and, after an exchange of bucolic -banter with the three of them, he took a hand in their game himself. He -wore no coat or waistcoat and, as he poised a horseshoe for his first -cast at the stake, Mr. Trimm saw, pinned flat against the broad strap of -his suspenders, a shiny, silvery-looking disc. Having pitched the shoe, -the smith moved over into the shade, so that he almost touched the clump -of undergrowth that half buried Mr. Trimm's protecting boulder. The -near-sighted eyes of the fugitive banker could make out then what the -flat, silvery disc was, and Mr. Trimm cowered low in his covert behind -the rock, holding his hands down between his knees, fearful that a gleam -from his burnished wristlets might strike through the screen of weed -growth and catch the inquiring eye of the smith. So he stayed, not -daring to move, until a dinner horn sounded somewhere in the cluster of -cottages beyond, and the smith, closing the doors of his shop, went away -with the three yokels. - -Then Mr. Trimm, stooping low, stole back into the deep woods again. In -his extremity he was ready to risk making a bid for the hire of a -blacksmith's aid to rid himself of his bonds, but not a blacksmith who -wore a deputy sheriff's badge pinned to his suspenders. - - * * * * * - -He caught himself scraping his wrists up and down again against the -rough, scrofulous trunk of a shellbark hickory. The irritation was -comforting to the swollen skin. The cuffs, which kept catching on the -bark and snagging small fragments of it loose, seemed to Mr. Trimm to -have been a part and parcel of him for a long time--almost as long a -time as he could remember. But the hands which they clasped so close -seemed like the hands of somebody else. There was a numbness about them -that made them feel as though they were a stranger's hands which never -had belonged to him. As he looked at them with a sort of vague curiosity -they seemed to swell and grow, these two strange hands, while the -fetters measured yards across, while the steel bands shrunk to the -thinness of piano wire, cutting deeper and deeper into the flesh. Then -the hands in turn began to shrink down and the cuffs to grow up into -great, thick things as cumbersome as the couplings of a freight car. A -voice that Mr. Trimm dimly recognized as his own was saying something -about four million dollars over and over again. - -Mr. Trimm roused up and shook his head angrily to clear it. He rubbed -his eyes free of the clouding delusion. It wouldn't do for him to be -getting light-headed. - - * * * * * - -On a flat, shelving bluff, forty feet above a cut through which the -railroad ran at a point about five miles north of where the collision -had occurred, a tramp was busy, just before sundown, cooking something -in an old washboiler that perched precariously on a fire of wood coals. -This tramp was tall and spindle-legged, with reddish hair and a pale, -beardless, freckled face with no chin to it and not much forehead, so -that it ran out to a peak like the profile of some featherless, -unpleasant sort of fowl. The skirts of an old, ragged overcoat dangled -grotesquely about his spare shanks. - -Desperate as his plight had become, Mr. Trimm felt the old sick shame at -the prospect of exposing himself to this knavish-looking vagabond whose -help he meant to buy with a bribe. It was the sight of a dainty wisp of -smoke from the wood fire curling upward through the cloudy, damp air -that had brought him limping cautiously across the right-of-way, to -climb the rocky shelf along the cut; but now he hesitated, shielded in -the shadows twenty yards away. It was a whiff of something savory in the -washboiler, borne to him on the still air and almost making him cry out -with eagerness, that drew him forth finally. At the sound of the halting -footsteps the tramp stopped stirring the mess in the washboiler and -glanced up apprehensively. As he took in the figure of the newcomer his -eyes narrowed and his pasty, nasty face spread in a grin of -comprehension. - -"Well, well, well," he said, leering offensively, "welcome to our city, -little stranger." - -Mr. Trimm came nearer, dragging his feet, for they were almost out of -the wrecks of his patent-leather shoes. His gaze shifted from the -tramp's face to the stuff on the fire, his nostrils wrinkling. Then -slowly, "I'm in trouble," he said, and held out his hands. - -"Wot I'd call a mild way o' puttin' it," said the tramp coolly. "That -purticular kind o' joolry ain't gen'lly wore for pleasure." - -His eyes took on a nervous squint and roved past Mr. Trimm's stooped -figure down the slope of the hillock. - -"Say, pal, how fur ahead are you of yore keeper?" he demanded, his -manner changing. - -"There is no one after me--no one that I know of," explained Mr. Trimm. -"I am quite alone--I am certain of it." - -"Sure there ain't nobody lookin' fur you?" the other persisted -suspiciously. - -"I tell you I am all alone," protested Mr. Trimm. "I want your help in -getting these--these things off and sending a message to a friend. -You'll be well paid, very well paid. I can pay you more money than you -ever had in your life, probably, for your help. I can promise-----" - -He broke off, for the tramp, as if reassured by his words, had stooped -again to his cooking and was stirring the bubbling contents of the -washboiler with a peeled stick. The smell of the stew, rising strongly, -filled Mr. Trimm with such a sharp and an aching hunger that he could -not speak for a moment. He mastered himself, but the effort left him -shaking and gulping. - -"Go on, then, an' tell us somethin' about yourself," said the freckled -man. "Wot brings you roamin' round this here railroad cut with them -bracelets on?" - -"I was in the wreck," obeyed Mr. Trimm. "The man with me--the -officer--was killed. I wasn't hurt and I got away into these woods. But -they think I'm dead too--my name was among the list of dead." - -The other's peaky face lengthened in astonishment. - -"Why, say!" he began. "I read all about that there wreck--seen the list -myself--say, you can't be Trimm, the New York banker? Yes, you are! Wot -a streak of luck! Lemme look at you! Trimm, the swell financier, -sportin' 'round with the darbies on him all nice an' snug an' reg'lar! -Mister Trimm--well, if this ain't rich!" - -"My name is Trimm," said the starving banker miserably. "I've been -wandering about here a great many hours--several days, I think it must -be--and I need rest and food very much indeed. I don't--don't feel very -well," he added, his voice trailing off. - -At this his self-control gave way again and he began to quake violently -as if with an ague. The smell of the cooking overcame him. - -"You don't look so well an' that's a fact, Trimm," sneered the tramp, -resuming his malicious, mocking air. "But set down an' make yourself at -home, an' after a while, when this is done, we'll have a bite -together--you an' me. It'll be a reg'lar tea party fur jest us two." - -He broke off to chuckle. His mirth made him appear even more repulsive -than before. - -"But looky here, you wuz sayin' somethin' about money," he said -suddenly. "Le's take a look at all this here money." - -He came over to him and went through Mr. Trimm's pockets. Mr. Trimm said -nothing and stood quietly, making no resistance. The tramp finished a -workmanlike search of the banker's pockets. He looked at the result as -it lay in his grimy palm--a moist little wad of bills and some -chicken-feed change--and spat disgustedly with a nasty oath. - -"Well, Trimm," he said, "fur a Wall Street guy seems to me you travel -purty light. About how much did you think you'd get done fur all this -pile of wealth?" - -"You will be well paid," said Mr. Trimm, arguing hard; "my friend will -see to that. What I want you to do is to take the money you have there -in your hand and buy a cold chisel or a file--any tools that will cut -these things off me. And then you will send a telegram to a certain -gentleman in New York. And let me stay with you until we get an -answer--until he comes here. He will pay you well; I promise it." - -He halted, his eyes and his mind again on the bubbling stuff in the -rusted washboiler. The freckled vagrant studied him through his -red-lidded eyes, kicking some loose embers back into the fire with his -toe. - -"I've heard a lot about you one way an' another, Trimm," he said. -"'Tain't as if you wuz some pore down-an'-out devil tryin' to beat the -cops out of doin' his bit in stir. You're the way-up, high-an'-mighty -kind of crook. An' from wot I've read an' heard about you, you never -toted fair with nobody yet. There wuz that young feller, wot's his -name?--the cashier--him that wuz tried with you. He went along with you -in yore games an' done yore work fur you an' you let him go over the -road to the same place you're tryin' to dodge now. Besides," he added -cunningly, "you come here talkin' mighty big about money, yet I notice -you ain't carryin' much of it in yore clothes. All I've had to go by is -yore word. An' yore word ain't worth much, by all accounts." - -"I tell you, man, that you'll profit richly," burst out Mr. Trimm, the -words falling over each other in his new panic. "You must help me; I've -endured too much--I've gone through too much to give up now." He pleaded -fast, his hands shaking in a quiver of fear and eagerness as he -stretched them out in entreaty and his linked chain shaking with them. -Promises, pledges, commands, orders, arguments poured from him. His -tormentor checked him with a gesture. - -"You're wot I'd call a bird in the hand," he chuckled, hugging his slack -frame, "an' it ain't fur you to be givin' orders--it's fur me. An', -anyway, I guess we ain't a-goin' to be able to make a trade--leastwise -not on yore terms. But we'll do business all right, all right--anyhow, -I will." - -"What do you mean?" panted Mr. Trimm, full of terror. "You'll help me?" - -"I mean this," said the tramp slowly. He put his hands under his -loose-hanging overcoat and began to fumble at a leather strap about his -waist. "If I turn you over to the Government I know wot you'll be worth, -purty near, by guessin' at the reward; an' besides, it'll maybe help to -square me up fur one or two little matters. If I turn you loose I ain't -got nothin' only your word--an' I've got an idea how much faith I kin -put in that." - -Mr. Trimm glanced about him wildly. There was no escape. He was fast in -a trap which he himself had sprung. The thought of being led to jail, -all foul of body and fettered as he was, by this filthy, smirking wretch -made him crazy. He stumbled backward with some insane idea of running -away. - -"No hurry, no hurry a-tall," gloated the tramp, enjoying the torture of -this helpless captive who had walked into his hands. "I ain't goin' to -hurt you none--only make sure that you don't wander off an' hurt -yourself while I'm gone. Won't do to let you be damagin' yoreself; -you're valuable property. Trimm, now, I'll tell you wot we'll do! We'll -just back you up agin one of these trees an' then we'll jest slip this -here belt through yore elbows an' buckle it around behind at the back; -an' I kinder guess you'll stay right there till I go down yonder to that -town that I passed comin' up here an' see wot kind of a bargain I kin -strike up with the marshal. Come on, now," he threatened with a show of -bluster, reading the resolution that was mounting in Mr. Trimm's face. -"Come on peaceable, if you don't want to git hurt." - -Of a sudden Mr. Trimm became the primitive man. He was filled with those -elemental emotions that make a man see in spatters of crimson. Gathering -strength from passion out of an exhausted frame, he sprang forward at -the tramp. He struck at him with his head, his shoulders, his knees, his -manacled wrists, all at once. Not really hurt by the puny assault, but -caught by surprise, the freckled man staggered bade, clawing at the air, -tripped on the washboiler in the fire, and with a yell vanished below -the smooth edge of the cut. - -Mr. Trimm stole forward and looked over the bluff. Half-way down the -cliff on an outcropping shelf of rock the man lay, face downward, -motionless. He seemed to have grown smaller and to have shrunk into his -clothes. One long, thin leg was bent up under the skirts of the overcoat -in a queer, twisted way, and the cloth of the trouser leg looked -flattened and empty. As Mr. Trimm peered down at him he saw a red stain -spreading on the rock under the still, silent figure's head. - -Mr. Trimm turned to the washboiler. It lay on its side, empty, the last -of its recent contents sputtering out into the half-drowned fire. He -stared at this ruin a minute. Then without another look over the cliff -edge he stumbled slowly down the hill, muttering to himself as he went. -Just as he struck the level it began to rain, gently at first, then -hard, and despite the shelter of the full-leaved forest trees, he was -soon wet through to his skin and dripped water as he lurched along -without sense of direction and, indeed, without any active realization -of what he was doing. - - * * * * * - -Late that night it was still raining--a cold, steady, autumnal downpour. -A huddled figure slowly climbed upon a low fence running about the -house-yard of the little farm where the boy lived who got thrashed for -losing a milk-pail. On the wet top rail, precariously perching, the -figure slipped and sprawled forward in the miry yard. It got up, -painfully swaying on its feet. It was Mr. Trimm, looking for food. He -moved slowly toward the house, tottering from weakness and because of -the slick mud underfoot; peering near-sightedly this way and that -through the murk; starting at every sound and stopping often to listen. - -The outlines of the lean-to kitchen at the back of the house were -looming dead ahead of him when from the corner of the cottage sprang a -small terrier. It made for Mr. Trimm, barking shrilly. He retreated -backward, kicking at the little dog and, to hold his balance, striking -out with short, dabby jerks of his fettered hands--they were such -motions as the terrier itself might make trying to walk on its hindlegs. -Still backing away, expecting every instant to feel the terrier's teeth -in his flesh, Mr. Trimm put one foot into a hotbed with a great clatter -of the breaking glass. He felt the sharp ends of shattered glass tearing -and cutting his shin as he jerked free. Recovering himself, he dealt the -terrier a lucky kick under the throat that sent it back, yowling, to -where it had come from, and then, as a door jerked open and a -half-dressed man jumped out into the darkness, Mr. Trimm half hobbled, -half fell out of sight behind the woodpile. - -Back and forth along the lower edge of his yard the farmer hunted, with -the whimpering, cowed terrier to guide him, poking in dark corners with -the muzzle of his shotgun for the unseen intruder whose coming had -aroused the household. In a brushpile just over the fence to the east -Mr. Trimm lay on his face upon the wet earth, with the rain beating down -on him, sobbing with choking gulps that wrenched him cruelly, biting at -the bonds on his wrists until the sound of breaking teeth gritted in the -air. Finally, in the hopeless, helpless frenzy of his agony he beat his -arms up and down until the bracelets struck squarely on a flat stone and -the force of the blow sent the cuffs home to the last notch so that they -pressed harder and faster than ever upon the tortured wrist bones. - -When he had wasted ten or fifteen minutes in a vain search the farmer -went shivering back indoors to dry put his wet shirt. But the groveling -figure in the brushpile lay for a long time where it was, only stirring -a little while the rain dripped steadily down on everything. - - * * * * * - -The wreck was on a Tuesday evening. Early on the Saturday morning -following, the chief of police, who was likewise the whole of the day -police force in the town of Westfield, nine miles from the place where -the collision occurred, heard a peculiar, strangely weak knocking at the -front door of his cottage, where he also had his office. The door was a -Dutch door, sawed through the middle, so that the top half might be -opened independently, leaving the lower panel fast. He swung this top -half bade. - -A face was framed in the opening--an indescribably dirty, unutterably -weary face, with matted white hair and a rime of whitish beard stubble -on the jaws. It was fallen in and sunken and it drooped on the chest of -its owner. The mouth, swollen and pulpy, as if from repeated hard blows, -hung agape, and between the purplish parted lips showed the stumps of -broken teeth. The eyes blinked weakly at the chief from under lids as -colorless as the eyelids of a corpse. The bare white head was filthy -with plastered mud and twigs, and dripping wet. - -"Hello, there!" said the chief, startled at this apparition. "What do -you want?" - -With a movement that told of straining effort the lolled head came up -off the chest. The thin, corded neck stiffened back, rising from a -dirty, collarless neckband. The Adam's apple bulged out prominently, as -big as a pigeon's egg. - -"I have come," said the specter in a wheezing rasp of a voice which the -chief could hardly hear, "I have come to surrender myself. I am Hobart -W. Trimm." - -"I guess you got another think comin'," said the chief, who was by the -way of being a neighborhood wag. "When last seen Hobart W. Trimm was -only fifty-two years old. Besides which, he's dead and buried. I guess -maybe you'd better think ag'in, grandpap, and see if you ain't -Methus'lah or the Wanderin' Jew." - -"I am Hobart W. Trimm, the banker," whispered the stranger with a sort -of wan stubbornness. - -"Go on and prove it," suggested the chief, more than willing to prolong -the enjoyment of the sensation. It wasn't often in Westfield that -wandering lunatics came a-calling. - -"Got any way to prove it?" he repeated as the visitor stared at him. - -"Yes," came the creaking, rusted hinge of a voice, "I have." - -Slowly, with struggling attempts, he raised his hands into the chief's -sight. They were horribly swollen hands, red with the dried blood where -they were not black with the dried dirt; the fingers puffed up out of -shape; the nails broken; they were like the skinned paws of a bear. And -at the wrists, almost buried in the bloated folds of flesh, blackened, -rusted, battered, yet still strong and whole, was a tightly locked pair -of Bean's Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs. - -"Great God!" cried the chief, transfixed at the sight. He drew the bolt -and jerked open the lower half of the door. - -"Come in," he said, "and lemme get them irons off of you--they must hurt -something terrible." "They can wait," said Mr. Trimm very humbly. "I -have worn them a long, long while, I think--I am used to them. Wouldn't -you please get me some food first?" - - -[Footnote 2: _From Irvin Cobb's The Escape of Mr. Trimm, His Plight and -Other Plights, Copyright, 1913, by George H. Doran Company. By -permission of the publishers._] - - -[Illustration] - - -[Illustration: PETER B. KYNE] - - - - -_FOREWORD_ - - -_In the days of my youth I was happy. I had no money, hence no -responsibilities. All I had was a job with wages that never developed -into a position with salary. However, out of my stipend I managed to buy -a good shotgun and, each fall thereafter, a case of shells with my own -special load for quail--one ounce of No. 9 chilled shot with twenty-four -grains of Laflin & Rand powder. In "those old days of the lost sunshine" -I possessed also two additional treasures--the most wonderful and -lovable shooting crony a man ever had and the finest little English -setter any man ever killed a quail over. My pal presented me with this -dog because he loved me; moreover, he had a weakness for pointers and -owned a bitch named Lou._ - -_Lee Clark and his good dog Lou! What memories they evoke! As I write -the years fall away and Lee and Lou and Dick and I are quail-hunting in -the hills of California. I see a little swale covered with stunted sage, -blackberry bushes and dried nettles, and the dogs are questing through -it. Lee Clark is on one side of this swale and I am on the other, and -for a moment the dogs are invisible to me. Then, borne to me on the -crisp October air, comes Lee's voice_: - -"_Point!_" - -_I move fifteen or twenty feet. I am in no hurry, for I know those dogs. -It is a matter of personal honor with them not to break point. Presently -I see them. Little lemon-and-white Lou has found the bird, and Dicky -thorough little gentleman that he was, is honoring her point! Lee walks -down to his dog; the quail lies close. "Good old Lou," Lee says, and -stoops to give her the caress she craves. Then he kicks out the -bird--for me! (Lee was like that. He would never kill a bird over his -own dog's point while his field companion stood by, nor could any -protest move him from this exhibition of his inherent graciousness and -courtesy.) So I fire--and miss--and then at forty yards Lee gets the -bird, and Lou trots sedately down and picks the little feathered martyr -up very gently, scarcely disturbing a feather, and carries the trophy -uphill to Lee. As I write, with twenty years behind me, I tan see her -yet, her tail and rear end swishing pridefully and her beautiful eyes -abeam with love; she is even trying to smile with the bird in her -mouth!_ - -_Lee takes the bird from her and tucks it in his hunting-coat pocket. -Then he strokes Lou's head and says: "Good girl," and Lou licks his hand -and scurries away to find another bird. And this time she points so -close to me that Lee calls cheerily to me to kick the bird out and kill -it. I do--and again Lou retrieves the bird. But she does not bring it to -her master this time. Ah, no! Lou is wiser than that. She brings it to -me, for she knows it is my bird!_ - -_Meanwhile Dick is frozen on another bird! And so it goes. At noon we -rest under an oak beside a creek, and over a barbecued steak and a -bottle of good wine, discuss the morning shoot and the prospects of as -good shooting in the afternoon. And late that night we drive home in the -moonlight in an old side-bar buggy, with Dick curled up in back and Lou -in her master's lap, with her muzzle in his hand . . ._ - -_Well, there will never be another Dick or another Lou or another -gallant, kindly, unselfish, understanding friend and shooting crony like -Lee Clark. A fiend stole Dick from me and Lou died in puppy-birth; when -Lee told me about it he wept, and I honored him for his tears. And then -the pressure of life commenced to be felt. After twelve years of Lou, -Lee Clark could not accustom himself to other dogs--and the hopelessness -of finding another Lou was quite apparent, for Lou had been one of those -rare dogs that do not require training! And I could never find another -Dicky and had no place to keep him if I had. I became an author and -married, and a multitude of interests claimed us, and we gave up -quail-shooting, although every few years we meet and talk bravely about -the necessity for renewing our youth afield._ - -_A man who has trained field dogs for me has much of Lee Clark in him, -and that man's wife is a rare good sport. One day I went to his kennels, -and he showed me a five-year-old setter that had been the unbeautiful -runt of his litter. He called this dog Jeff, and Jeff was a failure. His -litter mates had made field trial history but Jeff was so little and -homely, nobody had ever wanted him, and he had never been trained. He -was a stud dog._ - -_He was the reincarnation of my lost Dick! I bought him for a hundred -and twenty-five dollars, and ignoring the theory that you cannot teach -an old dog new tricks, I had Jeff trained. He was such a bright, -cunning, fast little old man of a dog that the trainer, who names my -dogs after the heroes and heroines of my stories, renamed him Cappy -Ricks and registered him by that name. Cappy Ricks did not win in the -field trials that year, but he lost on a hair-line decision and after an -exhibition of bird work that made him great, even in defeat, and brought -me offers of far more than I had spent on him from men who knew a real -dog when they saw one. Well, I have bought many dogs, but I have never -sold one, and I never shall . . . too much like selling old Uncle Tom -down the river! So Cappy is rounding out his years questing through the -alfalfa field at my ranch for quail that aren't there. However, I gave -him his chance, for dead Dick's sake, and he made good, and I hope he -enjoyed it._ - -_So I wrote a story about Cappy and a fictitious trainer and his wife, -because field dog trainers and the field dog "fancy" are different from -all other sportsmen. And when my little story had been written and my -editor, Ray Long, asked me what I was going to call it, I had a swift -and poignant vision of a lovely October morning in the hills of -California. There was a little swale grown over with stunted sage, -blackberry vines and dried nettles, and in the cover Lou was standing at -point, with Dick honoring her; from across the swale I heard again the -voice of the best friend and the best field companion any man ever had. -And he was calling warningly_: - -"_Point!_" - -_Yes, this story is dedicated to Lee Clark and his good dog, Lou!_ - - - - -POINT[3] - -BY PETER B. KYNE - - -Little Old Dan Pelly occupied a position in life analogous to that of a -tragedian who aspires to play comedy rĂ´les. By reason of early -environment, natural inclination and years of practice, he was a dog -trainer; now, in the sunset of his rather futile life, he was a cross -between a chicken raiser, farmer and dreamer of old dreams that had to -do mostly with dogs and good quail cover. In a word, old Dan was not -happy, and this morning as he sat on a fallen scrub oak tree on the -highest point on his alleged ranch and gazed off into Little Antelope -Valley, he almost wished that a merciful Providence would waft him out -of this cold world. - -"The Indians had the right idea of a hereafter," mused Dan Pelly. "To -them the next world was a happy hunting ground. This world is no longer -fit for a white man to live in. It's getting too civilized. Travel as -far as you will for good trout-fishing and upland hunting and you'll -find some scrub there ahead of you in a flivver. Get out on your own -ground at dawn on the day the shooting season opens--and you'll find -empty shotgun shells a week old. Tim, old pal, the more I see of some -men the more I love you." - -Tim--or, to accord him his registered name. Tiny Tim--ran his cool -muzzle into Dan Pelly's horny palm and rested it there. Just rested it -and spoke never a word, for Tiny Tim was one of those rare dogs who know -when their masters are troubled of soul and forbear to weary their loved -ones with unnecessary outbursts of affection or sympathy. He leaned his -shoulder against Dan's knee and rested his muzzle in Dan's hand as who -should say: "Well, man alone is vile. Here I am and I'll stick, depend -upon it." - -Tiny Tim was an English setter and the last surviving son of Keepsake, -the greatest bitch Dan Pelly had ever seen or owned. Dan had wept when -an envious scoundrel had poisoned her the night before a field trial up -Bakersfield way. All of her puppies out of Kenwood Boy had survived, and -all had made history in dogdom. Three of them had been placed--one, two, -three--in the Derby. The other two had been the runners-up, and the -least promising of these runners-up had been Tiny Tim. - -Tim had been the runt of the litter and as if his physical deficiency -had not been sufficient handicap, he had grown into a singularly -unbeautiful dog. He had a butterfly nose, one black ear, a solid white -coat with the exception of a black spot as big as a man's hand just over -the root of his tail; and his tail was his crowning misfortune. Dog -fanciers like a setter with a merry tail, but Tiny Tim carried his very -low when he ran that Derby, and he had never carried it very high since. -As if to offset the tragedy of his tail, however, Tiny Tim ran with a -high head, for he had, tucked away in that butterfly nose, a pair of -olfactory nerves that carried him unerringly to birdy ground. He could -always manage to locate a bird lying close in cover that had been -thoroughly prospected by other dogs. - -Dan Pelly had sold Tiny Tim's litter mates at a fancy figure after that -memorable Derby, but for homely Tiny Tim there were no bidders; so Dan -Pelly expressed him back to the kennels. He was homely and lacked style -and dash in his bird work; he appeared a bit nervous and uncertain and -inclined to limit his range, and it seemed to Dan that as a field trial -prospect he was so much inferior to other dogs that it was scarcely -worth while spending any time or money on his education. However, he did -have a grand nose; when he grew older Dan hoped he might outgrow his -nervousness and be steadier to shot and wing; in view of his undoubted -instinct for birds, it seemed the part of wisdom to make a "plug" -shooting dog of him. Every dog trainer keeps such an animal, if not for -his own use then for the use of stout old bank presidents and of retired -brewers whose idea of the sport of hunting is to come home with "the -limit." A grand hunting dog means little in the lives of such -"sportsmen"; they want a dog that will work close to the gun, thus -enabling them to proceed leisurely, as becomes a fat man. It is no -pleasure to them to be forced to walk down a steep hill, clamber across -a deep gully and climb the opposite hill to kill a bird their dog has -been pointing for fifteen or twenty minutes. It is reserved for -idealists like old Dan Pelly to thrill to the work of a dog like that. -The dead bird is a secondary consideration. - -So Tiny Tim had been sent back to the kennel, and now, in his fifth -year, he was still on Dan Pelly's hands. But that was no fault of Tiny -Tim's. And he had never again been entered in a field trial. That was no -fault of his, either. Dan Pelly had merely gone out of the dog business, -and Tiny Tim, his last dog and best beloved, was neither a field trial -dog nor yet a potterer for fat bankers and retired brewers who came down -to Dan Pelly's place for a week-end shoot in the season. No, Tiny Tim -had never achieved that disgrace. Dan Pelly had given up dog training -and dog boarding and dog raising and dog trading after his return from -that field trial where old Keepsake's litter had brought him more money -than he had ever seen at any one time before. Consequently, Tiny Tim was -Dan's own shooting dog and Dan had trained him not for filthy lucre but -for that love and companionship for a good dog which idealists of the -Dan Pelly type can never repress. - -Tiny Tim had known but one master, and but one code of sportsmanship; he -responded to but one set of signals; he had never been curbed in his -range or speed; he had never been scolded or shouted at or beaten, but -he had received much of love and caressing and praise. He had been fed -properly, housed properly, wormed regularly every three months, bathed -every Saturday afternoon and brushed and combed almost every day, and as -a result he was an extremely healthy dog, albeit a small dog, even among -small, field type English setters. Dan Pelly loved him just a little bit -more because he was a runt and because, though royally bred, his bearing -was a bit ignoble. - -"I'll have none of your bench type setters," Dan was wont to remark when -speaking of setters. "I could weep from just lookin' at them--the poor -boobs, with their domed foreheads and their sad, bloodshot eyes and -dribbling chops. Too heavy and slow for anybody but a fat man. An hour's -hard going of a warm day and they're done. I'll have a light, neat -little setter for a long, hard, drivin' day of it." - -Dan Pelly's choice of dog was an index to his character. He, too, was a -light, compact little man, with something of a lost dog's wistfulness -about him. Dan didn't like pointers. They were too aggressive, too -headstrong, too noisy for him. The sight of a bulldog or a bull terrier -or an Airedale made him angry, for such dogs could always be depended -upon to pounce upon a shooting dog and worry him. Toy dogs depressed -him. They seemed so unworthy of human attention and moreover they had no -brains. - -This morning Dan Pelly was more than ordinarily unhappy. He needed five -hundred dollars worse than he needed salvation . . . - -And only the day before while he and Tim had been working a patch of low -cover just off the county road, a man in a very expensive automobile -driven by a liveried chauffeur had paused in the road to watch them. -Presently Tim had made one of those spectacular points which always give -a real dog lover a thrill. In mid-air, while leaping over a small bush, -he had caught the scent of a quail crouching close under that bush. He -had landed with his body half turned toward the bush, his head had swung -around and there he had stood, "frozen." Dan had walked up, kicked the -bird out, waited until the quail was forty yards away and fired. -Meanwhile Tim had broken point and, head up, was following the flushed -bird with anxious eyes. - -As the gun barked the bird flinched slightly but did not reduce its -speed. Wings spread stiffly, it sailed away out of sight and Dan Pelly, -seeing himself watched by the man in the motor car, grinned -deprecatingly. - -"Missed him a mile," he called. - -"You let him get too far away before you fired," the stranger replied -with that hearty camaraderie which always obtains between lovers of -upland shooting. - -"My gun is a full choke; I can kill nicely with it at fifty yards, but I -like to give the birds a chance for their white alley so I never shoot -under forty yards." - -"Grand point your little setter made then. Steady to flush and shot, -too. Homely little rascal, but man, he's a dog! I must have a look at -him, if you don't mind, my friend." And he got out of the car. - -"Certainly, sir. Come, Timmy, lad. Shake hands with the gentleman." - -But Tiny Tim had other and more important matters to attend to. He was -racing at full speed after that departing bird. Dan whistled him to -halt, but Tim paid no attention. He crossed a gentle rise of ground and -disappeared on the other side. He was out of sight for about five -minutes; then he appeared again on the crest and came jogging sedately -back to Dan Pelly. In his mouth he held tenderly a wounded quail. -Straight to Dan Pelly he came, and as he advanced he twisted his little -body sinuously and arched and lowered his shoulders and flipped his tail -from side to side and smiled with his eyes. In effect he said: "Dan, you -didn't think you hit that bird, but I saw him flinch ever so little. -I've had a lot of experience in such matters and experience has taught -me that a bird hit like that will fly a couple of hundred yards and then -drop. So I kept my eye on this one and sure enough just as he reached -the top of that little rise I saw him settle rather abruptly. So I went -over and nosed around and picked up his trail. He had an injured -wing--numbed, probably--and he was down and running to beat the band. -It's sporty to chase a runner, because if we don't get him, Dan, a -weasel will." - -The stranger looked at the bird in Tim's mouth and then he looked at Dan -Pelly. "Well, I'll be swindled!" he declared. "If I live to be a million -years old I'll never see a prettier piece of bird work than that. The -dog's human." - -"Yes, he's a right nice little feller," Dan declared pridefully. "Timmy, -boy, take the bird to the gentleman and then shake hands with him." - -Timmy looked at the stranger, who smiled at him, so he walked sedately -to the latter and gently dropped the frightened bird into his hand. Not -a feather had been disturbed; not a tooth had marred the tender flesh. - -The stranger reached down and twigged Tiny Tim's nose; then he tugged -his ear a little, said "Good dog" and stroked Tim's head. Tim extended a -paw to be shaken. They were friends. - -"Want to sell this dog, my friend?" the newcomer demanded. - -"Oh, no! Timmy's the only dog I have left. He's just my little shooting -dog and I'm right fond of him. He has a disposition that sweet, sir, -you've never seen the beat of it. If I sold Timmy I'd never dare come -home. My wife would take the rolling pin to me." - -"I'll give you two hundred and fifty dollars for him." - -"Timmy isn't for sale, sir." - -"Not enough money, eh? Well, I don't blame you. If Timmy was my dog five -thousand dollars wouldn't touch him. It was worth that to me to see him -perform. Let me see him work this cover, if you please." To Tiny Tim: -"All right, boy. Root 'em out. Lots of birds in here yet." - -The dog was off like a streak. Suddenly he paused, sniffing up-wind, -swung slowly left and slowly right, trotted forward a few paces and -halted, head up, tail swinging excitedly, every muscle aquiver. - -"It's dry as tinder and the birds don't lay close. He's on to some -running birds now, sir. Watch him road 'em to heavier cover and then -point." - -Instead, they flushed. Tim watched them interestedly, marked where they -had settled, moved gingerly forward--and froze on a single that had -failed to flush. Dan Pelly handed the stranger his gun. "Perhaps, sir," -he said with his wistful smile, "you might enjoy killing a bird over -Timmy's point." - -This was the apotheosis of field courtesy. The stranger took the gun, -smiling his thanks, walked over to Tiny Tim, kicked out the bird and -missed him. Tim glanced once at the bird and promptly dismissed him from -consideration. He made a wide cast to come up on the spot where he had -seen the flushed covey settle. - -"Point!" called Dan Pelly. This time the stranger killed his bird, which -Tim retrieved in handsome style. - -"He brought the dead bird to me!" the stranger shouted. "Did you notice -that? He brought it to me!" - -"Of course. It's your bird. You killed it. Timmy knows that. It wouldn't -be mannerly of him to bring it to me. I see you appreciate a good -shooting dog, sir. I suppose, living in the city and a busy man, you -don't get much afield. There's a lot of birds scattered in this cover. -Have a little shoot over Timmy. I have four birds and that's enough for -our supper. I'll sit down under this oak tree and have a smoke." - -"That's devilish sporting of you, my friend. Thank you very much." And -the stranger hurried away after Tiny Tim. He was an incongruous figure -in that patch of cover, what with his derby hat and overcoat, and he -seemed to realize this, for he shed both, stuffed a dozen cartridges -into his pockets--he was far too big a man to wear Dan Pelly's -disreputable old hunting jacket--and hurried away after Tiny Tim. From -the far corner of the field Dan presently heard a merry fusillade, and -in about fifteen minutes his guest returned with half a dozen quail and -Tiny Tim trotting at his heels. - -"I'll give you a thousand dollars for Timmy, my friend," was his first -announcement. "Why, he works for me as if I were his master." - -"You're the first man except his master who has ever shot over him," -Pelly replied proudly. "Sorry, but Timmy is not for sale." - -"I'll bet nobody has ever offered you a thousand dollars for him. Here's -my card, Mr.-- er--er----" - -"Dan Pelly's my name, sir." - -"Mr. Pelly, and if you change your mind, wire me collect and I'll send a -man down with the cash and you can send the dog back by him." - -Dan took the card. The stranger thanked him and departed with his quail -in his expensive car. - -And this morning Dan Pelly sat at the highest point on his so-called -ranch and looked down into Little Antelope Valley and was unhappy. He -needed five hundred dollars to meet a mortgage; he could get a thousand -dollars within twenty-four hours by sending a telegram collect to the -man who had admired Tiny Tim--and he didn't have the courage to send the -telegram. In fact, he hadn't had sufficient courage to tell Martha, his -wife, of the stranger's offer. Martha was made of sterner stuff than her -husband and a terrible panic of fear had seized Dan at the mere thought -of telling her. What if she should accept the thousand dollars? - -Dan loaded his pipe and smoked ruminatively. He thought of his wasted -and futile life. Twenty-five years wasted as a professional dog trainer. -Faugh! And all he had to show for it was a host of memories, sweet and -bitter; sweet as he remembered the dear days afield with good dogs and -good fellows, the thrill of many a hard-fought field trial; bitter as he -thought of dogs he had loved and which had been sold or poisoned or died -of old age or disease; bitterer still as he reflected that he and Martha -had come to a childless old age with naught between them and the county -poor farm save a thousand acres of rough sage-covered land which, with -the exception of about twenty-five acres of rich, sub-irrigated bottom -land, was worthless save as a training ground for dogs. It had numerous -springs on it, good cover and just enough scrub oaks to form safe -roosting places for quail. It was a rather decent little game preserve -and occasionally Dan made a few dollars by granting old customers the -privilege of a shoot on it. He ran about a hundred head of goats on it, -while in the bottom land he and Martha eked out a precarious existence -with a few chickens and turkeys, a few hogs, a few stands of bees, three -cows, a couple of horses and Tiny Tim. For Tim was known to a few dog -fanciers as the last of the old Keepsake-Kenwood Boy strain in the state -and not infrequently they sent their bitches to Tiny Tim's court. - -Poor Martha! Hers had not been a very happy life with Dan Pelly. A dog -trainer is--a dog trainer. He can't very well be anything else because -God has made him so. And in his heart of hearts he doesn't want to be. -He trains dogs ostensibly for money but in reality because he loves them -and the job affords him a legitimate excuse to be afield with them, to -enjoy their society and that of the jovial devotees of upland -game-shooting. Dan Pelly wasn't an ambitious man. He had no desire to -dip coupons or wear fine raiment; his taste in automobiles went no -further than an old ruin he had picked up for two hundred dollars for -the purpose of carting his dogs around in the days before Martha took -over the handling of the Pelly fortunes, when Dan had had dogs to cart -around. - -The crux of the situation was this. Dog trainers are so busy with their -dogs that they neglect to send out bills for board and training, and the -men who can afford to buy expensive dogs and have them boarded and -trained seldom think of their dogs until fall. Then they pay the bill -and sometimes wonder why it is so large. In a word, the income of a dog -trainer is never what one might term staggering, and it is more or less -uncertain. - -Martha had grown weary of this uncertainty and when distemper for the -second time had cleaned out Dan Pelly's kennels, taking all of his own -dogs with the exception of Tiny Tim and either killing or ruining the -dogs of his customers, Mrs. Pelly felt that it was time to act. She knew -it would be years before Dan's old customers would send dogs to him -again. Friendship and a reputation as a great trainer are undoubtedly -first aids to a dog trainer's success, but men who love their dogs -hesitate to send them to a kennel where the germs of virulent distemper -are known to exist. It was up to Dan Pelly to burn his old kennels and -build new ones far removed from the location of the old. He could not -afford to do this and since Martha was desirous of seeing him engage in -something more constructive, Dan Pelly had gone out of business and -become a farmer in the trifling manner heretofore described. - -Martha told him she was weary of dogs. She had shed too many tears over -dead favorites; she had assisted at too many operations for the cure of -canker of the ear, fistula, tumor and cancer, broken legs, smashed toes -and cuts from barbed wire. She was already too learned in the gentle art -of healing mange and exorcising tapeworms. She loved dogs, but to have -thirty pointers and setters set up a furious barking whenever a stranger -appeared at the Pelly farm had finally "gotten on her nerves." She -understood Dan better than he understood himself and she knew how bitter -was the sacrifice she demanded; yet she realized that she must be firm -and lead Daniel in the way he must go, else would they come to want and -misery in a day when Dan would be too old to tramp over hill and dale -training dogs. Dan had readily consented to her direction--particularly -after she had wept a little. Poor Martha! - -From where he sat Dan Pelly could this morning see great activity on the -floor of Little Antelope Valley, just below him. Half a dozen men on -horseback were riding backward and forward and at least a dozen white -specks that Dan Pelly knew for hunting dogs were ranging here and there -among the low sage cover. - -"The first arrivals for the Pacific Coast Field Trials, and they're out -on the grounds, looking them over and seeing how their dogs behave. -Three days from now they'll be running the Derby, and after that the All -Age Stake. Ah, Timmy lad, if we two could only go to a field trial -again! How like old times it would be, Timmy! We'd be down at the -station to greet all the gentlemen coming in for the trials, and then -we'd be crowding around the baggage car watching the dogs in their -crates bein' lifted out. And we'd be peekin' through the air-holes in -the crates to see whether they'd be setters or pointers, and if setters, -whether they'd be English or Irish. And then the banquet up at the hotel -the night before the Derby and the toastmaster rappin' for order and -sayin': 'Gentlemen, we have with us tonight one of the Old Guard, Dan -Pelly. Dan is going to tell us something about the field trials of other -days--other days and other dogs. Gentlemen--old Dan Pelly.' - -"Ah, Tim my lad, we're out of it. Think, Timmy, if we two were driving -out to Antelope Valley in the morning, with you in my lap, and the -entrance fee up and me wild with excitement, if you were paired say with -a dog like Manitoba Rap or Fischel's Frank or Mary Montrose or Ringing -Bells or Robert the Devil--any one of the big ones, eh, Timmy? No, -Timmy, I wouldn't be excited. They're all great dogs. Didn't Mary -Montrose win the All America three times--the only dog in the world that -ever proved her championship caliber three times? - -"But Timmy lad, you'd run circles around her. You might run with a low -head and a dead tail--though your head is high and your tail is none so -low as it was in the Derby, when you were a wee puppy and nervous and -frightened--but you'd make the judges notice you, Timmy. You'd show them -dash and range and speed and style and brains; steady to flush, steady -to shot, steady to command, no false pointing, no roading birds to a -flush if you could help it, picking up singles on ground the other dog -thought he had covered, marking where the flushed coveys settle and -picking them up again. Ah, Timmy dog, it's breaking my heart to hide -your light under a bushel basket. I owe it to you to let men that know -and can appreciate a good dog see you work. Of the hundreds of dogs I've -owned, of the thousand I've trained since boyhood, you are the king of -them all. God help me, Timmy, I gave Martha my word I'd never attend -another field trial or handle another dog in one, either for myself or -another. We're whipped, Timmy. Whipped to a frazzle." - -Tiny Tim leaned a little closer and licked the palm of Dan's hand. He -was an understanding little dog. Even when Dan finally heaved slowly to -his feet and started down the hillside toward home, Tiny Tim followed at -his heels, forbearing to follow his natural instinct, which was to frisk -ahead of Dan far and wide and attend to the business for which he really -had been created. - -Arrived at the house Dan encountered with a sheepish glance the -searching one of his wife. - -"Where have you been, Dan?" she queried. - -"Oh, takin' a little walk," he replied. - -She sat down beside him on the porch and put her arm around his neck. -"Hard to be out of it, isn't it, dear?" - -"It's hard to think that a dog like Timmy shouldn't have his chance, -Martha. Why not make an exception to our agreement in this one case? I'm -sure I could win the All Age Stake with him. The entrance fee is -twenty-five dollars and there'll be upwards of forty dogs entered. -That'll be a thousand-dollar purse, divided five hundred, three-fifty -and a hundred and fifty. Might win first prize and be able to pay the -mortgage. Somehow I got a notion the bank won't renew the loan." - -Martha's eyes were as wistful as her husband's but hers was a far more -resolute nature. She kept her bargains and expected others to keep -theirs; she knew the weakness of Dan Pelly. If he should go down to the -field trials and enter Tiny Tim, he would meet old friends and old -customers. It was four years since he had quit the game--long enough for -men to forget those distemper germs and take another chance on Dan, for -Dan's fame as a trainer was almost national. Somebody would be certain -to ask him to train a Derby or Futurity prospect for next fall, or to -handle a string of dogs in the Manitoba chicken trials. - -And Dan was weak. He was one of those men who could never quite say no -as if he meant it. Let him go down to dogdom and he would be back in the -game again as deep as ever within a year. Decidedly (thought Martha) -they couldn't afford to go over that ground again. - -"Yes," Dan sighed, "it's a pity Timmy can't have his chance. He never -was a kennel-raised dog. He's been allowed to rove and roam and he's -hunted so much on his own I don't really understand why he hasn't been -spoiled. But the exercise and experience he's had in one year exceed -that of most dogs in a lifetime. He's little, but he's well muscled and -tough and can hold his speed long after other dogs have slowed up. I -wish he could have his chance, Martha." - -Martha felt herself slipping, so, to avoid that catastrophe, she left -Dan and entered the house. - -All day long Dan sat on the porch, glooming and grieving. Having the -field trials held practically at his own door was a sore temptation. Dan -dwelt in Gethsemane. All day he suffered until finally, being human, he -was tempted beyond his strength and fell. About four o'clock, while -Martha was busy feeding the chickens, locking them up and gathering -eggs, Dan Pelly sneaked into the house, donned his Sunday suit, -abstracted the sum of fifty dollars from Martha's cache in the tomato -can back of the jars of preserves on the back porch, cranked his -prehistoric automobile and with Tiny Tim on the seat behind him fled to -the fleshpots. He left a note on the dining-room table for Martha. - - -Dear Martha: - -Can't stand it any longer. Timmy _must_ have his chance. It's for his -sake, dear. I've robbed you of your egg money, but I _know_ you'll have it -back tomorrow. - - -Your loving - -DAN. - - -Dan Pelly felt like a criminal as he rattled down the dusty country -lane. But if he could only have seen Martha's face as she read his note! -She laughed at first and then her eyes grew moist. "Poor old Dan!" she -murmured to the cat. "I'm so glad he defied me. It proves he's a human -being. I'm so grateful to him for his weakness. He didn't force me to a -decision." - -Arrived in town Dan Pelly parked his car at the village square, went to -the local hotel and engaged a room. He registered, "Dan Pelly and his -dog, Tiny Tim." Before he could go up to the room he was seen and -recognized by the secretary of the field trial club, Major Christensen. - -"Hello, Dan, you old fossil. When did they dig you up?" the Major -saluted him affably. "Back in the game again?" - -"Oh, no," Dan replied. "Just blew in to look 'em over. Got a son of old -Keepsake and Kenwood Boy here. Thought I'd start him in fast company and -see if he has any class. He's just a plug shooting dog." - -"Well," the Major answered, looking Tim over with a critical and -disapproving glance, "it'll cost you twenty-five dollars to glean that -information, Dan." He took out an entry blank; Dan filled it out and -returned it together with the entrance fee. Next he visited the hotel -kitchen, where he did business with the chef and procured for Tiny Tim a -hearty ration of lamb, stew with vegetables, after which he took the -little dog up to his room. Tim sprang into bed immediately, curled up -and went to sleep. - -That night Dan attended the banquet. Old friends were there, fellow -trainers, trainers he had never met before, with dogs from Canada to the -Gulf, from Maine to California. It was an exceedingly doggy party and -poor old starved Dan reveled in it. He was living again, and under the -stimulus of the unusual excitement and a couple of nips of contraband -Scotch whisky he made the speech of his career, ripped the Fish and Game -Commission up the back and ended by going upstairs and bringing Tiny Tim -down in his arms to exhibit him to those around the festal board as the -only real dog he had ever owned. - -"He'll win every heat in which he's entered," Dan bragged, "and he'll -win in the finals. He looks like a mutt, but oh, boy, watch his smoke!" - -When the drawing for the next day's events took place, Dan discovered -that Tiny Tim had been paired with a famous old pointer from Nevada, -known as Colonel Dorsey. Dan knew there were better dogs than Colonel -Dorsey, but they weren't very plentiful, and under the able handling of -a veteran trainer, Alf Wilkes, Dan knew Tiny Tim would have to extend -himself to center the attention of the judges on his performance. To -have Tim paired with Colonel Dorsey pleased Dan greatly, however, for if -Tim merely succeeded in running a dead heat with the Colonel, that meant -that Tim and the Colonel would fight it out together in the finals; for -Colonel Dorsey was, in the opinion of all present, the class of the -entries; he was in excellent form and condition and as full of ginger -and go as a runaway horse. - -A gentleman who had arrived too late for the banquet came shouldering -his way through the crowd in the hotel lobby just after the drawing. Dan -recognized in him the gentleman who had offered him a thousand dollars -for Tiny Tim that day in the patch of cover by the side of the road. He -came smiling up to Dan Pelly and shook his hand heartily. - -"I'm the owner of Colonel Dorsey," he announced. "It'll be a barrel of -fun to run my dog against Tiny Tim. A sporting dog owned and handled by -a sportsman. Mr. Pelly, we're going to have a race." - -"I hope so, sir," said Dan simply. "I want Timmy to have a foeman worthy -of his steel, as the feller says." - -"He will," the other promised. - -He did. They were put down in a wide flat with a little watercourse -running through the center of it. The cover was low, stunted sage, -affording excellent cover for the birds and opportunities for them to -sneak away from a dog without being seen, for there was not much open -space between the sage bushes. They were away together, headed for the -watercourse, Colonel Dorsey in the lead. - -Suddenly Tiny Tim stopped dead and commenced to road at right angles, -coming up into the wind. The Colonel pressed eagerly on and flushed, but -was steady to flush. So was Tiny Tim. A moment later the Colonel pointed -and Tiny Tim, standing in the open, honored the Colonel's point -beautifully, but broke point after a minute of waiting and scouted off -on a wide cast. The Colonel held his point and his handler, coming up, -attempted to flush. The point was barren. Undoubtedly the bird had been -there but had run out. - -The Colonel's owner, who had been following the judges in a buckboard -with Dan Pelly in the seat beside him, looked at his guest. "I own a -colonel, but you own a general, Mr. Pelly. Your dog is handling his -birds better than mine." - -"Point!" came a hoarse shout from the direction in which Tim had gone. -He had come back on his cast and was down in the watercourse on point. -Dan Pelly got out of the buckboard and flushed a double, at the same -time firing over the birds. Tim was absolutely stanch to shot and flush. -He looked disappointed because no dead bird rewarded his efforts, but -immediately pressed on up the gully. Dan Pelly thrilled. He knew the -birds would lie close in this cover and that Tim would run up a heavy -score. He did. Point after point he scored and always a single was -flushed. When he had made nineteen points on single birds the whistle -blew and the dogs were taken up. - -Colonel Dorsey, ranging wide, had shown speed, style and dash but had -found no birds. Tim had made but one cast but it was sufficient to show -that he, too, had speed and range, albeit his style was nothing to brag -about. But he had performed the function for which bird dogs are bred. -He had found game and handled it in a masterly manner. The dogs were -down forty minutes and both were fresh when taken up. The judges awarded -the heat to Tiny Tim. - -Colonel Dorsey's owner slapped old Dan Pelly on the back. "I came a long -way for a splendid thrashing," he admitted gallantly. "However, the -Colonel was out of luck. He got off into barren territory and rather -wasted his time. We'll meet again in the finals." - -And it was even so. Three days later Tiny Tim again faced the Colonel, -who in the succeeding heats had given marvelous performances and -disposed of his antagonists in a most decisive manner. But likewise so -had Tiny Tim. - -It was a battle from start to finish. Both dogs got on birdy ground at -once and worked it thoroughly, and at the finish there was little to -choose between them. Tim had two more points to his credit and no -flushes; the Colonel had one flush, due to eagerness at the start, and -he had failed to honor one of Tim's points. These errors appeared to -offset Tim's lack of style, but the latter's marvelous bird work could -not be gainsaid; and remembering the decisive manner in which the little -setter had disposed of the Colonel in the initial heat, the judges -awarded the All Age Stake, which carried with it the Pacific Coast -championship, to Tiny Tim and Dan Pelly retired to the hotel richer by -five hundred dollars and a silver loving cup. That afternoon he paid two -hundred and fifty dollars on the mortgage and had it renewed for another -year. Then he wrote a letter to Martha, bought a neat crate for Tiny Tim -and--started down the field trial circuit. - -In some ways--notably dog ways--Dan Pelly was a weak vessel. He lacked -the moral courage to come home and be good forever after. Timmy was so -much better in big company than he had anticipated that should it mean -death to both of them, Dan Pelly simply had to try him out in Oregon on -pheasant. Poor Timmy had never seen a pheasant, and it was such a shame -to deny him this great adventure. - -So the next Martha heard of Dan was a wire to the effect that Timmy had -taken second place in the trials on pheasant at Lebanon, Oregon. A week -later came another telegram, informing her that Timmy had taken first -money in the Washington field trials, handling Hungarian partridge for -the first time. A letter followed and Martha read: - - -Dear Wife: - -I don't suppose you will ever believe me again now that I have broke my -word to you and run away. I don't seem to be able to help myself. Timmy -is wonderful. I've got to go on to try him on chicken in Manitoba and -then the International and the All America. I enclose $500. - -With love from Timmy and - -Your devoted husband, - -DAN PELLY. - - -Timmy was third on prairie chicken. Everybody said his performance was -marvelous in view of his total ignorance of this splendid game, so Dan -Pelly did not think it worth while to advertise the fact that he had -introduced Timmy to two crippled chickens the day before in order that -he might know their scent when he ran on to it. The International in -Montana was won by Timmy, and Dan's cup of happiness overflowed when the -judges handed him his trophies and a check for a thousand dollars. -Colonel Dorsey gave him a stiff run but the best the Colonel could do -was second place. - -And then came the never to be forgotten day down in Kentucky when Timmy -went in on bobwhite quail for the All America, the field trial classic -of the Western Hemisphere. Timmy was at home again on quail. He had some -bad luck before he learned about bobwhite's peculiarities, but he had -enough wins to put him in the finals, and at the finish he was cast off -with a little Llewellyn bitch whose performance made Dan Pelly's heart -skip a beat or two. Nothing except Timmy's age and years of experience -enabled him to win over her; up to the last moments of the race -predictions were freely made that it would be a dead heat. - -But just before the whistle blew, Timmy roaded a small cover to a stanch -point--the sole find made during the heat--and Dan Pelly went home with -Timmy and more money than he had ever seen before in his life except in -a bank; although better to wistful little Dan was the knowledge that he -had bred, raised, trained and handled the most consistent winner and the -most spectacularly outstanding bird dog champion in North America. Old -Keepsake and her wonderful consort, Kenwood Boy, had transmitted their -great qualities to their son, and Dan knew, in view of Tiny Tim's great -record over the field trial circuit, how much in demand would be the -puppies from that strain. Please God, Timmy might live long enough to -perpetuate his great qualities in his offspring. - -Dan's return was not a triumphal one. He felt like anything except a -conquering hero. Indeed, he felt mean and low and untrustworthy; he had -to call on a reserve store of courage in order to face Martha and -explain his dastardly conduct in appropriating her fifty dollars, -breaking his promise and running away with Timmy. - -Martha was sitting on the porch in her rocking-chair as Dan and his dog -came up the lane. Tiny Tim romped ahead and sprang up in Martha's lap -and kissed her and whimpered his joy at the homecoming--so Martha had -ample opportunity to brace herself to meet the culprit. - -"Hello, Martha, old girl," Dan cried with a cheerfulness he was far from -feeling. "Timmy and I are home again. Are you going to forgive me, -Martha?" - -Martha looked so glum and serious that Dan's heart sank. - -"Oh, Martha!" he quavered and came slowly up the steps and tossed into -her lap a huge roll of banknotes. "I know I done wrong, Martha," he -declaimed. "I've been gamblin' on the side--you know, honey--side bets -on Timmy. I'm afraid we're never going to be real poor again. We've got -the mortgage paid off and three thousand in reserve, and I'm going to -sell Timmy for seven thousand five hundred dollars, with a half interest -in his sire fees for three years----" - -Martha stood up, her eyes ablaze with scorn and anger. - -"Dan Pelly," she flared at him, "how dare you?" - -Dan hung his head. - -"Oh, Martha," he pleaded, "can't you realize how terrible it is to keep -a good dog down?" - -"Who offered to buy Timmy?" - -"Mr. Fletcher, the owner of Colonel Dorsey." - -"Tell him to go chase himself," Martha suggested slangily. "If you -expect to make your peace with me, Dan Pelly, you'll give up all idea of -selling Timmy." - -"But Martha--seven thousand five hundred dollars! Think what it means to -you. No more worry about our old age, everything settled fine and dandy -at last after twenty-five years of hard luck." - -"Do you really want to sell Timmy, Dan?" - -"No, Martha, I don't. It'd break my heart. Bu-bu-but--I'll do it for -your sake." - -"Dan, come here." - -Dan came and flopped awkwardly on his old knees while Martha's arms went -around him. - -"Sweet old Dan," she whispered. "What a glorious holiday you two have -had! I've been so happy just realizing how happy you have been. Dan!" - -"Yes, Martha." - -"Perhaps we can get back into the dog business again. Don't you think -you'd like to buy about half a dozen really fine brood bitches? Timmy's -puppies would be spoken for before they were born. The least we could -get would be a hundred dollars each for them." She stroked his old head. -"I'm afraid, Dan, it's too late to reform you. Once a dog man, always a -dog man----" - -What else she intended to say remained forever unsaid, for little, weak, -foolish, sentimental old Dan commenced to sniffle, as he had the night -old Keepsake was poisoned. He wasn't a worldly man or a very ambitious -man; he craved but little here below, but one of the things he craved -was clean sportsmanship and love and understanding and a small, neat, -field type English setter that would be just a little bit better than -the other fellow's. And tonight he was so filled with happiness he just -naturally overflowed. Tiny Tim, observing that something was wrong, came -and leaned his shoulder against Martha's knee and laid his muzzle in her -hand and rested it there. It was a big moment! - - -[Footnote 3: _Copyright, 1922, by International Magazine Co. -(Cosmopolitan Magazine)_] - - -[Illustration: JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD] - - - - -_FOREWORD_ - - -_There must be some sentiment attached to an author's choice of what he -considers his "best story" if he can reach any such decision at all. -Frankly, I cannot, and so I have chosen the story which has always lived -closest to my heart. It is really not a short story complete in itself -but is one of ten stories, or instalments, which make up my novel -"Kazan._" - -_This individual story I like best because in it I bid good-by to Kazan -and Gray Wolf, two dogs whose memories will live with me long after the -memories of many of my two-legged friends have faded away. Kazan died up -near Fort MacPherson, a little this side of the Arctic Circle; Gray Wolf -near Norway House. Gray Wolf was a dog with an undoubted strain of wolf -in her, and was blinded when very young. She did not belong to me, but -was owned by a man who claimed to be a relative of the Bishop of the -Yukon. Kazan was mine. He was a one-man dog. It was his friendship for -blind Gray Wolf, when we were on one of our adventures near Norway -House, that led to the writing of my novel "Kazan._" - - -[Illustration] - - - - -KAZAN[4] - -BY JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD - - -Kazan, the quarter-strain wolf-dog, lay at the end of a fine steel -chain, watching little Professor McGill mixing a pail of tallow and -bran. A dozen yards from him lay a big Dane, his huge jaws drooling in -anticipation of the unusual feast which McGill was preparing. The Dane -showed signs of pleasure when McGill approached him with a quart of the -mixture, and as he gulped it down the little man with the cold blue eyes -and the gray-blond hair stroked his back without fear. But his attitude -was different when he turned to Kazan. His movements were filled with -caution, and yet his eyes and his lips were smiling, and he gave the -wolf-dog no evidence of his fear, if it could be called fear. - -The little professor was up in the north country for the Smithsonian -Institution and had spent a third of his life among dogs. He loved them, -and understood them. He had written a number of magazine articles on dog -intellect which had attracted wide attention among naturalists. It was -largely because he loved dogs, and understood them more than most men, -that he had bought Kazan and the big Dane on a night when Sandy -McTrigger and his partner had tried to get them to fight to the death in -a Red Gold City saloon. The refusal of the two splendid beasts to kill -each other for the pleasure of the three hundred men who had assembled -to witness the fight delighted the professor. He had already planned a -paper on the incident. - -Sandy had told McGill the story of Kazan's capture, and of his wild -mate, Gray Wolf, and the professor had asked him a thousand questions. -But each day Kazan puzzled him more. No amount of kindness on his part -could bring a responsive gleam in Kazan's eyes. Not once did Kazan -signify a willingness to become friends. And yet he did not snarl at -McGill, or snap at his hands when they came within reach. Quite -frequently Sandy McTrigger came over to the little cabin where McGill -was staying, and three times Kazan leaped at the end of his chain to get -at him, and the wolf-dog's white fangs gleamed as long as Sandy was in -sight. Alone with McGill he became quiet. - -Something told Kazan that McGill had come as a friend that night when he -and the big Dane stood shoulder to shoulder in the cage that had been -built for a slaughter pen. Away down in his brute heart he held McGill -apart from other men. He had no desire to harm him. He tolerated him, -but showed none of the growing affection of the huge Dane. It was this -fact that puzzled McGill. He had never before known a dog that he could -not make love him. - -Today he placed the tallow and bran before Kazan, and the smile in his -face gave way to a look of perplexity. Kazan's lips had drawn suddenly -back. A fierce snarl rolled deep in his throat. The hair along his spine -stood up. His muscles twitched. Instinctively the professor turned. -Sandy McTrigger had come up quietly behind him. His brutal face wore a -grin as he looked at Kazan. - -"It's a fool job--tryin' to make friends with him," he said. Then he -added, with a sudden interested gleam in his eyes, "When you startin'?" - -"With the first frost," replied McGill. "It ought to come soon. I'm -going to join Sergeant Conroy and his party at Fond du Lac by the first -of October." - -"And you're going up to Fond du Lac--alone?" queried Sandy. "Why don't -you take a man?" - -The little professor laughed softly. - -"Why?" he asked. "I've been through the Athabasca waterways a dozen -times, and know the trail as well as I know Broadway. Besides, I like to -be alone. And the work isn't too hard, with the currents all flowing to -the north and east." - -Sandy was looking at the Dane, with his back to McGill. An exultant -gleam shot for an instant into his eyes. - -"You're taking the dogs?" - -"Yes." - -Sandy lighted his pipe, and spoke like one strangely curious. - -"Must cost a heap to take these trips o' yourn, don't it?" - -"My last cost about seven thousand dollars. This will cost five," said -McGill. - -"Gawd!" breathed Sandy. "An' you carry all that along with you! Ain't -you afraid--something might happen----" - -The little professor was looking the other way now. The carelessness in -his face and manner changed. His blue eyes grew a shade darker. A hard -smile which Sandy did not see hovered about his lips for an instant. -Then he turned, laughing. - -"I'm a very light sleeper," he said. "A footstep at night rouses me. -Even a man's breathing awakens me, when I make up my mind that I must be -on guard. And, besides,"--he drew from his pocket a blue-steel automatic -pistol,--"I know how to use _this._" He pointed to a knot in the wall of -the cabin. "Observe," he said. Five times he fired, at twenty paces, and -when Sandy went up to look at the knot he gave a gasp. There was one -jagged hole where the knot had been. - -"Pretty good," he grinned; "most men couldn't do better'n that with a -rifle." - -When Sandy left, McGill followed him with a suspicious gleam in his -eyes, and a curious smile on his lips. Then he turned to Kazan. - -"Guess you've got him figgered out about right, old man," he laughed -softly. "I don't blame you very much for wanting to get him by the -throat. Perhaps----" - -He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and went into the cabin. Kazan -dropped his head between his paws, and lay still, with wide-open eyes. -It was early in September, and each night brought now the first chill -breaths of autumn. Kazan watched the last glow of the sun as it faded -out of the southern skies. Darkness always followed swiftly after that, -and with darkness came more fiercely his wild longing for freedom. For -Kazan was remembering. - -Ever since that terrible day when the brute prospector, Sandy McTrigger, -had first beaten him sick and then chained him in the wake of his canoe -till every splendid muscle in his bruised body seemed bursting with pain -and he was choked with water, Kazan had never for one minute ceased to -remember and hate and mourn. He hated Sandy McTrigger with all the -hatred of a dog and a wolf, and he mourned for his blind mate, Gray -Wolf, with as much intensity as he hated. But with all the longing and -sorrow in him he could not know how much more awful their separation was -for his faithful mate. - -Never had the terror and loneliness of blindness fallen upon Gray Wolf -as in the days that followed Kazan's capture. For hours after the shot, -she had crouched in the bush back from the river, waiting for him to -come to her. She had faith that he would come, as he had come a thousand -times before, and she lay close on her belly, sniffing the air, and -whining when it brought no scent of her mate. Day and night were alike -an endless chaos of darkness to her now, but she knew when the sun went -down. She sensed the first deepening shadows of evening, and she knew -that the stars were out, and that the river lay in moonlight. It was a -night to roam, and after a time she had moved restlessly about in a -small circle on the plain, and sent out her first inquiring call for -Kazan. - -Up from the river came the pungent odor of smoke, and instinctively she -knew that it was this smoke, and the nearness of men, that was keeping -Kazan from her. But she went no nearer than that, first circle made by -her padded feet. Blindness had taught her to wait. Since the day of the -battle on the Sun Rock, when the lynx had destroyed her eyes, Kazan had -never failed her. Three times she called for him in the early night. -Then she made herself a nest under a Banksian shrub, and waited until -dawn. - -Just as she knew when night blotted out the last glow of the sun, so -without seeing she knew when day came. Not until she felt the warmth of -the sun on her back did her anxiety overcome her caution. Slowly she -moved toward the river, sniffing the air, and whining. There was no -longer the smell of smoke in the air, and she could not catch the scent -of man. She followed her own trail back to the sand bar, and in the -fringe of thick bush overhanging the white shore of the stream she -stopped and listened. - -After a little she scrambled down and went straight to the spot where -she and Kazan were drinking when Sandy's shot came. And there her nose -struck the sand still wet and thick with Kazan's blood. She sniffed the -trail of his body to the edge of the stream, where Sandy had dragged him -to the canoe. And then she came upon one of the two clubs that Sandy had -used to beat wounded Kazan into submission. It was covered with blood -and hair, and all at once Gray Wolf lay back on her haunches and turned -her blind face to the sky, and there rose from her throat a cry for -Kazan that drifted for miles on the wings of the south wind. Never had -Gray Wolf given quite that cry before. It was not the "call" that comes -with moonlit nights, and neither was it the hunt cry, nor the she-wolf's -yearning for matehood. It carried with it the lament of death. And after -that one cry Gray Wolf slunk back to the fringe of bush over the river, -and lay with her face turned to the stream. - -A strange terror fell upon her. She had grown accustomed to darkness, -but never before had she been _alone_ in that darkness. Always there had -been the guardianship of Kazan's presence. She heard the clucking sound -of a spruce hen in the bush a few yards away, and now that sound came to -her as if from out of another world. A ground-mouse rustled through the -grass close to her forepaws, and she snapped at it--and closed her teeth -on a rock. The muscles of her shoulders twitched tremulously, and she -shivered as if stricken by intense cold. She was terrified by the -darkness that shut out the world from her, and she pawed at her closed -eyes, as if she might open them to light. - -Early in the afternoon, she wandered back on the plain. It was -different. It frightened her, and soon she returned to the beach, and -snuggled down under the tree where Kazan had lain. She was not so -frightened here. The smell of Kazan was strong about her. For an hour -she lay motionless, with her head resting on the club clotted with his -hair and blood. Night found her still there. And when the moon and stars -came out she crawled back into the pit in the white sand that Kazan's -body had made under the tree. - -With dawn she went down to the edge of the stream to drink. She could -not see that the day was almost as dark as night, and that the -gray-black sky was a chaos of slumbering storm. But she could smell the -presence of it in the thick air, and could _feel_ the forked flashes of -lightning that rolled up with the dense pall from the south and west. -The distant rumbling of thunder grew louder, and she huddled herself -again under the tree. For hours the storm crashed over her, and the rain -fell in a deluge. When it had finished, she slunk out from her shelter, -like a thing beaten. Vainly she sought for one last scent of Kazan. The -club was washed clean. Again the sand was white where Kazan's blood had -reddened it. Even under the tree there was no sign of him left. - -Until now only the terror of being alone in the pit of darkness that -enveloped her had oppressed Gray Wolf. With afternoon came hunger. It -was this hunger that drew her from the sandbar, and she wandered back -into the plain. A dozen times she scented game, and each time it evaded -her. Even a ground-mouse that she cornered under a root escaped her -fangs. - -That night she slept again where Kazan had lain, and three times she -called for him without answer. But still through the day that followed, -and the day that followed that, blind Gray Wolf clung to the narrow rim -of white sand. On the fourth day her hunger reached a point where she -gnawed the bark from willow bushes. It was on this day that she made a -discovery. She was drinking, when her sensitive nose touched something -in the water's edge that was smooth, and bore a faint fleshy odor. It -was one of the big northern river clams. She pawed it ashore, sniffing -at the hard shell. Then she crunched it between her teeth. She had never -tasted sweeter meat than that which she found inside, and she began -hunting for other clams. She found many of them, and ate until she was -no longer hungry. - -For three days more Gray Wolf remained on the bar. And then, one night -the Call came to her. It set her quivering with a strange, new -excitement--something that may have been a new hope--and in the -moonlight she trotted nervously up and down the shining strip of sand, -facing now the north, and now the south, and then the east and the -west--her head flung up, listening, as if in the soft wind of the night -she was trying to locate the whispering lure of a wonderful voice. And -whatever it was that came to her, came from out of the south and east. -Off there--across the barren, far beyond the outer edge of the northern -timber line--was home. And off there, in her brute way, she reasoned -that she must find Kazan. - -The Call did not come from their old windfall home in the swamp. It came -from beyond that, and in a flashing vision there rose through her -blindness a picture of the towering Sun Rock, of the winding trail that -led to it, and the cabin on the plain where the man and the woman and -the baby lived. It was there that blindness had come to her. It was -there that day had ended, and eternal night had begun. And it was there -that she had given birth to her first-born. Nature had registered these -things so that they could never be wiped out of her memory. - -And to that Call she responded, leaving the river and its food behind -her--straight out into the face of darkness and starvation, no longer -fearing death or the emptiness of the world she could not see; for ahead -of her, two hundred miles away, she could see the Sun Rock, the winding -trail, the nest of her first-born between the two big rocks--_and -Kazan!_ - -And sixty miles farther north Kazan, night after night, gnawed at his -steel chain. Night after night he had watched the stars, and the moon, -and had listened for Gray Wolf's call, while the big Dane lay sleeping. -Tonight it was colder than usual, and the keen tang of the wind that -came fresh from the west stirred him strangely. It set his blood afire -with what the Indians call the Frost Hunger. Lethargic summer was gone -and the sharp-winded days and nights of hunting were at hand. He wanted -to leap out into freedom and run until he was exhausted, with Gray Wolf -at his side. He knew that Gray Wolf was off there--where the stars hung -low in the clear sky--and that she was waiting. - -All that night he was restless--more restless than he had been at any -time before. Once, in the far distance, he heard a cry that he thought -was the cry of Gray Wolf, and his answer roused McGill from deep sleep. -It was dawn, and the little professor dressed himself and came out of -the cabin. With satisfaction he noted the exhilarating snap in the air. -He wet his fingers and held them above his head, chuckling when he found -the wind had swung into the north. He went to Kazan, and talked to him. -Among other things he said: "This'll put the black flies to sleep, -Kazan. A day or two more of it and we'll start." - -Five days later McGill led first the Dane, and then Kazan, to a packed -canoe. Sandy McTrigger saw them off, and Kazan watched for a chance to -leap at him. Sandy kept his distance, and McGill watched the two with a -thought that set the blood running swiftly behind the mask of his -careless smile. They had slipped a mile downstream when he leaned over -and laid a fearless hand on Kazan's head. Something in the touch of that -hand, and in the professor's voice, kept Kazan from a desire to snap at -him. He tolerated the friendship with expressionless eyes and a -motionless body. - -"I was beginning to fear I wouldn't have much sleep, old boy," chuckled -McGill ambiguously, "but I guess I can take a nap now and then with you -along!" - -For three days the journey continued without mishap along the shore of -Lake Athabasca. On the fourth night McGill pitched his tent in a clump -of Banksian pine a hundred yards back from the water. All that day the -wind had come steadily from behind them, and for at least a half of the -day the professor had been watching Kazan closely. From the west there -had now and then come a scent that stirred Kazan uneasily. Since noon he -had sniffed that wind. Twice McGill had heard him growling deep in his -throat, and once, when the scent had come stronger than usual, he had -bared his fangs, and the bristles stood up along his spine. - -For an hour after striking camp the professor did not build a lire, but -sat looking up the shore of the lake through his hunting glass. It was -dusk when he returned to where he had put up his tent and chained the -dogs. For a few moments he stood unobserved, looking at the wolf-dog. -Kazan was still uneasy. He lay _facing_ the west. McGill made note of -this, for the big Dane lay behind Kazan--to the east. - -Behind a rock McGill built a very small fire, and prepared supper. After -this he went into the tent, and when he came out he carried a blanket -under his arm. He chuckled as he stood for a moment over Kazan. - -"We're not going to sleep in there tonight, old boy," he said. "I don't -like what you've found in the west wind." He laughed and buried himself -in a clump of stunted Banksians thirty paces from the tent. Here he -rolled himself in his blanket, and went to sleep. - -It was a quiet, starlit night, and hours afterward Kazan dropped his -nose between his forepaws and drowsed. It was the snap of a twig that -roused him. The sound did not awaken the sluggish Dane, but instantly -Kazan's head was alert, his keen nostrils sniffing the air. What he had -smelled all day was heavy about him now. - -Slowly, from out of the Banksians behind the tent, there came a figure. -It was not that of the professor. It approached cautiously, with lowered -head and hunched shoulders, and the starlight revealed the murderous -face of Sandy McTrigger. Kazan crouched low. He laid his head flat -between his forepaws. His long fangs gleamed. But he made no sound that -betrayed his concealment under a thick Banksian shrub. Step by step -Sandy approached, and at last he reached the flap of the tent. He did -not carry a club or a whip in his hand now. In the place of either of -those was the glitter of steel. At the door to the tent he paused, and -peered in, his back to Kazan. - -Silently, swiftly--the wolf now, in every movement--Kazan came to his -feet. He forgot the chain that held him. Ten feet away stood the enemy -he hated above all others he had ever known. Every ounce of strength in -his splendid body gathered itself for the spring. And then he leaped. -This time the chain did not pull him back, almost neck-broken. Age and -the elements had weakened the leather collar he had worn since the days -of his slavery in the traces, and it gave way with a snap. Sandy turned, -and in a second leap Kazan's fangs sank into the flesh of his arm. With -a startled cry the man fell, and as they rolled over on the ground the -big Dane's deep voice rolled out in thunderous alarm. - -In the fall Kazan's hold was broken. In an instant he was on his feet, -ready for another attack. And then the change came. He was _free._ The -collar was gone from his neck. The forest, the stars, the whispering -wind were all about him. _Here_ were men, and off there was--Gray Wolf! -His ears dropped, and he turned swiftly, and slipped like a shadow back -into the glorious freedom of his world. - -A hundred yards away something stopped him for an instant. It was not -the big Dane's voice, but the sharp _crack--crack--crack_ of the little -professor's automatic. And above that sound there rose the voice of -Sandy McTrigger in a weird and terrible cry. - - - - -II - - -Mile after mile Kazan went on. For a time he was oppressed by the -shivering note of death that had come to him in Sandy McTrigger's cry, -and he slipped through the Banksians like a shadow, his ears flattened, -his tail trailing, his hind quarters betraying that curious slinking -quality of the wolf and dog stealing away from danger. Then he came out -upon a plain, and the stillness, the billion stars in the clear vault of -the sky, and the keen air that carried with it a breath of the Arctic -barrens brought him alert and questing. He faced in the direction of the -wind. Somewhere off there, far to the south and west, was Gray Wolf. For -the first time in many weeks he sat back on his haunches and gave the -deep and vibrant call that echoed weirdly for miles about him. Back in -the Banksians the big Dane heard it, and whined. From over the still -body of Sandy McTrigger the little professor looked up with a white, -tense face, and listened for a second cry. - -But to that first call instinct told Kazan that there would be no -answer, and now he struck out swiftly, galloping mile after mile, as a -dog follows the trail of its master home. He did not turn back to the -lake, nor was his direction toward Red Gold City. As straight as he -might have followed a road blazed by the hand of man, he cut across the -forty miles of plain and swamp and forest and rocky ridge that lay -between him and the McFarlane. All that night he did not call again for -Gray Wolf. With him, reasoning was a process brought about by habit--by -precedent, and as Gray Wolf had waited for him many times before, he -believed that she would be waiting for him now somewhere near the -sandbar. - -By dawn he had reached the river, within three miles of the sandbar. -Scarcely was the sun up when he stood on the white strip of sand where -he and Gray Wolf had come down to drink. Expectantly and confidently he -looked about him for Gray Wolf, whining softly and wagging his tail. He -began to search for her scent, but rains had washed even her footprints -from the clean sand. All that day he searched for her along the river -and out on the plain. Again and again he sat back on his haunches and -sent out his mating cry to her. - -And slowly, as he did these things, nature was working in him that -miracle of the wild which the Crees have named the "spirit call." As it -had worked in Gray Wolf, so now it stirred the blood of Kazan. With the -going of the sun, and the sweeping about him of shadowy night, he turned -more and more to the south and east. His whole world was made up of the -trails over which he had hunted. That world, in his comprehension of it, -ran from the McFarlane in a narrow trail through the forest and over the -plains to the little valley from which the beavers had driven them. If -Gray Wolf was not here--she was there, and tirelessly he resumed his -quest of her. - -Not until the stars were fading out of the sky again, and gray day was -giving place to night, did exhaustion and hunger stop him. He killed a -rabbit, and for hours after he had feasted, he lay dose to his kill, and -slept. Then he went on. - -The fourth night he came to the little valley between the two ridges, -and under the stars, more brilliant now in the chill clearness of the -early autumn nights, he followed the creek down into their old swamp -home. It was broad day when he reached the edge of the great beaver pond -that now completely surrounded the windfall under which Gray Wolf's -second-born had come into the world. Broken Tooth and the other beavers -had wrought a big change in what had once been his home and Gray Wolf's, -and for many minutes Kazan stood silent and motionless at the edge of -the pond, sniffing the air heavy with the unpleasant odor of the -usurpers. - -Until now his spirit had remained unbroken. Footsore, with thinned sides -and gaunt head, he circled slowly through the swamp. All that day he -searched. And his crest lay flat now, and there was a hunted look in the -droop of his shoulders and in the shifting look in his eyes. Gray Wolf -was gone. Slowly nature was impinging that fact upon him. She had passed -out of his world and out of his life, and he was filled with a -loneliness and a grief so great that the forest seemed strange, and the -stillness of the wild a thing that now oppressed and frightened him. - -Once more the dog in him was mastering the wolf. With Gray Wolf he had -possessed the world of freedom. Without her, that world was so big and -strange and empty that it appalled him. - -That night he slunk under a log. Deep in the night he grieved in his -slumber, like a child. And day after day, and night after night, Kazan -remained a slinking creature of the big swamp, mourning for the one -creature that had brought him out of chaos into light, who had filled -his world for him, and who, in going from him, had taken from this world -even the things that Gray Wolf had lost in her blindness. - - - - -III - - -In the golden glow of the autumn sun there one day came up the stream -overlooked by the Sun Rock a man, a woman, and a child. Almost two years -had passed since Joan, the girl-wife, had left these regions with her -trapper husband for a taste of that distant world which is known as -Civilization. All her life, except the years she had passed at a Mission -school over at Fort Churchill, she had lived in the forests--a wild -flower of nature as truly as the velvety _bakneesh_ flowers among the -rocks. And civilization had done for her what it had done for many -another wild flower transplanted from the depths of the wilderness. She -did not look as she did in the days when she was Kazan's mistress, and -when the wolf-dog's loyalty was divided between Gray Wolf, on the Sun -Rock, and Joan, in the cabin half a mile away. Her cheeks were thin. Her -blue eyes had lost their luster. She coughed, and when she coughed the -man looked at her with love and fear in his eyes. - -But now, slowly, the man had begun to see the transformation, and on the -day their canoe pointed up the stream and into the wonderful valley that -had been their home before the call of the distant city came to them, he -noted the flush gathering once more in her cheeks, the fuller redness of -her lips, and the gathering glow of happiness and content in her eyes. -He laughed softly as he saw these things, and he blessed the forests. - -"You are happy again, Joan," he said joyously. "The doctors were right. -You are a part of the forests." - -"Yes, I am happy," she whispered, and suddenly there came a little -thrill into her voice, and she pointed to a white finger of sand running -out into the stream. "Do you remember--years and years ago, it -seems--that Kazan left us here? She was on the sand over there, calling -to him. Do you remember?" There came a little tremble to her mouth. "I -wonder--where they--have gone." - -The cabin was as they had left it. Only the crimson _bakneesh_ had grown -up about it, and shrubs and tall grass had sprung up near its walls. -Once more it took on life, and day by day the color came deeper into -Joan's cheeks, and her voice was filled with its old wild sweetness of -song. Joan's husband cleared the trails over his old trap-lines, and -Joan and the little Joan, who romped and talked now, transformed the -cabin into _home._ One night the man returned to the cabin late, and -when he came in there was a glow of excitement in Joan's blue eyes. - -"Did you hear it?" she asked. "Did you hear--_the call?_" - -He nodded, stroking her soft hair. - -"I was a mile back in the creek swamp," he said. "I heard it!" - -Joan's hands clutched his arms. - -"It wasn't Kazan," she said. "I would recognize his voice. But it seemed -to me it was like the other--the call that came that morning from the -sandbar, his mate's." - -The man was thinking. Joan's fingers tightened. She was breathing a -little quickly. - -"Will you promise me this?" she asked. "Will you promise me that you -will never hunt or trap for wolves?" - -"I had thought of that," he replied. "I thought of it--after I heard the -call. Yes, I will promise." - -Joan's arms stole up about his neck. - -"We loved Kazan," she whispered. "And you might kill him--or her." - -Suddenly she stopped. Both listened. The door was a little ajar, and to -them there came again the wailing mate-call of the wolf. Joan ran to the -door. Her husband followed. Together they stood silent, and with tense -breath Joan pointed over the starlit plain. - -"Listen! Listen!" she commanded. "It's her cry, _and it came from the -Sun Rock!_" - -She ran out into the night, forgetting that the man was close behind her -now, forgetting that little Joan was alone in her bed. And to them, from -miles and miles across the plain, there came a wailing cry in answer--a -cry that seemed a part of the wind, and that thrilled Joan until her -breath broke in a strange sob. - -Farther out on the plain she went, and then stopped, with the golden -glow of the autumn moon and the stars shimmering in her hair and eyes. -It was many minutes before the cry came again, and then it was so near -that Joan put her hands to her mouth, and her cry rang out over the -plain as of old: - -"_Kazan! Kazan! Kazan!_" - -At the top of the Sun Rock, Gray Wolf--gaunt and thinned by -starvation--heard the woman's cry, and the call that was in her throat -died away in a whine. And to the north a swiftly moving shadow stopped -for a moment, and stood like a thing of rock under the starlight. It was -Kazan. A strange fire leaped through his body. Every fiber of his brute -understanding was afire with the knowledge that here was home. It was -here, long ago, that he had lived, and loved, and fought--and all at -once the dreams that had grown faded and indistinct in his memory came -back to him as real, living things. For, coming to him faintly over the -plain, _he heard Joan's voice!_ - -In the starlight Joan stood, tense and white, when from out of the pale -mists of the moon-glow he came to her, cringing on his belly, panting -and wind-run, and with a strange whining note in his throat. To Joan, -Kazan was more than mere dog. Next to her husband and baby she loved -him. There passed through her mind a day when he had saved her and the -baby from the wolves--and again the scene of that other day when he had -leaped upon the giant husky that was at the throat of little Joan. . . . -As her arms hugged Kazan's great shaggy head up to her, the man heard -the whining, gasping joy of the beast. - -And then there came once more across the plain Gray Wolf's mate-seeking -cry of grief and of loneliness. Swiftly, as though struck by a lash, -Kazan was on his feet. In another instant he was gone. - -"_Now_ do you believe?" cried Joan pantingly. "_Now_ do you believe -in the God of my world--the God I have lived with, the God that -gives souls to the wild things, the God that--that has brought--us -all--together--once more--_home!_" - -His arms closed gently about her. - -"I believe, my Joan," he whispered. Afterward they sat in the starlight -in front of the cabin. But they did not hear again that lonely cry from -the Sun Rock. Joan and her husband understood. "He'll visit us again -tomorrow," the man said at last. "Come, Joan, let us go to bed." -Together they entered the cabin. And that night, side by side, Kazan and -Gray Wolf hunted again on the moonlit plain. - - -[Footnote 4: _From James Other Curwood's Kazan. Copyright 1914, by -Cosmopolitan Book Corporation. By permission of the publishers._] - - -[Illustration: MEREDITH NICHOLSON] - - - - -_FOREWORD_ - - -_I ALWAYS find myself uncomfortable in the company of those who delight -in literary shop-talk. Nothing I have ever heard or read on the subject -of writing has seemed to me of any value to a practitioner of the art in -so far as methods, hours of work and such matters are concerned. One -writes or one doesn't, and that seems to me the end on't. In the domain -of style there is, of course, a valuable and fascinating literature, but -the ability to write English prose of beauty and power pertains to the -higher branches of the craft._ - -_The choice and use of a subject is a thing apart. Here we enter a -no-man's land "where all is possible and all unknown." Pretending to no -special knowledge of this matter, I will, however, acknowledge myself a -firm believer in the operation of subconscious processes that assist in -the development of ideas. Once an idea takes root in the mind and has a -fertile germ in it, it immediately begins to grow. And as the plant -matures it thrusts its way through the crust teasingly from time to -time, until finally it stands up in full bloom in the conscious mind. It -is obviously difficult for anyone engaged in the creative arts to take -himself as a subject for psychological analysis. For the mind's -operation is a mystery. The origin of ideas belongs in the realm of the -unfathomable. If it were not for arousing the ire of trained -psychologists, there are a good many things that I could suggest from my -own experience that hint of forces at work in all of us that lure us to -a twilight borderland beyond which nothing is quite real but all is -touched with mystery._ - -_Nothing is more interesting than the manner in which the inevitable -form in which a thing should be written is instantly evident when the -idea itself--the device--becomes clear and definite. When I was a -newspaper reporter and had got my facts on some assignment, I found -myself visualizing the story as it would appear in print, even to the -first sentence and the arrangement of paragraphs, on my way back to the -office. There is, beyond question, a journalistic sense that enables one -instantaneously to appraise material and determine its treatment. I have -written almost everything from five-line news items, newspaper -editorial, verse, history, essays and short stories to novels of various -kinds, and I have always found that first instinctive sense of value and -form a pretty safe guide._ - -_When a short-story idea strikes me I draw a line like the flight of a -rocket across a piece of paper and write across it a few words -indicating the chief incidents of the story. The back of an envelope -suffices for this; I never make elaborate notes even for a novel, -trusting to the merry little imps in the subconscious cellar to keep me -supplied with material. And they are wilful little devils, who are -likely to go on a strike at times; but as nothing can be done to -stimulate their efforts, it's the wiser plan to try to forget what it is -you want to fashion and mold until, some day when you are watching a -ball game or hearing a symphony or doing something else utterly -unrelated to the particular idea that has tormented you, the whole thing -stands there before your eyes quite as unexpectedly as though a magician -had waved his wand and wrought a miracle you can't explain--and need -not._ - -_"The Third Man" struck me one day in a hotel room where, beside the -telephone, was a tablet on which some scribbling of the last guest -remained--a curious geometric cal figure roughly outlined all over the -sheet. I had often noticed the habit men have--women seem less addicted -to it--of marking with a pencil while the mind is engaged with something -wholly alien. As I reflected upon this I found not only that I myself -drew symbols or scrawled words when preoccupied, but that I constantly -repeated the same signs and words. It occurred to me that a man might -leave incriminating testimony by such idle pencilings. The idea having -interested me for an hour, I forgot all about it until one day the whole -story of "The Third Man" rose out of the subcellar and demanded to be -written._ - -_I employed in this story a character I have used frequently in short -stories--a banker with an adventurous, quixotic strain and a sincere -interest in helping the underdog. The idea of giving a dinner and -placing at every plate a tablet and pencil and (no one being in the -secret) waiting to see whether a certain man, never suspected of a -murder, would not from habit draw a certain figure which the host had -found on a scrap of paper at the scene of the crime, gives an -opportunity for that suspensive interest which is essential to a mystery -tale._ - -_I may add that I never have found a device for a story, long or short, -when I was consciously seeking it. Others no doubt have a very different -experience, and they are luckier than those of us who are obliged to -wait for the subconscious imps to throw up the trapdoor and disclose -something. There are well-known instances of writers dreaming a plot, -but only once have I been so favored. The thing looked quite splendid -while I slept, but it dissolved so quickly at the moment of waking that -I was unable to piece it together._ - -_It may be of interest to the student of such matters that practically -every idea that I have ever developed came to me at some place which I -always identify with it. And further, when this has happened on the -street or in some room of a house, I never revisit the place without an -odd feeling--a curious, disturbing uneasiness. There is a street corner -in my home town that I avoid, for there, I remember distinctly, the -device for a story occurred to me. The story was, I may say, one of the -most successful I ever wrote, and yet by some freakish and inexplicable -association of ideas I don't like to pass that corner! I should add that -neither the corner nor anything pertaining to it figured in the story or -was in any way related to it._ - -_So it will readily be seen that I am unlikely to be of service to -students or beginners, for in very plain terms I must admit that I do -not know how I do things. It is because the whole business is so -enveloped in mystery that I enjoy writing and try to keep myself in a -receptive state for those happy surprises, without which I should -quickly find myself without material and seeking other occupation._ - - -[Illustration] - - - - -_The_ THIRD MAN[5] - -BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON - - -When Webster G. Burgess asked ten of his cronies to dine with him at the -University Club on a night in January they assumed that the president of -the White River National had been indulging in another adventure which -he wished to tell them about. - -In spite of their constant predictions that if he didn't stop hiding -crooks in his house and playing tricks on the Police Department he would -ultimately find himself in jail, Mr. Burgess continued to find amusement -in frequent dallyings with gentlemen of the underworld. In a town of -approximately three hundred thousand people a banker is expected to go -to church on Sundays and otherwise conduct himself as a decent, orderly, -and law-abiding citizen, but the president of the White River National -did not see things in that light. As a member of the Board of Directors -of the Released Prisoners' Aid Society he was always ready with the -excuse that his heart was deeply moved by the misfortunes of those who -keep to the dark side of the street, and that sincere philanthropy -covered all his sins in their behalf. - -When his friends met at the club and found Governor Eastman one of the -dinner party, they resented the presence of that dignitary as likely to -impose restraints upon Burgess, who, for all his jauntiness, was not -wholly without discretion. But the governor was a good fellow, as they -all knew, and a story-teller of wide reputation. Moreover, he was taking -his job seriously, and, being practical men, they liked this about him. -It was said that no governor since Civil War times had spent so many -hours at his desk or had shown the same zeal and capacity for gathering -information at first hand touching all departments of the State -government. Eastman, as the country knows, is an independent character, -and it was this quality, which he had shown first as a prosecuting -attorney, that had attracted attention and landed him in the seat of the -Hoosier governors. - -"I suppose," remarked Kemp as they sat down, "that these tablets are -scattered around the table so we can make notes of the clever things -that will be said here tonight. It's a good idea and gives me a chance -to steal some of your stories, governor." - -A scratch pad with pencil attached had been placed at each plate, and -the diners spent several minutes in chaffing Burgess as to the purpose -of this unusual table decoration. - -"I guess," said Goring, "that Web is going to ask us to write limericks -for a prize and that the governor is here to judge the contest. Indoor -winter sports don't appeal to me; I pass." - -"I'm going to write notes to the House Committee on mine," said Fanning; -"the food in this club is not what it used to be, and it's about time -somebody kicked." - -"As I've frequently told you," remarked Burgess, smiling upon them from -the head of the table, "you fellows have no imagination. You'd never -guess what those tablets are for, and maybe I'll never tell you." - -"Nothing is so innocent as a piece of white paper," said the governor, -eyeing his tablet. "We'd better be careful not to jot down anything that -might fly up and hit us afterward. For all we know, it may be a scheme -to get our signatures for Burgess to stick on notes without relief from -valuation or appraisement laws. It's about time for another Bohemian -oats swindle, and our friend Burgess may expect to work us for the price -of the dinner." - -"Web's bound to go to jail some day," remarked Ramsay, the surgeon, "and -he'd better do it while you're in office, governor. You may not know -that he's hand in glove with all the criminals in the country: he quit -poker so he could give all his time to playing with crooks." - -"The warden of the penitentiary has warned me against him," replied the -governor easily. "Burgess has a man at the gate to meet convicts as they -emerge, and all the really bad ones are sent down here for Burgess to -put up at this club." - -"I never did that but once," Burgess protested, "and that was only -because my mother-in-law was visiting me and I was afraid she wouldn't -stand for a burglar as a fellow guest. My wife's got used to 'em. But -the joke of putting that chap up here at the club isn't on me, but on -Ramsay and Colton. They had luncheon with him one day and thanked me -afterward for introducing them to so interesting a man. I told them he -was a manufacturer from St. Louis, and they swallowed it whole. Pettit -was the name, but he has string of aliases as long as this table, and -there's not a rogues' gallery in the country where he isn't indexed. You -remember, Colton, he talked a good deal of his travels, and he could do -so honestly, as he'd cracked safes all the way from Boston to Seattle." - -Ramsay and Colton protested that this could not be so; that the man they -had luncheon with was a shoe manufacturer and had talked of his business -as only an expert could. - -The governor and Burgess exchanged glances, and both laughed. - -"He knew the shoe business all right enough," said Burgess, "for he -learned it in the penitentiary and proved so efficient that they made -him foreman of the shop!" - -"I suppose," said Kemp, "that you've got another crook coming to take -that vacant chair. You'd better tell us about him so we won't commit any -social errors." - -At the governor's right there was an empty place, and Burgess remarked -carelessly that they were shy a man, but that he would turn up later. - -"I've asked Tate, a banker at Lorinsburg, to join us and he'll be along -after a while. Any of you know Tate? One of our scouts recently -persuaded him to transfer his account to us, and as this is the first -time he's been in town since the change I thought it only decent to show -him some attention. We're both directors in a company that's trying to -develop a tile factory in his town, so you needn't be afraid I'm going -to put anything over on you. Tate's attending a meeting tonight from -which I am regrettably absent! He promised to be here before we got down -to the coffee." - -As the dinner progressed the governor was encouraged to tell stories, -and acceded good-naturedly by recounting some amusing things that had -happened in the course of his official duties. - -"But it isn't all so funny," he said gravely after keeping them in a -roar for half an hour. "In a State as big as this a good many -disagreeable things happen, and people come to me every day with -heartbreaking stories. There's nothing that causes me more anxiety than -the appeals for pardon; if the pardoning power were taken away from me, -I'd be a much happier man. The Board of Pardons winnows out the cases, -but even at that there's enough to keep me uncomfortable. It isn't the -pleasantest feeling in the world that as you go to bed at night somebody -may be suffering punishment unjustly, and that it's up to you to find it -out. When a woman comes in backed by a child or two and cries all over -your office about her husband who's doing time and tells you he wasn't -guilty, it doesn't cheer you much; not by a jugful! Wives, mothers, and -sisters: the wives shed more tears, the sisters put up the best -argument, but the mothers give you more sleepless nights." - -"If it were up to me," commented Burgess, "I'm afraid I'd turn 'em all -out!" - -"You would," chorused the table derisively, "and when you'd emptied the -penitentiaries you'd burn 'em down!" - -"Of course there's bound to be cases of flagrant injustice," suggested -Kemp. "And the feelings of a man who is locked up for a crime he never -committed must be horrible. We hear now and then of such cases and it -always shakes my faith in the law." - -"The law does the best it can," replied the governor a little -defensively, "but, as you say, mistakes do occur. The old saying that -murder will out is no good; we can all remember cases where the truth -was never known. Mistakes occur constantly, and it's the fear of not -rectifying them that's making a nervous wreck of me. I have in my pocket -now a blank pardon that I meant to sign before I left my office, but I -couldn't quite bring myself to the point. The Pardon Board has made the -recommendation, not on the grounds of injustice--more, I'm afraid, out -of sympathy than anything else--and we have to be careful of our -sympathies in these matters. And here again there's a wife to reckon -with. She's been at my office nearly every day for a year, and she's -gone to my wife repeatedly to enlist her support. And it's largely -through Mrs. Eastman's insistence that I've spent many weeks studying -the case. It's a murder: what appeared to be a heartless, cold-blooded -assassination. And some of you may recall it--the Avery case, seven -years ago, in Salem County." - -Half the men had never heard of it and the others recalled it only -vaguely. - -"It was an interesting case," Burgess remarked, wishing to draw the -governor out. "George Avery was a man of some importance down there and -stood high in the community. He owned a quarry almost eleven miles from -Torrenceville and maintained a bungalow on the quarry land where he used -to entertain his friends with quail-hunting and perhaps now and then -with a poker party. He killed a man named Reynolds who was his guest. As -I remember, there seemed to be no great mystery about it, and Avery's -defense was a mere disavowal and a brilliant flourish of character -witnesses." - -"For all anybody ever knew, it was a plain case, as Burgess says," the -governor began. "Avery and Reynolds were business acquaintances and -Avery had invited Reynolds down there to discuss the merging of their -quarry interests. Reynolds was found dead a little way from the bungalow -by some of the quarry laborers. He had been beaten on the head with a -club in the most barbarous fashion. Reynolds's overcoat was torn off and -the buttons ripped from his waistcoat, pointing to a fierce struggle -before his assailant got him down and pounded the life out of him. The -purpose was clearly not robbery, as Reynolds had a considerable sum of -money on his person that was left untouched. When the men who found the -body went to rouse Avery he collapsed when told that Reynolds was dead. -In fact, he lay in a stupor for a week, and they could get nothing out -of him. Tracks? No; it was a cold December night and the ground was -frozen. - -"Reynolds had meant to take a midnight train for Chicago, and Avery had -wired for special orders to stop at the quarry station, to save Reynolds -the trouble of driving into Torrenceville. One might have supposed that -Avery would accompany his visitor to the station, particularly as it was -not a regular stop for night trains and the way across the fields was a -little rough. I've personally been over all the ground. There are many -difficult and inexplicable things about the case, the absence of motive -being one of them. The State asserted business jealousy and -substantiated it to a certain extent, and the fact that Avery had taken -the initiative in the matter of combining their quarry interests and -might have used undue pressure on Reynolds to force him to the deal to -be considered." - -The governor lapsed into silence, seemingly lost in reverie. With his -right hand he was scribbling idly on the tablet that lay by his plate. -The others, having settled themselves comfortably in their chairs, -hoping to hear more of the murder, were disappointed when he ceased -speaking. Burgess's usual calm, assured air deserted him. He seemed -unwontedly restless, and they saw him glance furtively at his watch. - -"Please, governor, won't you go on with the story?" pleaded Colton. "You -know that nothing that's said at one of Web's parties ever goes out of -the room." - -"That," laughed the governor, "is probably unfortunate, as most of his -stories ought to go to the grand jury. But if I may talk here into the -private ear of you gentlemen I will go on a little further. I've got to -make up my mind, in the next hour or two about this case, and it may -help me to reach a conclusion to think aloud about it." - -"You needn't be afraid of us," said Burgess encouragingly. "We've been -meeting here--about the same crowd--once a month for five years, and -nobody has ever blabbed anything." - -"All right; we'll go a bit further. Avery's stubborn silence was a -contributing factor in his prompt conviction. A college graduate, a -high-strung, nervous man, hard-working and tremendously ambitious; -successful, reasonably prosperous, happy in his marriage, and with every -reason for living straight: there you have George Avery as I make him -out to have been when this calamity befell him. There was just one -lapse, one error, in his life, but that didn't figure in the case, and I -won't speak of it now. His conduct from the moment of his arrest, a week -following the murder, and only after every other possible clue had been -exhausted by the local authorities, was that of a man mutely resigned to -his fate. I find from the records that he remained at the bungalow in -care of a physician, utterly dazed, it seemed, by the thing he had done, -until a warrant was issued and he was put in jail. He's been a prisoner -ever since, and his silence has been unbroken to this day. His wife -assures me that he never, not even to her, said one word about the case -more than to declare his innocence. I've seen him at the penitentiary on -two occasions, but could get nothing out of him. In fact, I exhausted -any ingenuity I may have in attempting to surprise him into some -admission that would give me ground for pardoning him, but without -learning anything that was not in the State's case. They're using him as -a bookkeeper, and he's made a fine record: a model convict. The long -confinement has told seriously on his health, which is the burden of his -wife's plea for his release, but he wouldn't even discuss that. - -"There was no one else at the bungalow on the night of the murder," the -governor continued. "It was Avery's habit to get his meals at the house -of the quarry superintendent, about five hundred yards away, and the -superintendent's wife cared for the bungalow, but the men I've had at -work couldn't find anything in that to hang a clue on. You see, -gentlemen, after seven years it's not easy to work up a case, but two -expert detectives that I employed privately to make some investigations -along lines I suggested have been of great assistance. Failing to catch -the scent where the trail started, I set them to work backward from a -point utterly remote from the scene. It was a guess, and ordinarily it -would have failed, but in this case it has brought results that are all -but convincing." - -The tablets and pencils that had been distributed along the table had -not been neglected. The guests, without exception, had been drawing or -scribbling; Colton had amused himself by sketching the governor's -profile. Burgess seemed not to be giving his undivided attention to the -governor's review of the case. He continued to fidget, and his eyes -swept the table with veiled amusement. Then he tapped a bell and a -waiter appeared. - -"Pardon me a moment, governor, till the cigars are passed again." - -In his round with the cigar tray the Jap, evidently by prearrangement, -collected the tablets and laid them in front of Burgess. - -"Changed your mind about the limerick contest, Web?" asked someone. - -"Not at all," said Burgess carelessly; "the tablets have fulfilled their -purpose. It was only a silly idea of mine anyhow." They noticed, -however, that a tablet was left at the still vacant place that awaited -the belated guest, and they wondered at this, surmising that Burgess had -planned the dinner carefully and that the governor's discussion of the -Avery case was by connivance with their host. With a quickening of -interest they drew their chairs closer to the table. - -"The prosecuting attorney who represented the State in the trial is now -a judge of the Circuit Court," the governor resumed when the door closed -upon the waiter. "I have had many talks with him about this case. He -confesses that there are things about it that still puzzle him. The -evidence was purely circumstantial, as I have already indicated; but -circumstantial evidence, as Thoreau once remarked, may be very -convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk! But when two men have -spent a day together in the house of one of them, and the other is found -dead in a lonely place not far away, and suspicion attaches to no one -but the survivor--not even the tramp who usually figures in such -speculations--a jury of twelve farmers may be pardoned for taking the -State's view of the matter." - -"The motive you spoke of, business jealousy, doesn't seem quite adequate -unless it could be established that they had quarreled and that there -was a clear showing of enmity," suggested Fullerton, the lawyer. - -"You are quite right, and the man who prosecuted Avery admits it," the -governor answered. - -"There may have been a third man in the affair," suggested Ramsay, "and -I suppose the cynical must have suggested the usual woman in the case." - -"I dare say those possibilities were thrashed out at the time," the -governor replied; "but the only woman in this case is Avery's wife, and -she and Reynolds had never met. I have found nothing to sustain any -suspicion that there was a woman in the case. Avery's ostensible purpose -in asking Reynolds to visit him at that out-of-the-way place was merely -that they could discuss the combination of their quarry interests -privately, and close to Avery's plant. It seems that Avery had -undertaken the organization of a big company to take over a number of -quarries whose product was similar, and that he wished to confer -secretly with Reynolds to secure his sanction to a selling agreement -before the others he wanted to get into the combination heard of it. -That, of course, is perfectly plausible; I could make a good argument -justifying that. Reynolds, like many small capitalists in country towns, -had a number of irons in the fire and had done some promoting on his own -hook. All the financial genius and all the financial crookedness aren't -confined to Wall Street, though I forget that sometimes when I'm on the -stump! I'm disposed to think from what I've learned of both of them that -Avery wasn't likely to put anything over on Reynolds, who was no child -in business matters. And there was nothing to show that Avery had got -him down there for any other purpose than to effect a merger of quarry -interests for their mutual benefit." - -"There probably were papers to substantiate that," suggested Fullerton; -"correspondence and that sort of thing." - -"Certainly; I have gone into that," the governor replied. "All the -papers remain in the office of the prosecuting attorney, and I have -examined them carefully. Now, if Avery had been able to throw suspicion -on some one else you'd think he'd have done so. And if there had been a -third person at the bungalow that night you'd imagine that Avery would -have said so; it's not in human nature for one man to take the blame for -another's crime, and yet we do hear of such things, and I have read -novels and seen plays built upon that idea. But here is Avery with -fifteen years more to serve, and, if he's been bearing the burden and -suffering the penalty of another's, sin, I must say that he's taking it -all in an amazing spirit of self-sacrifice." - -"Of course," said Fullerton, "Reynolds may have had an enemy who -followed him there and lay in wait for him. Or Avery may have connived -at the crime without being really the assailant. That is conceivable." - -"We'll change the subject for a moment," said the governor, "and return -to our muttons later." - -He spoke in a low tone to Burgess, who looked at his watch and answered -audibly: - -"We have half an hour more." - -The governor nodded and, with a whimsical smile, began turning over the -tablets. - -"These pads were placed before you for a purpose which I will now -explain. I apologize, for taking advantage of you, but you will pardon -me, I'm sure, when I tell you my reason. I've dipped into psychology -lately with a view to learning something of the mind's eccentricities. -We all do things constantly without conscious effort, as you know; we -perform acts automatically without the slightest idea that we are doing -them. At meetings of our State boards I've noticed that nobody ever uses -the pads that are always provided except to scribble on. Many people -have that habit of scribbling on anything that's handy. Hotel keepers, -knowing this, provide pads of paper ostensibly for memoranda that guests -may want to make while at the telephone, but really to keep them from -defacing the wall. Left alone with pencil and paper, most of us will -scribble something or draw meaningless figures. - -"Sometimes it's indicative of a deliberate turn of mind; again it's -sheer nervousness. After I had discussed this with a well-known -psychologist I began watching myself and found that I made a succession -of figure eights looped together in a certain way--I've been doing it -here! - -"And now," he went on with a chuckle, "you gentlemen have been indulging -this same propensity as you listened to me. I find on one pad the word -Napoleon written twenty times with a lot of flourishes; another has -traced a dozen profiles of a man with a bulbous nose: it is the same -gentleman, I find, who honored me by drawing me with a triple chin--for -which I thank him. And here's what looks like a dog kennel repeated down -the sheet. Still another has sketched the American flag all over the -page. If the patriotic gentleman who drew the flag will make himself -known, I should like to ask him whether he's conscious of having done -that before?" - -"I'm guilty, governor," Fullerton responded. "I believe it is a habit of -mine. I've caught myself doing it scores of times." - -"I'm responsible for the man with the fat nose," confessed Colton; "I've -been drawing him for years without ever improving my draftsmanship." - -"That will do," said the governor, glancing at the door. "We won't take -time to speak of the others, though you may be relieved to know that I -haven't got any evidence against you. Burgess, please get these works of -art out of the room. We'll go back to the Avery case. In going over the -papers I found that the prosecuting attorney in his search of the -bungalow the morning after the murder found a number of pieces of paper -that bore an odd, irregular sort of sketch. I'm going to pass one of -them round, but please send it back to me immediately." - -He produced a sheet of letter paper that bore traces of hasty crumpling -but had been smoothed out again, and held it up. It bore the -lithographed name of the Avery Quarry Company. On it was drawn this -device: - - -[Illustration] - - -"Please note," said the governor as the paper passed from hand to hand, -"that same device is traced there five times, sometimes more irregularly -than others, but the general form is the same. Now, in the fireplace of -the bungalow living-room they found this and three other sheets of the -same stationery that bore this same figure. It seems a fair assumption -that someone sitting at a table had amused himself by sketching these -outlines and then, when he had filled the sheet, tore it off and threw -it into the fireplace, wholly unconscious of what he was doing. The -prosecutor attached no importance to these sheets, and it was only by -chance that they were stuck away in the file box with the other -documents in the case." - -"Then you suspect that there was a third man in the bungalow that -night?" Ramsay asked. - -The governor nodded gravely. - -"Yes; I have some little proof of it, quite a bit of proof, in fact. I -have even had the wastebasket of the suspect examined for a considerable -period. Knowing Burgess's interest in such matters, I have been using -him to get me certain information I very much wanted. And our friend is -a very successful person! I wanted to see the man I have in mind and -study him a little when he was off-guard, and Burgess has arranged that -for me, though he had to go into the tile business to do it! As you can -readily see, I could hardly drag him to my office, so this little party -was gotten up to give me a chance to look him over at leisure." - -"Tate!" exclaimed several of the men. - -"You can see that this is a very delicate matter," said the governor -slowly. "Burgess thought it better not to have a smaller party, as Tate, -whom I never saw, might think it a frame-up. So you see we are using you -as stool-pigeons, so to speak. Burgess vouches for you as men of -discretion and tact; and it will be your business to keep Tate amused -and his attention away from me while I observe him a little." - -"And when I give the signal you're to go into the library and look at -picture books," Burgess added. - -"That's not fair!" said Fullerton. "We want to see the end of it!" - -"I'm so nervous," said Colton, "I'm likely to scream at any minute!" - -"Don't do it!" Burgess admonished. "The new House Committee is very -touchy about noise in the private dining-rooms, and besides I've got a -lot of scenery set for the rest of the evening, and I don't want you -fellows to spoil it." - -"It begins to look," remarked the governor, glancing at his watch, "as -though some of our scenery might have got lost." - -"He'd hardly bolt," Burgess replied; "he knows of no reason why he -should! I told the doorman to send him right up. When he comes there -will be no more references to the Avery case: you all understand?" - -They murmured their acquiescence, and a solemn hush fell upon them as -they turned involuntarily toward the vacant chair. - -"This will never do!" exclaimed the governor, who seemed to be the one -tranquil person in the room. "We must be telling stories and giving an -imitation of weary business men having a jolly time. But I'm tired of -talking; some of the good story-tellers ought to be stirred up." - -With a little prodding Fullerton took the lead, but was able to win only -grudging laughter. Colton was trying his hand at diverting them when -they were startled by a knock. Burgess was at the door instantly and -flung it open. - - - - -II - - -"Ah, Tate! Come right in; the party hasn't started yet!" - -The newcomer was a short, thick-set man, clean-shaven, with coarse dark -hair streaked with gray. The hand he gave the men in succession as they -gathered about him for Burgess's introduction was broad and heavy. He -offered it limply, with an air of embarrassment. - -"Governor Eastman, Mr. Tate; that's your seat by the governor, Tate," -said Burgess. "We were just listening to some old stories from some of -these fellows, so you haven't missed anything. I hope they didn't need -me at that tile meeting; I never attend night meetings: they spoil my -sleep, which my doctor says I've got to have." - -"Night meetings," said the Governor, "always give me a grouch the next -morning. A party like this doesn't, of course!" - -"Up in the country where I live we still stick to lodge meeting as an -excuse when we want a night off," Tate remarked. - -They laughed more loudly than was necessary to put him at ease. He -refused Burgess's offer of food and drink and when someone started a -political discussion they conspired to draw him into it. He was County -Chairman of the party not then in power and complained good-naturedly to -the governor of the big plurality Eastman had rolled up in the last -election. He talked slowly, with a kind of dogged emphasis, and it was -evident that politics was a subject to his taste. His brown eyes, they -were noting, were curiously large and full, with a bilious tinge in the -white. He met a glance steadily, with, indeed, an almost disconcerting -directness. - -Where the governor sat became, by imperceptible degrees, the head of the -table as he began seriously and frankly discussing the points of -difference between the existing parties, accompanied by clean-cut -characterizations of the great leaders. - -There was nothing to indicate that anything lay behind his talk; to all -appearances his auditors were absorbed in what he was saying. Tate had -accepted a cigar, which he did not light but kept twisting slowly in his -thick fingers. - -"We Democrats have had to change our minds about a good many things," -the governor was saying. "Of course we're not going back to Jefferson" -(he smiled broadly and waited for them to praise his magnanimity in -approaching so near to an impious admission), "but the world has spun -around a good many times since Jefferson's day. What I think we -Democrats do and do splendidly is to keep dose to the changing current -of public opinion; sometimes it seems likely to wash us down, as in the -free-silver days; but we give, probably without always realizing it, a -chance for the people to express themselves on new questions, and if -we've stood for some foolish policies at times the country's the better -for having passed on them. These great contests dear the air like a -storm, and we all go peacefully about our business afterward." - -As he continued they were all covertly watching Tate, who dropped his -cigar and began playing with the pencil before him, absently winding and -unwinding it upon the string that held it to the tablet. They were -feigning an absorption in the governor's recital which their quick, -nervous glances at Tate's hand belied. Burgess had pushed back his chair -to face the governor more comfortably and was tying knots in his napkin. - -Now and then Tate nodded solemnly in affirmation of something the -governor said, but without lifting his eyes from the pencil. His broad -shoulders were bent over the table, and the men about him were -reflecting that this was probably an attitude into which his heavy body -often relaxed when he was pondering deeply. - -Wearying of the pencil--a trifle of the dance-card variety--he dropped -it and drew his own from his waistcoat pocket. Then, after looking up to -join in a laugh at some indictment of Republicanism expressed in droll -terms by the governor, he drew the tablet closer and, turning his head -slightly to one side, drew a straight line. Burgess frowned as several -men changed position the better to watch him. The silence deepened, and -the governor's voice rose with a slight oratorical ring. Through a -half-open window floated the click of billiard balls in the room below. -The governor having come down to the Wilson Administration, went back to -Cleveland, whom he praised as a great leader and a great president. In -normal circumstances there would have been interruptions and questions -and an occasional gibe; and ordinarily the governor, who was not noted -for loquacity, would not have talked twenty minutes at a stretch without -giving an opportunity to his companions to break in upon him. He was -talking, as they all knew, to give Tate time to draw the odd device -which it was his habit to sketch when deeply engrossed. - -The pencil continued to move over the paper; and from time to time Tate -turned the pad and scrutinized his work critically. The men immediately -about him watched his hand, wide-eyed, fascinated. There was something -uncanny and unreal in the situation: it was like watching a wild animal -approaching a trap and wholly unmindful of its danger. The square box -which formed the base of the device was traced clearly; the arcs which -were its familiar embellishment were carefully added. The governor, -having exhausted Cleveland, went back to Jackson, and Tate finished a -second drawing, absorbed in his work and rarely lifting his eyes. - -Seeing that Tate had tired of this pastime, the governor brought his -lecture to an end, exclaiming: - -"Great Scott, Burgess! Why haven't you stopped me! I've said enough here -to ruin me with my party, and you hadn't the grace to shut me off." - -"I'm glad for one," said Tate, pushing back the pad, "that I got in time -to hear you; I've never known before that any Democrat could be so -broad-minded!" - -"The governor loosens up a good deal between campaigns," said Burgess, -rising. "And now, let's go into the library where the chairs are -easier." - -The governor rose with the others, but remained by his chair, talking to -Tate, until the room cleared, and then resumed his seat. - -"This is perfectly comfortable; let's stay here, Mr. Tate. Burgess, -close the door, will you." - -Tate, hesitated, looked at his watch, and glanced at Burgess, who sat -down as though wishing to humor the governor, and lighted a cigar. - -"Mr. Tate," said the governor unhurriedly, "if I'm not mistaken, you are -George Avery's brother-in-law." - -Tate turned quickly, and his eyes widened in surprise. - -"Yes," he answered in slow, even tones; "Avery married my sister." - -"Mr. Tate, I have in my pocket a pardon all ready to sign, giving Avery -his liberty. His case has troubled me a good deal; I don't want to sign -this pardon unless I'm reasonably sure of Avery's innocence. If you were -in my place, Mr. Tate, would you sign it?" - -The color went out of the man's face and his jaw fell; but he recovered -himself quickly. - -"Of course, governor, it would be a relief to me, to my sister, all of -us, if you could see your way to pardoning George. As you know, I've -been doing what I could to bring pressure to bear on the Board of -Pardons: everything that seemed proper. Of course," he went on -ingratiatingly, "we've all felt the disgrace of the thing." - -"Mr. Tate," the governor interrupted, "I have reason to believe that -there was a third man at Avery's bungalow the night Reynolds was killed. -I've been at some pains to satisfy myself of that. Did that ever occur -to you as a possibility?" - -"I suspected that all along," Tate answered, drawing his handkerchief -slowly across his face. "I never could believe George Avery guilty; he -wasn't that kind of man!" - -"I don't think he was myself," the governor replied. "Now, Mr. Tate, on -the night of the murder you were not at home, nor on the next day when -your sister called you on the long-distance telephone. You were in -Louisville, were you not?" - -"Yes, certainly; I was in Louisville." - -"As a matter of fact, Mr. Tate, you were not in Louisville! You were at -Avery's bungalow that night, and you left the quarry station on a -freight train that was sidetracked on the quarry switch to allow the -Chicago train to pass. You rode to Davos, which you reached at two -o'clock in the morning. There you registered under a false name at the -Gerber House, and went home the next evening pretending to have been at -Louisville. You are a bachelor, and live in rooms over your bank, and -there was no one to keep tab on your absences but your clerks, who -naturally thought nothing of your going to Louisville, where business -often takes you. You were there two days ago, I believe. But that has -nothing to do with this matter. When you heard that Reynolds was dead -and Avery under suspicion you answered your sister's summons and hurried -to Torrenceville." - -"I was in Louisville; I was in Louisville, I tell you!" Tate uttered the -words in convulsive gasps. He brushed the perspiration from his forehead -impatiently and half rose. - -"Please sit down, Mr. Tate. You had had trouble a little while before -that with Reynolds about some stock in a creamery concern in your county -that he promoted. You thought he had tricked you, and very possibly he -had. The creamery business had resulted in a bitter hostility between -you: it had gone to such an extent that he had refused to see you again -to discuss the matter. You brooded over that until you were not quite -sane where Reynolds was concerned: I'll give you the benefit of that. -You asked your brother-in-law to tell you when Reynolds was going to see -him, and he obligingly consented. We will assume that Avery, a good -fellow and anxious to aid you, made a meeting possible. Reynolds wasn't -to know that you were to be at the bungalow--he wouldn't have gone if he -had known it--and Avery risked the success of his own negotiations by -introducing you into his house, out of sheer good will and friendship. -You sat at a table in the bungalow living-room and discussed the matter. -Some of these things only I have guessed at; the rest of it----" - -"It's a lie; it's all a damned lie! This was a scheme to get me here: -you and Burgess have set this up on me! I tell you I wasn't at the -quarry; I never saw Reynolds there that night or any other time. My God, -if I had been there,--if Avery could have put it on me, would he be -doing time for it?" - -"Not necessarily, Mr. Tate. Let us go back a little. It had been in your -power once to do Avery a great favor, a very great favor. That's true, -isn't it?" - -Tate stared, clearly surprised, but his quivering lips framed no answer. - -"You had known him from boyhood, and shortly after his marriage to your -sister it had been in your power to do him a great favor; you had helped -him out of a hole and saved the quarry for him. It cost me considerable -money to find that out, Mr. Tate, and not a word of help have I had from -Avery: be sure of that! He had been guilty of something just a little -irregular--in fact, the forging of your name to a note--and you had -dealt generously with him, out of your old-time friendship, we will say, -or to spare your sister humiliation." - -"George was in a corner," said Tate weakly but with manifest relief at -the turn of the talk. "He squared it all long ago." - -"It's natural, in fact, instinctive, for a man to protect himself, to -exhaust all the possibilities of defense when the law lays its hand upon -him. Avery did not do so, and his meek submission counted heavily -against him. But let us consider that a little. You and Reynolds left -the bungalow together, probably after the interview had added to your -wrath against him, but you wished to renew the talk out of Avery's -hearing and volunteered to guide Reynolds to the station where the -Chicago train was to stop for him. You didn't go back, Mr. Tate----" - -"Good God, I tell you I wasn't there! I can prove that I was in -Louisville; I tell you----" - -"We're coming bade to your alibi in a moment," said the governor -patiently. "We will assume--merely assume for the moment--that you said -you would take the train with Reynolds and ride as far as Ashton, where -the Midland crosses and you would get an early morning train home. Avery -went to sleep at the bungalow wholly ignorant of what had happened; he -was awakened in the morning with news that Reynolds had been killed by -blows on the head inflicted near the big derrick where you and -Reynolds--I am assuming again--had stopped to argue your grievances. -Avery--shocked, dazed, not comprehending his danger and lying there in -the bungalow prostrated and half-crazed by the horror of the -thing--waited: waited for the prompt help he expected from the only -living person who knew that he had not left the bungalow. He knew you -only as a kind, helpful friend, and I dare say at first he never -suspected you! It was the last thing in the world he would have -attributed to you, and the possibility of it was slow to enter his -anxious, perturbed mind. He had every reason for sitting tight in those -first hideous hours, confident that the third man at that bungalow -gathering would come forward and establish his innocence with a word. As -is the way in such cases, efforts were made to fix guilt upon others; -but Avery, your friend, the man you had saved once, in a fine spirit of -magnanimity, waited for you to say the word that would dear him. But you -never said that word, Mr. Tate. You took advantage of his silence; a -silence due, we will say, to shock and horror at the catastrophe and to -his reluctance to believe you guilty of so monstrous a crime or capable -of allowing him, an innocent man, to suffer the penalty for it." - -Tate's big eyes were bent dully upon the governor. He averted his gaze -slowly and reached for a glass of water, but his hand shook so that he -could not lift it, and he glared at it as though it were a hateful -thing. - -"I wasn't there! Why----" he began with an effort at bravado; but the -words choked him and he sat swinging his head from side to side and -breathing heavily. - -The governor went on in the same low, even tone he had used from the -beginning: - -"When Avery came to himself and you still were silent, he doubtless -saw that, having arranged for you to meet Reynolds at the -bungalow--Reynolds, who had been avoiding you--he had put himself in the -position of an accessory before the fact and that even if he told the -truth about your being there he would only be drawing you into the net -without wholly freeing himself. At best it was an ugly business, and -being an intelligent man he knew it. I gather that you are a secretive -man by nature; the people who know you well in your own town say that of -you. No one knew that you had gone there and the burden of the whole -thing was upon Avery. And your tracks were so completely hidden: you had -been at such pains to sneak down there to take advantage of the chance -Avery made for you to see Reynolds and have it out with him about the -creamery business, that suspicion never attached to you. You knew Avery -as a good fellow, a little weak, perhaps, as you learned from that -forgery of your name ten years earlier; and it would have been his word -against yours. I'll say to you, Mr. Tate, that I've lain awake nights -thinking about this case, and I know of nothing more pitiful, my -imagination can conjure nothing more horrible, than the silent suffering -of George Avery as he waited for you to go to his rescue, knowing that -you alone could save him." - -"I didn't do it, I didn't do it!" Tate reiterated in a hoarse whisper -that died away with a queer guttural sound in his throat. - -"And now about your alibi, Mr. Tate: the alibi that you were never even -called on to establish." The governor reached for the tablet and held it -before the man's eyes, which focused upon it slowly, uncomprehendingly. -"Now," said the governor, "you can hardly deny that you drew that -sketch, for I saw you do it with my own eyes. I'm going to ask you, Mr. -Tate, whether this drawing isn't also your work?" - -He drew out the sheet of paper he had shown the others earlier in the -evening and placed it beside the tablet. Tate jumped to his feet, -staring wild-eyed, and a groan escaped him. The governor caught his arm -and pushed him bade into his chair. - -"You will see that is Avery's letterhead that was used in the quarry -office. As you talked there with Reynolds that night you played with a -pencil as you did here a little while ago and without realizing it you -were creating evidence against yourself that was all I needed to -convince me absolutely of your guilt. I have three other sheets of -Avery's paper bearing the same figure that you drew that night at the -quarry office; and I have others collected in your own office within a -week! As you may be aware, the power of habit is very strong. For years, -no doubt, your subconsciousness has carried that device, and in moments -of deep abstraction with wholly unrelated things your hand has traced -it. Even the irregularities in the outline are identical, and the size -and shading are precisely the same. I ask you again, Mr. Tate, shall I -sign the pardon I brought here in my pocket and free George Avery?" - -The sweat dripped from Tate's forehead and trickled down his cheeks in -little streams that shone in the light. His collar had wilted at the -fold, and he ran his finger round his neck to loosen it. Once, twice, he -lifted his head defiantly, but, meeting the governor's eyes fixed upon -him relentlessly, his gaze wavered. He thrust his hand under his coat -and drew out his pencil and then, finding it in his fingers, flung it -away, and his shoulders drooped lower. - - - - -III - - -Burgess stood by the window with his back to them. The governor spoke to -him, and he nodded and left the room. In a moment he returned with two -men and dosed the door quickly. - -"Hello, warden; sit down a moment, will you?" - -The governor turned to a tall, slender man whose intense pallor was -heightened by the brightness of his oddly staring blue eyes. He advanced -slowly. His manner was that of a blind man moving cautiously in an -unfamiliar room. The governor smiled reassuringly into his white, -impassive face. - -"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Avery," he said. He rose and took Avery -by the hand. - -At the name Tate's head went up with a jerk. His chair creaked -discordantly as he turned, looked up into the masklike face behind him, -and then the breath went out of him with a sharp, whistling sound as -when a man dies, and he lunged forward with his arms flung out upon the -table. - -The governor's grip tightened upon Avery's hand; there was something of -awe in his tone when he spoke. - -"You needn't be afraid, Avery," he said. "My way of doing this is a -little hard, I know, but it seemed the only way. I want you to tell me," -he went on slowly, "whether Tate was at the bungalow the night Reynolds -was killed. He _was_ there, wasn't he?" - -Avery wavered, steadied himself with an effort, and slowly shook his -head. The governor repeated his question in a tone so low that Burgess -and the warden, waiting at the window, barely heard. A third time he -asked the question. Avery's mouth opened, but he only wet his lips with -a quick, nervous movement of the tongue, and his eyes met the governor's -unseeingly. - -The governor turned from him slowly, and his left hand fell upon Tate's -shoulder. - -"If you are not guilty, Tate, now is the time for you to speak. I want -you to say so before Avery; that's what I've brought him here for. I -don't want to make a mistake. If you say you believe Avery to be guilty, -I will not sign his pardon." - -He waited, watching Tate's hands as they opened and shut weakly; they -seemed, as they lay inert upon the table, to be utterly dissociated from -him, the hands of an automaton whose mechanism worked imperfectly. A -sob, deep, hoarse, pitiful, shook his burly form. - -The governor sat down, took a bundle of papers from his pocket, slipped -one from under the rubber band which snapped back sharply into place. He -drew out a pen, tested the point carefully, then, steadying it with his -left hand, wrote his name. - -"Warden," he said, waving the paper to dry the ink, "thank you for your -trouble. You will have to go home alone. Avery is free." - - - - -IV - - -When Burgess appeared at the bank at ten o'clock the next morning he -found his friends of the night before established in the directors' room -waiting for him. They greeted him without their usual chaff, and he -merely nodded to all comprehendingly and seated himself on the table. - -"We don't want to bother you, Web," said Colton, "but I guess we'd all -feel better if we knew what happened after we left you last night. I -hope you don't mind." - -Burgess frowned and shook his head. - -"You ought to thank God you didn't have to see the rest of it! I've got -a reservation on the Limited tonight: going down to the big city in the -hope of getting it out of my mind." - -"Well, we know only what the papers printed this morning," said Ramsay; -"a very brief paragraph saying that Avery had been pardoned. The papers -don't tell the story of his crime as they usually do, and we noticed -that they refrained from saying that the pardon was signed at one of -your dinner parties." - -"I fixed the newspapers at the governor's request. He didn't want any -row made about it, and neither did I, for that matter. Avery is at my -house. His wife was there waiting for him when I took him home." - -"We rather expected that," said Colton, "as we were planted at the -library windows when you left the club. But about the other man: that's -what's troubling us." - -"Um," said Burgess, crossing his legs and clasping his knees. "_That_ -was the particular hell of it." - -"Tate was guilty; we assume that of course," suggested Fullerton. "We -all saw him signing his death warrant right there at the table." - -"Yes," Burgess replied gravely, "and he virtually admitted it; but if -God lets me live I hope never to see anything like that again!" - -He jumped down and took a turn across the room. - -"And now---- After that, Web?" - -"Well, it won't take long to tell it. After the governor signed the -pardon I told the warden to take Avery downstairs and get him a drink: -the poor devil was all in. And then Tate came to, blubbering like the -vile coward he is, and began pleading for mercy: on his knees, mind you; -on his _knees!_ God! It was horrible--horrible beyond anything I ever -dreamed of--to see him groveling there. I supposed, of course, the -governor would turn him over to the police. I was all primed for that, -and Tate expected it and bawled like a sick calf. But what he said -was--what the governor said was, and he said it the way they say 'dust -to dust' over a grave--'You poor fool, for such beasts as you the -commonwealth has no punishment that wouldn't lighten the load you've got -to carry around with you till you die!' That's all there was of it! -That's exactly what he said, and can you beat it? I got a room for Tate -at the club, and told one of the Japs to put him to bed." "But the -governor had no right," began Ramsay eagerly; "he had no _right_----" -"The king can do no wrong! And, if you fellows don't mind, the incident -is dosed, and we'll never speak of it again." - - -[Footnote 5: _From Best Laid Schemes, Copyright, 1919, 1922, by -Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publisher._] - - -[Illustration: H. C. WITWER] - - - - -_FOREWORD_ - - -_I have selected "Money to Burns" as my best effort because the -situations and characters in that story appealed to me more than any -others I've created in some three hundred odd yarns. The "gold-digging" -young lady of the chorus, the super-sophisticated bellboy with his -hard-boiled philosophy, and the beautiful, cynical Goddess of the -Switchboard, are all familiars of mine. Intimate with their habits, -characteristics, mannerisms and vocabulary, I had only to create a -central plot and push them bodily into it. After that, writing the story -was merely a case of conscientious reporting--it almost wrote itself!_ - -_The genesis of "Money to Burns" was some envious remarks of a bellboy -in discussing the sensational escapades of a certain young millionaire. -The boy, bringing ice water to my room in a hotel, pointed to the -glaring headlines in a newspaper that told of the gilded youth's latest -adventure, and bitterly bemoaned the fate that made him a bellboy and -the other a millionaire. He discoursed on what he would do were he the -possessor of wealth, etc. I encouraged his conversation, with a story -forming itself before my eyes. When he left the room I put his -counterpart on paper, gave him wealth, added the other characters and -necessary embellishments, carved out the title which I hoped would -attract the reader's interest and--there you are!_ - -_As to how I work--one word pretty well covers that question. The word -is "HARD!" I try to get interesting characters and titles first of all; -after that, plots. The characters are always people I know well. The -plots may come from any source--things that have happened to me, a -chance remark of some individual, a newspaper headline, an adventure I -would relish having myself, etc._ - -_To a beginner I would advise a thorough reading of the popular -magazines, a shot at the newspaper game if possible, plenty of clean -white paper and a resolution to take lots of punishment. Thais all I -would presume to advise--and I may have given an overdose already!_ - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MONEY TO BURNS[6] - -By H. C. WITWER - - -"_When fortune favors a man too much, she makes him a fool!_" - -Neither Napoleon, Nero, Alexander, Jack Johnson, Mark Antony nor Bill -Hohenzollern was the composer of that remark, though, honest, I bet they -all _thought_ it about the time the world was giving them the air. -However, the boy who originally pulled the above wise crack was Mr. -Publius Syrus, a master mind current in dear old Syria during the fiscal -year of 77 B.C. Two thousand annums after Publius gave up the struggle, -Jimmy Burns, a professional bellhop--age, twenty; color, white; -nationality, Broadway-American--decided to find out for himself whether -or not Pubby's statement was true. It is! Loll back in the old easy -chair for about approximately a half-hour and I'll do my stuff. Perhaps -you don't know me, as Eve coyly remarked to Adam, so taking advantage of -your good nature I'll introduce myself. I'm Gladys Murgatroyd, a -switchboard operator at the Hotel St. Moe. I was slipped into the cradle -under the name of Mary Ellen Johnson, but as that smacks more of the -kitchen than the drawing-room, I changed that label some time ago to the -Gladys Murgatroyd thing, which I admit sounds phony--still, I'm a phone -girl, so what could be sweeter? - -However, one morning during a slight lull in the daily hostilities -between me and the number-seeking guests, I am reading my favorite -book--the _Morning Squawk_, the newspaper that made the expression "It -is alleged" famous, or maybe it was the other way around. Spattered all -over the front page is a highly sensational account of the latest -adventures of one of these modern prodigal sons--in round numbers, -Carlton Van Ryker, whose father celebrated his ninety-fifth birthday by -entering a tomb in a horizontal position and leaving his only progeny -two paltry $500,000 bank notes. The young millionaire with the name like -a Pullman car and a soft collar had been stepping high, wide and fast -with his pennies and at the time of going to press was the plot of an -"alienation of my wife's affections" suit, a badly mismanaged shooting -affair, and various other things that would keep his mind off the -weather for quite a spell. While I'm drinking all this in with my -lustrous orbs, along comes Mons. James Joseph Aloysius Burns, who was -either the hero of this episode in my exciting career, or else he -wasn't. - -Although I've known Jimmy Burns for the worst part of two years, we're -still good friends, both of us being refugees from the land of Utah. My -home town was the metropolis of Bountiful, where I once won a beauty -contest single-handed, and James fled from Salt Lake City, where smoking -cigarettes is the same as throwing rocks at the President, in the eyes -of the genial authorities. - -But to get to the business of the meeting--Jimmy sported a sarcastical -sneer as he approached my switchboard on this particular morning. - -"Kin you feature a cuckoo like this dizzy Van Ryker havin' all that -sugar," he snorts, nodding angrily at the newspaper, "whilst us regular -white folks is got to slave like Uncle Tom or we don't eat? Is that -fair?" - -"Cheer up, Jimmy," I says with a smile. "We don't get much money, that's -a fact, but then we can laugh out loud. That's more than Van Ryker can -do! Look at the pushing around he's getting because he hauled oil and -inherited a million, poor fellow; he----" - -"That mug was ru'ned by too much jack!" butts in Jimmy. "He's what you -call a weak sister. He wasn't _built_ to handle important money--you got -to be _born_ that way! Knowin' how to spend money is a gift. _I_ got the -gift, but I ain't got the money!" - -"And you never _will_ have the money, frittering away your life hopping -bells in a hotel, Jamesy--not to give you a short answer," I says. "When -they assembled you they left out the motor--_ambition!_" - -"Blah!" says Jimmy courteously. "That's what _you_ think. I got plenty -ambition. My ambition is to wake up every morning for the rest of my -life with a twenty-dollar bill in my kick! Believe me, Cutey, I often -wish I was a Wall Street bond messenger, a bootlegger or even a -professional reformer--but I ain't never had a shot at no _big_ dough -like that. Why, if it was rainin' tomato bouillon, I'd be there with a -knife instead of a spoon!" - -"As if _that_ would stop you!" I remark sweetly. I once saw James eat. -"It seems to me you're always craving excitement," I went on, dealing -out some wrong numbers. "Only last week you told me you had a massage." - -"Go ahead and kid me," says Jimmy. "_You_ should bite your nails--you're -a woman, a good looker with more curves than a scenic railway, and they -ain't no way _you_ kin lose! But it's different _here._ It seems to me I -beep workin' for a livin' since the doc says 'It's a boy!' and the -chances is I'll be workin' for a livin' till the doc says 'Get the -embalmer'!" - -Don't you love that? - -"Why don't you check out of the bell-hopping game and try your luck at -something with a future in it?" I ask him, though, really, I'm about as -interested in Jimmy's biography as I am in the election returns at -Tokyo. "If _I_ was a man, this town wouldn't have _me_ licked!" - -"Apple sauce!" sneers Jimmy politely. "A guy without money has got the -same chance in New York as a ferryboat salesman would have on the Sara -Desert. It takes jack to make jack. With a bank roll I could make _my_ -name as well known as Jonah's, and I'd spot him his whale!" - -"What do you _do_ with your nickels?" I ask him. "I don't doubt that -Chaplin and Fairbanks get more _wages_ than you bellboys, but I thought -your _tips_ ran into better figures than they have in the Follies." - -"Say, cutey, be yourself!" says James scornfully. "Most of the eggs in -this trap is as tight as the skin on a grape--they wouldn't give a thin -dime to see Tut-ankh-Amen walk up Fifth Avenoo on his hands! I could be -railroaded to Sing Sing for what I think of _them_ babies. Why should -_I_ have to carry suitcases and hustle ice water for a lot of monkeys -like that?" - -"Don't put on dog, Jimmy," I smile. "The guests of the St. Moe are every -bit as good as you are, even if you _are_ a haughty bellhop and they are -lowly millionaires. Suppose _you_ had a million, what would you do with -it?" - -"Well," says Jimmy thoughtfully, "the first thing I'd do wouldst be to -get me a education--not that I'm no dumb Isaac by no means, but they's a -few lessons like algeometry, matriculation, mock geography and the like -which I could use. _I_ wouldn't get all tangled up with no wild women or -pull none of the raw stuff which this Van Ryker jobbie done, that's a -cinch! They'd be no horseplay what the so ever, as far as _I_ was -concerned. What _I'd_ do wouldst be to crash into some business, make my -pile and my name and not do no playin' around till I was about fifty and -independent for life. Ain't it a crime when I got them kind of -intentions to make good and no nonsense about it, that somebody don't -slip me a million?" - -"It's an outrage, Jimmy," I agree, allowing a giggle to break jail. -"Still, all men are born equal and if it's actually possible that you -_haven't_ got a million, why, you must have thrown your chances away. -When Eddie Windsor was your age, for instance, he had made himself -Prince of Wales!" - -"Me and him begin life in a different type of cradle!" says Jimmy. "And -that stuff about everybody bein' equal when they're born is the oyster's -ice skates. The only way me and them wealthy millionaires was even at -birth is that we was all babies!" - -This debate between me and Jimmy was about like Adam and a monkey -arguing over which of 'em was our first ancestor--we could have found -plenty of people to side with both of us. Then again, the customers was -beginning to snap into it for the day and craved the voice with the -smile. I got as busy at the switchboard as a custard pie salesman on a -movie comedy lot, so I gave the money-mad James the air for the time -being. - -A couple of weeks later, or maybe it was a jolly old fortnight, Hon. Guy -Austin Tower returns from a voyage to Europe, and then the fun began! -Maybe you all haven't had the unusual pleasure of meeting my boy friend, -so with your kind permission I'll introduce him. - -This handsome young metropolitan sheik is a millionaire of the first -water, a full-blooded playwright, one of my wildest admirers, and a -guest at the Hotel St. Moe. Guy would be a face card in any deck--he's a -real fellow, no fooling. Even the parboiled Jimmy Burns, who thinks -everybody guilty till proved innocent, is one of Guy's fans. Guy just -sprays Jimmy and the rest of the hired help with princely tips and -doesn't dime them to death, as most of the other inmates do. - -Like Carlton Van Ryker, Guy was left about everything but Lake Michigan -when his male parent entered the obituary column, but _unlike_ Van -Ryker, Guy didn't let his millions make him a clown. He wanted to carve -his own way on our popular planet, so he simply forgot about his -warehouse full of doubloons and took up the trade of writing plays. As -he's got two frolics running on Broadway now, you could hardly call him -a bust. - -Well, when Guy came back from overseas he got a welcome from the St. Moe -staff that would have tickled a political boss. Honestly, he brought -something back for everybody! What he brought back for me was some -perfectly gorgeous Venetian lace and his sixty-fifth request that I -renounce the frivolous pleasures of the telephone switchboard and enter -matrimony. - -I accepted the lace, which drove my girl friend, Hazel Killian, wild -with envy, but on the wedding bells I claimed exemption. I like Guy, but -I'm by no means in love with him--or with anyone else! From what I've -been able to observe on my perch at the St. Moe switchboard, there's a -bit too much "moan" in matrimony, and, really, I get no more thrill out -of contemplating marriage than Noah would get out of contemplating -Niagara Falls. I've seen too much of it! I do get a kick, though, out of -my daily struggle to remain a campfire girl and still keep from dying of -too little fun. The swarming lobby of any costly Gotham hotel is the -favorite hunting grounds of snips that pass in the night, always looking -for the best of it--lounge lizards, synthetic sheiks of all ages and -others too humorous to mention. Any young, well dressed member of my -much advertised sex who doesn't resemble a gorilla is their legitimate -prey, and trying to discourage 'em is like trying to discourage the -anti-drys. But I got their number--being a phone girl, that's my job, -isn't it? I meet five hundred representatives of the sillier sex every -day, and it's a hobby of mine to treat 'em all with equal chilly -politeness till they get out of line. Then I turn off the politeness, -just giving 'em the chill, and honest, when I want to be cold--which is -generally--I'd turn a four-alarm fire into an iceberg with a glance! - -However, there are a lot of yawns connected with plugging a telephone -switchboard day by day in every way, and now and then a male will come -along sufficiently interesting for little Gladys to accept temporarily -as an accomplice in the assassination of time. - -Dinners, dances, theaters, this and that--nothing my mother and I -couldn't laugh over, so don't curl your lip! - -Well, Guy Tower hadn't been back in the St. Moe a week when he began -showering attentions on me from the point where he left off before he -sailed away. Honestly, he dinnered and theatered me silly! Hazel Killian -watched me carelessly toy with this good-looking young gold mine with -unconcealed feelings of covetousness. She simply couldn't understand why -I didn't grab this boon from Heaven and marry him while he was stupefied -with my charms. Hazel, who is an artists' model and no eyesore herself, -is suffering from a lifelong ambition to become a bird in a gilded cage. -She craves a millionaire, and in desperation she offered to match coins -with me for Guy, but I indignantly refused. I _know_ Hazel--she's a -dear, but she'd have Rockefeller penniless in a month and every shop on -Fifth Avenue sporting a "Closed to Restock" sign. She's just a pretty -baby who loves to go buy and she makes 'em give till it hurts, don't -think she doesn't! - -Another person who got upset over Guy's inability to keep away from me -was Jerry Murphy, house sleuth at the St. Moe. Jerry's so big that if he -had numbers on him he'd look like a box car, and he's just another male -I can get all dizzied up with a properly manipulated eye and smile. -Really, he's not a bad fellow, but as a detective he's a blank -cartridge. He couldn't catch pneumonia if it was against the law not to -have it. Jerry don't know what it's all about and never will, because -he's too thick between the ears to ask and nobody will tell him. He -hangs around my switchboard like a hungry collie around a kitchen and -he's just as eager; but I'm not collecting losers, so Jerry's -meaningless to _me._ My bounding around with Guy fills Jerry with pain -and alarm and he keeps me supplied with laughs by constantly warning me -of the pitfalls and temptations that surround a little telephone girl -who steps out with a millionaire. "If 'at big mock orange makes one -out-of-the-way crack to you, cutey, just tip me off and I'll _ruin_ -him!" says Jerry with a menacing growl. "I can't cuddle up to the idea -of you goin' out with him all the time. Don't let him go to work and -lure you somewheres away from easy callin' distance of help!" - -"Cut yourself a piece of cake!" I says. "Mister Tower is a perfect -gentleman, Jerry, and it would be impossible for him to act like -anything else if he and I were alone on an island in the middle of the -Pacific." - -"Say, listen, cutey,'" says Jerry, wincing, "don't mention 'at -alone-on-a-island stuff in my presence! 'At's what I been dreamin' about -me and you for a year. If we ever get on a ship together, I'll wreck it -as sure as you're born!" - -Now, isn't he a scream? - -Well, at one of our dinner dates about a month after his return, Guy -shows up haggard and wan and apparently all in. Generally a fellow who -couldn't do enough for his stomach, he ordered this night with the -enthusiasm of a steak fiend week-ending at a vegetarian friend's. When -the nourishment arrived, Guy just dallied and toyed with it. Afterwards -we favored the dance floor with a visit, and instead of tripping his -usual wicked ballroom he acted like he had an anvil in each of his -pumps. A dozen times during the evening he had to tap back a yawn, and -really I began to get steamed up. I'm not used to seeing my boy friends -pass out on me! - -"I hope I'm not keeping you awake, Mr. Tower," I remarked frigidly as we -returned to our table and the nineteenth yawn slipped right through his -fingers, in spite of his well meant attempt to push it back. - -"Forgive me!" says Guy quickly, and a flush brings some color to his -face for the first time that night. "I--the fact is, Gladys, I don't -believe I've had a dozen hours' sleep in the past week!" - -"Then you've been cheating," I smile, "for you've always left me around -midnight. Is she a blonde or a brunette, or have you noticed?" - -Guy laughs and, leaning over, pats my hand. - -"As if I would ever notice _any_ girl but you!" he says, getting -daringly original. "Oh, it isn't a girl, Gladys--though there _is_ a -woman at the bottom of the thing, at that. I'll explain that paradoxical -statement. Rosenblum wants my next play to open his new Thalia Theater, -which will be completed within two months--and I haven't the ghost of an -idea, not the semblance of a plot! I've paced the floor like a caged -animal, smoking countless cigarettes and drinking oceans of black -coffee. I've written steadily for hours at a stretch and then torn the -whole business up in disgust. That's what's kept me awake at night--that -and my daily battles with this infernal Rosenblum!" - -"How come?" I ask him in surprise. "I don't see the percentage in -battling with the man who puts your plays on Broadway, Guy." - -"He wants me to write a risquĂ© farce, one of those -loathsome--er--pardon me--bedroom things for Yvette D'Lys," says Guy -angrily, "and I ab-so-lute-ly will not do it! I refuse to prostitute my -art for the sordid box office! I----" - -"Hold everything!" I butt in. "Shakespeare wasn't below writing bedroom -farces, and I think even _you'll_ admit that he got some favorable -mention as a playwright." - -"Shakespeare write a bedroom farce!" gasps Guy. "Why, my dear girl, -you--which of his marvelous plays could you _possibly_ twist into that?" - -"Othello," I says promptly. "In act five they clown all over the -boudoir! You should go to the theater oftener." - -For a second Guy looks puzzled, then he grins and the lines around his -navy-blue eyes relax. - -"You are delightful," he says. "If I cannot get mental stimulus from -_you_, then I am indeed uninspired! Nevertheless, I am not going to do -as Rosenblum requests. I have never written anything salacious or even -suggestive, and I never will! Furthermore, I don't believe Miss D'Lys or -_any_ actress likes to play that kind of a part. It is managers of the -Rosenblum type that force those rĂ´les on them--callous, -dollar-grabbing, cynical pessimists, who take it for granted that all -women are bad!" - -"Any man who takes it for granted that all women are bad is no -pessimist, Guy," I says thoughtfully. "He's an optimist!" - -"Great!" says Guy, slapping the table with his hand. "May I use that -epigram in my play?" - -"I'll loan it to you," I tell him. "If I break out with the writing rash -myself some day, I'll want it back. And now let me hear some of the -ideas you tore up in disgust--maybe one of them is the real McCoy. Trot -'em out and I'll give you my honest opinion." - -Well, he did and I did. Guy rattled off a half-dozen plots, which failed -to thicken and merely sickened. Honestly, they had everything in 'em but -the Battle of Gettysburg, and really they were fearful--about as new and -exciting as a beef stew, which is just what I told him, being a truthful -girl. - -Guy sighs and looks desperate. - -"Gladys," he says, "I simply _must_ have a play ready to open the Thalia -in less than eight weeks! You know that my interest in playwriting is -anything but mercenary--good heavens, I have more money than I know what -to do with. What I want is to see my name on another Broadway success, -and I'm absolutely barren of ideas! I've simply struck a dry spell, such -as all writers do, occasionally. At this moment I'd give twenty-five -thousand dollars for an original plot!" - -I drew a deep breath and stared at him. - -"Don't kid about that kind of money, Guy," I says solemnly. "And--don't -tempt me!" - -"I never was more serious in my life!" he quickly assures me. "Why, have -_you_ an idea? By Jove, Gladys, if you if _have_--you are the goddess -from the machine----" - -"Be of good cheer," I interrupt. "I'll go home and sleep over matters, -which is what you better do, too--you look like you fell out of a well -or something, really! I'll see you tomorrow. I don't think I'll have a -plot for you by then, but----" - -"Naturally--still, if you even have a suggestion that I might use," says -Guy eagerly, "I----" - -"I say I don't _think_ I'll have a plot by then, I know I'll have one!" -I finish. - -And I did, really! - -When I got home that night I went right to bed, but somehow Mr. Slumber -and me couldn't seem to come to terms. My brain just refused to call it -a union day but kept mulling over Guy and his magnanimous offer of -twenty-five thousand lire for a plot. Good heavens, he could buy a plot -with a house and barn on it for that! Then my half-sleepy mind turns to -Jimmy Burns, the gloomy bellhop, whose deathless ambition is to corral a -fortune and dumfound Europe with his progress from then on! Suddenly -these two trains of thought collide with a crash and out of the wreck -comes an idea that I think will make Jimmy Burns famous and give Guy -Tower his play! That trifling matter being all settled, I turned over -and slept the sleep of the just. - -The very next evening I propositioned Guy, who listened with flattering -attention. After telling him I had his play all set, I furnished him -with a short but interesting description of the life, habits and desires -of James Joseph Aloysius Burns. I then proposed that Guy place his -twenty-five thousand to the bellboy's credit for one month, James to be -allowed free rein with the jack. If Burns has increased the amount at -the end of thirty days, he is to return the original twenty-five -thousand to Guy. If not, he must give back whatever amount he has left. -All the principals are to be sworn to secrecy and that's all there is to -my scheme--it's as simple as the recipe for hot chocolate! - -"If Jimmy Burns is really miscast in life and has a brain and business -ability far above hopping bells," I explain, "why, the use of -twenty-five thousand for thirty days might make him one of the world's -most famous men! It's a sporting chance, Guy--will you gamble?" - -Guy looks somewhat perplexed. He stares into my excited face and clears -his throat nervously. - -"Well--I--of course, I am interested in _anything_ you suggest, Gladys," -he says. "I--eh--suppose I am unusually stupid this evening, but I -cannot see how my dowering this bellboy will assist me in writing my -play." - -"Listen," I says. "You claimed you'd put out twenty-five thousand for a -plot, didn't you? Well, believe me, the movements of Jimmy Burns with -twenty-five thousand dollars to do what he wants with will supply all -the ideas you can handle--if you don't think so, you're crazy!" - -"But----" begins Guy. - -"Don't butt!" I cut him off, impatiently. "You're not the goat yet and -you won't be if you listen to teacher. All you have to do is give Jimmy -the sugar, watch his stuff for the next thirty days, and you'll get a -true-to-life masterpiece for your drama--probably a play that will show -the making of a financial, scientific or artistic Napoleon! If you can't -get a play out of the effect of sudden wealth on a lowly bellhop, then -you got no business In the same room with a typewriter!" - -Guy rubs his chin, smooths back his wavy hair and gazes out of the -window at New York City. - -"By Jove!" he busts out suddenly, slapping his hands together. "The -thing is fantastic--grotesque--but I'll do it!" - -So it came to pass that the next day Guy, Jimmy Burns, and myself met by -appointment in the cashier's office of the Plumbers & Physicians -National Bank. As I was on my lunch hour and minutes were at a premium, -there was little time squandered on preliminaries, Guy making his -proposition to the thunderstruck James in simple words of one syllable. -At first M. Burns refused to believe he wasn't being kidded, then he got -hysterical with delight. When the startled cashier solemnly asked for -his signature and handed him a bank book showing there was $25,000 to -his credit in the vaults, Jimmy broke down and cried like a baby! - -"Now listen to me, young man," I tell the panting Burns when he has hid -the bank book in his shoe to the open amusement of Guy and the wondering -cashier. "You want to get an immediate rush of brains to the head and -make that twenty-five thousand _mean_ something, because that's the last -you get if you cry your eyes out! That's all there is, there isn't any -more, get me? You been going around squawking about what a world-beater -you'd be if you had money. Well, now you got plenty of it and we look -for big things from you. No clowning, remember, you _must_ make good! Is -all that clear?" - -Still in a happy trance, Jimmy Burns removes his cap with a start. - -"Ye-ye-yes, ma'am!" he gulps, the first time he was ever polite to -anyone, before or since. - -Well, really, the effect of that $25,000 suddenly showered on Jamesy was -every bit as startling as I expected--only in a slightly different way -than I fondly hoped! Those pennies went right to his shapely head, and -instead of stimulating his brain, why, they just _removed_ it -altogether. First of all, Jimmy got a wild and uncontrollable desire to -leave the art of bell-hopping flat on its back. Not satisfied to resign -his portfolio in a dignified way, he kidded the guests, insulted the -manager, rode Jerry Murphy till Jerry wanted his heart, and wound up by -punching Pete Kift, the bell captain, right on the nose. By an odd -coincidence, these untoward actions got Jimmy the gate. - -The plutocrat bellhop's next imitation was to apply for the most -expensive suite in the hotel. They just laughed Hon. Burns off, telling -him there was nothing but standing room left in the inn and try to get -_that!_ But Guy Tower came to the rescue and got Jimmy the suite, as Guy -wanted to keep his experiment under as close observation as possible -while making notes for his play. Once settled in his gorgeous apartment, -Jimmy swelled up like a mump and run his former colleagues ragged -getting him ice water, stationery, telegram blanks and drug-store gin. -He staggered around in the most fashionable lobby in New York making -cracks like "Hey, d'ye think Prohibition will ever come back?" to -astounded millionaires and their ladies. Honestly, he was a wow I When -one of the fellows he used to work with called him "Jimmy," the nee -bellboy angrily insists that the manager fire him for undue familiarity, -remarking, "A guy has got to keep them servants in their proper places!" - -He sent a wire to the Standard Oil Company asking if they couldn't use a -younger man in Rockefeller's place, paid the dinge elevator pilots a -dollar twenty times a day to stop the car and tie his shoe laces, -panicked the highest priced tailor in Manhattan by ordering seven suits -of "mufti," having read that the King of England occasionally dresses in -that, and generally misplayed his hand till everybody was squawking and -in no time at all Jimmy Burns was about as popular as a mad deg in the -St. Moe hotel. He failed to go through college like he promised he -would, but he certainly went through everything else, and only for Guy, -Jimmy would have been streeted fifty times a day! - -The next desire that attacks James is the ambition to see his name in -the newspapers, so he advertises for a press agent. The first publicity -purveyor who showed up made James think he was good by using nothing but -adjectives in his conversation and asking for a honorarium of $250 the -week. Mr. Burns thought the salary was more than reasonable, but as he's -the type that would ask President Coolidge for a reference, he demanded -one from the candidate for the job. "You have asked the man who owns -one--just a minute!" says the press agent cheerily, and not at all -abashed he dashes out of the room. I heard all this when he stopped at -my switchboard with Jimmy and asked me where the writing room was. In -five minutes he's back, waving a paper in Jimmy's face. "Look _that_ -over!" he says. - -James read it out loud for my entertainment. According to this -testimonial, the bearer had did about everything in the publicity line -but act as press representative for a school where middle-aged eagles -are taught how to fly. James seems to get quite a kick out of it. - -"I think I'll take this guy," he remarks, as he looks up from the -reference. - -"Fine!" says the delighted applicant. "That's a good thought. I'll snap -right into it and----" - -"Tomato sauce!" butts in James sneeringly. "I don't wish no part of -_you_, the baby _I_ want to hire is the bozo which wrote this -recommendation of you. He's good, what I mean, a letter-writin' idiot!" - -"A bit odd that we should both be thinking the same thing," says Mr. -Press Agent coolly. "As a matter of fact, I wrote that recommendation -myself. So now that I'm engaged as your publicity expert, let me have a -few of your photos and----" - -The following morning nearly every front page in town displayed a -picture of James Burns and this glaring headline: - -BELL BOY LEFT MILLION BY GUEST -HE ONCE LOANED DIME! - -That was the press agent's first effort and, as far as I was ever able -to see, his last. But it got ample results, as with your permission I'll -be glad to show you. - -Within a week, Jimmy Burns had discovered what millions have discovered -before _his_ little day--that the mere possession of lucre does not mean -happiness, and for some it means positive misery! Not only did James -become the prey of the charity solicitors, confidence workers, stock -swindlers, "yes men," phony promoters and other parasites that infest -the hotel, but he was constantly in boiling water through his cuckoo -escapades growing out of sudden wealth that sent his brains on location. -After purchasing a diamond as big as Boston, only brighter, he bought -the highest priced horseless carriage he could find in the market and -the same identical day it slipped out of his hands and tried to climb -the steps of the Fifth Avenue library. The gendarmes pinched him for -reckless driving, though Jimmy protested that it wasn't really -"wreckless" as he had plenty wreck, and his worship tossed the trembling -James into the hoosegow for three days, remarking, "I'll teach you rich -men a lesson!" Then the income-tax beagles read that newspaper headline -and came down on Burns like a cracked ceiling. So all in all, Jimmy was -finding few chuckles connected with his pieces of eight. - -When the rich but unhappy James got out of the Bastille, he decided to -throw a party in his costly suite at the St. Moe for his former -associates of the bellhops' bench. As Jimmy confided to me, apparently -his only friend, he felt the immediate need of mixing with people who -spoke his language. He wanted to forget his troubles and get back on a -friendly footing with the boys, who had severed diplomatic relations -with him on account of his acting like he was Sultan of Goitre or -something when he became a thousandaire overnight. Jimmy felt that a -first-class soiree would do the trick. - -The party came off as advertised, but all it meant to the poor little -rich man was more grief! It was really a respectable enough affair, no -hats being broken or that sort of thing, and a pleasant time was had by -all with the slight exception of the charming host. Our hero made two -fatal mistakes. The first was not inviting Jerry Murphy and the second -was laying in a stock of canny Scotch for medicinal purposes, in case -any of his guests should get stricken with the dread disease of thirst. -The result was that an epidemic of parched throats broke out early in -the evening and pretty soon the other habitues of the St. Moe began -complaining bitterly about the unusually boisterous race riot that was -being staged with a top-heavy cast on the sixth floor. Mr. Williams, the -manager, who liked Jimmy Burns and arsenic the same way, called upon -Jerry Murphy to quell the disturbance and Jerry licked his lips with -delight. The man-mountain house detective run all the way upstairs, -figuring the elevators too slow to whisk him to a job as tasty to him as -cream is to puss. Jerry pounded on the door of Jimmy's salon and -demanded admittance. Recognizing his voice, James climbed unsteadily on -a chair, opened the transom and peered with a rolling eye at Jerry. - -"Go roll yer hoop--hic--you big shtiff, thish is -gen'lemen's--hic--gen'lemen's blowout!" says Jimmy, carelessly pouring a -pitcher of water, cracked ice and all, on Jerry's noble head. "Hic--shee -kin you _laugh off!_" - -Foaming at the mouth and uttering strange cries, the infuriated Jerry -broke through the door and the panic was on! The beauty and chivalry -present fled before the charging sleuth like they'd flee before a -charging hippo, but the unfortunate Jimmy got left at the post. After -cuffing him around the room till the sport palled on him, Jerry dragged -James off to durance vile and once again Jamesy is put under glass, this -time credited with illegally possessing spirits frumenti. They held him -under lock and key all night and it took all of Guy Tower's influence -and quite a few of his quarters to get Jerry to withdraw the charge and -free Jimmy the next morning. - -Well, honestly, I felt sorry for Jimmy Burns, who was certainly taking -cruel and unusual punishment and being made to like it. I thought -perhaps if I injected a lady into the situation it might make things a -bit more pleasant for him, so I introduced Hazel Killian to the -"millionaire bellboy," as the newspapers were still calling James. _O -sole mia!_ as they say in Iowa, what an off day my brain was having when -it cooked up _that_ idea! With visions clouding her usually painstaking -taste, of the Riviera, Paris, Monte Carlo, gems, yachts, Boles-Joyce -limousines or what have you, Hazel took to Jimmy like a goldfish takes -to a bowl and our evening expeditions now consisted of your -correspondent and Guy, assisted by Hazel and Jimmy. We went everywhere -together, with James insisting upon paying most of the bills. But while -Jimmy was civil enough to the easy-to-look-at Hazel, he simply showered -his attentions on your little friend Gladys, grabbing every chance to -make the most violent love to me. This greatly annoyed Guy and Hazel and -equally greatly amused _me_--Jimmy was just a giggle to me, not a gasp! - -In the meanwhile, Mr. Williams and Jerry Murphy had banded together to -make James sick and tired of living in the Hotel St. Moe. He seldom -found his room made up, there was always something wrong with the -lights, the water and the steam, none of the help would answer his -bells, and when he hollered for service he was told he would find it in -the dictionary under S. But Pete Kift pulled the worst trick of all on -him. With the radiant Hazel on his arm and Guy keeping military distance -behind, Jimmy was proudly strutting through the lobby one fine evening. -All were resplendent in evening clothes, and to show you I'm not catty -I'll say that Hazel in an evening gown would attract attention away from -the Yosemite. As the party neared the desk, Pete Kift suddenly looks at -Jimmy and bawls "_Front!_" at the top of his bull elephant's voice, and -mechanically responding to the habit of a lifetime, poor Jimmy Burns -grabs an amazed guest's suitcase and hastily starts for the elevator! -The witnesses just screamed when they grasped the situation and -recognized James as the ex-bellhop. Even Guy smiled, but it was -different with Hazel, who could have shot down Mr. Burns on the spot in -cold blood. As for Jimmy, well, honestly, he would have welcomed the -bullet! - -Nevertheless, in spite of this fox pass Hazel believed Jimmy had -actually inherited an even million, and evidently James had not gone out -of his way to make her think different. So one day Hazel tells me she's -all through posing for artists and is determined to make Jimmy her very -own. When she adds that he has sworn to star her in a musical comedy or -back her in a movie production, I nearly passed out! Can you imagine -Jimmy, with only a few thousand left, making any such maniacal promises -as that to a girl with a memory like Hazel's? _Oo la la_, what a fine -disturbance James was readying himself for! - -As I had vowed to say nothing about how Jimmy got his bankroll, I -couldn't very well give the ambitious Hazel the lowdown on matters, but -I _did_ try most earnestly to lay her off him. I got nowhere! Refusing -to be warned, Hazel point-blankly accused me of having a yen for Jimmy -myself, and then she set sail for this gilded youth in dead earnest. - -Well, knowing nothing of Hazel's plans with regard to himself, the -doomed Jimmy kept on entertaining like his first name was Astor, his -middle name Vanderbilt and his last name Morgan. He took me, Hazel and -Guy to the races at Belmont Park and stabled us all in a box. As James -had loudly declared that he knew more about horses than Vincent Ibanez, -we all played his-feed-box tips for five races and we learned about -losers from him. When the sixth and last scramble arrived, Guy had -donated $1,500, I had sent in $50, and Hazel had parted with $80 to the -oral books and was fit to be tied I What Jimmy lost, nobody knows. -Anyhow, he gazed over the program for the sixth race, a mile handicap, -and suddenly let out a yell. - -"Hot dog!" he says, much excited. "Here's where we all get independent -for life. They's a beagle in this dash by the name of Bellhop and if -that ain't a hunch then Pike's Peak's a pimple. Get down on this baby -with the family jools and walk outa here rancid with money!" - -We split a contemptuous grin between us and presented it to Jimmy before -getting down on the favorite in a last attempt to break even on the day. -Jimmy milled his way back to our box, flushed and panting, and gayly -announced that he had shot the works on Bellhop's nose. He said we were -all paranoiacs for not doing the same. Well, it was all over in a -twinkling! The favorite found the handicap of our bets a bit too much -and finished an even last. Bellhop tripped the mile in something like -0.96 and won from here to the Ruhr, clicking off $15,000 for Mr. James -Joseph Aloysius Burns. James then announced his intention of buying the -horse and presenting it to Hazel for Arbor Day, and it was only with the -greatest of difficulty that me and Guy talked him out of it. Hazel gave -us a murderous glare and for the rest of the day you couldn't have got a -nail file between her and Jimmy, honestly! - -Whirling back to New York in Jimmy's car, now steered by a uniformed -chauffeur, I began to reprove James for this gambling and stepping out -when he should be using his money and time to secure his future. What -about all his promises to me? How about all the big things he was going -to do? When was he going to enter business, or whatever he thought he -could do best? - -"Don't make me laugh!" says Jimmy, tapping an imported cigarette on a -solid gold case. "I'm sittin' pretty. What a sucker _I'd_ be to pester -myself about work when I got all this sugar!" - -"Of course," says Hazel, nestling closer to him. "Imagine a millionaire -_working!_" - -And the only thing that really burned me up was Jimmy's grin at Guy and -the sly dig in the ribs he gave me, the little imp! - -Well, from then on Jimmy had lots of luck and all of it bad. The fellow -who invented money was a clever young man, but he really should have -stayed around the laboratory for another couple of hours and invented an -antidote for the trouble it brings. The well-to-do ex-bellhop used his -jack as a wedge to get into one jam after another, till finally came the -worst blow of all, and Miss Hazel Killian delivered it. - -It seems that Hazel got fatigued waiting for Jimmy to unbelt the roll -and star her in a musical comedy or a super-production, so she requested -a showdown. Jimmy checked up and discovered he had blown all but about -five thousand of his ill-gotten gains, and as trustworthy reports had -reached him that it would take about ten times that much to group a show -around the beauteous Hazel, he calmly told her all bets were off. Hazel -promptly fainted, but Jimmy's idea of first aid being an alarmed glance -and a dash for the door, she quickly snapped out of it and demanded ten -thousand dollars for the time she put in entertaining him. - -"Aha--a gold digger, hey?" says Jimmy indignantly. "So you wish ten -grand for entertainin' me? Where d'ye get that stuff? They ain't no ten -thousand dollars' worth of laughs in you for _me_, I'll tell the world! -Take the air!" - -Infuriated beyond speech, Hazel brought suit for $100,000 against James -the following day, charging that promising young man had promised to wed -her. Further, deponent sayeth not! - -That was the end of the high life for Jimmy Burns. Honestly, he was -scared stiff and he got little comfort from _me_, for I was absolutely -disgusted with the way he had carried on from the time Guy gave him that -money. Opportunity had knocked on this little fool's door and he had -pretended he wasn't at home. Not only that, but I felt he had got me in -wrong with Guy Tower, whose $25,000 investment for a plot now seemed a -total loss. I told Guy tearfully how sorry I was that my scheme had -failed to pan out, but he cut me off in the middle of my plea for -forgiveness, his face a mass of smiles. - -"My dear girl, you owe me no apology," says Guy, patting my shoulder. -"It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude. I've written a farce-comedy -around Jimmy's adventures with the twenty-five thousand, and Rosenblum -predicts it will be the hit of the season! I've never seen him so -enthusiastic. Your idea was more than successful, and Jimmy is welcome -to whatever he has left of the money when the time limit expires!" - -Wasn't that lovely? - -In the meantime, the miserable Jimmy had tried to forget his worries -again by mixing with his former fellow workmen about the hotel. Jerry -Murphy and Pete Kift wouldn't give him a tumble, so he sat on the -bellhops' bench all night, trying to square things with his -ex-playmates. But now that he was a "millionaire" they put on the ice -and treated him like a maltese would be treated at a mouse's reception. -A great longing comes over Jimmy to be a care-free bellboy again, -without the burden of wealth. He felt the irresistible call of the ice -water, the stationery and the tip! So, unable to lick the temptation, he -sneaked the baggage of a few guests upstairs and was promptly run out of -the hotel by the other boys for poaching on their preserves. To make -things perfect, a couple of days later he was served with the papers in -Hazel's suit. - -Unable to cope with the situation and hysterical with fear, Jimmy rushed -to the switchboard and made an appeal to me that would have melted a -Chinese executioner. He placed the blame for the trouble he was in on my -georgetted shoulders--manlike--and insisted that I had to get him out of -the mess. The legal documents Hazel had him tagged with smacked to the -terrified Jimmy of pitiless judges, stern juries, jail--perhaps even the -gallows! Honestly, James was in fearful shape, no fooling. I shut off -his moans finally, and told him to get rid of whatever money he had left -and I would take on myself the horrible job of explaining everything to -Hazel. With a wild whinny, Jimmy dashed out of the hotel without even -thanking me, gambled his remaining ducats in one wild stock-market -plunge--and two days later the ticker informed him that he was worth -$25,000 again! - -But money was now smallpox to Jimmy Burns. It was just three weeks and -four days since Guy Tower gave him the original $25,000, and under the -agreement Jimmy still had three days left to splurge. Nothing stirring! -What he wanted to do now was to get rid of his wealth, as I had told him -Hazel's barristers would never let her sue him should they find out the -defendant had no more nickels. Jimmy wanted to go to law with Hazel the -same way he wanted to part with his ears, so he busts in on Guy and -tells him to take back his gold because he don't wish any part of it. -Before the astonished Guy can open his mouth, Jimmy hurls twenty-five -one-thousand-dollar bills on the table and flees the room! - -Well, being an important customer of the St. Moe, Guy got Jimmy back his -old job hopping bells, broke, but happy for the first time in a month. -Then Guy insisted on me accepting a small royalty from his play for -producing Jimmy Burns as the plot. That left everybody taken care of but -the raging Hazel, who declared herself off me for life and was packed -and ready to leave me alone in New York. Guy solved that problem and -made Hazel crazily happy by engaging her to play _herself_ in his -comedy, "Money to Burns." Merry Flag Day! - - -[Illustration] - - -[Footnote 6: _Copyright, 1923, International Magazine Company -(Cosmopolitan Magazine)_] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY STORY THAT I LIKE BEST *** - -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: My Story That I Like Best</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Authors: Edna Ferber</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em;'>Irvin S. Cobb</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em;'>Peter B. Kyne</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em;'>James Oliver Curwood</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Ray Long</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 23, 2021 [eBook #65906]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY STORY THAT I LIKE BEST ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/stories_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h2>MY STORY THAT<br /> -I LIKE BEST</h2> - - - -<h5><i>By</i></h5> - -<h3>EDNA FERBER<br /> -<br /> -IRVIN S. COBB<br /> -<br /> -PETER B. KYNE<br /> -<br /> -JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD<br /> -<br /> -MEREDITH NICHOLSON<br /> -<br /> -H. C. WITWER</h3> - - - -<h5><i>With an Introduction</i></h5> - -<h5><i>by</i></h5> - -<h4>RAY LONG</h4> - -<h5><i>Editor of Cosmopolitan</i></h5> - -<h5>1925</h5> - -<h5>NEW YORK</h5> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p class="center">Copyright 1925, by<br /> -International Magazine Company<br /> -New York</p> - -<p class="center">FIFTH EDITION<br /> -Printed November, 1925</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p class="center"><i>THIS BOOK IS<br /> -DEDICATED<br /> -TO<br /> -THAT GREAT NUMBER OF<br /> -INTELLIGENT<br /> -AMERICANS<br /> -WHO ARE<br /> -CONSTANT READERS<br /> -OF<br /> -COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE<br /> -IT IS SENT TO YOU<br /> -WITH THE<br /> -CORDIAL GOOD WISHES<br /> -OF THE WRITERS<br /> -AND<br /> -THE EDITOR</i></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> - -<p class="noindent"><a href="#INTRODUCTION">Introduction By Ray Long</a><br /> -<a href="#chap01">The Gay Old Dog By Edna Ferber</a><br /> -<a href="#chap02">The Escape Of Mr. Trimm By Irvin S. Cobb</a><br /> -<a href="#chap03">Point By Peter B. Kyne</a><br /> -<a href="#chap04">Kazan By James Oliver Curwood</a><br /> -<a href="#chap05">The Third Man By Meredith Nicholson</a><br /> -<a href="#chap06">Money To Burns By H. C. Witwer</a></p> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/figure01.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -<div class="caption"> -<p class="center">RAY LONG</p> -</div></div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4><a id="INTRODUCTION"><i>INTRODUCTION by RAY LONG</i></a></h4> - -<p> -In presenting this volume to you I am imagining that I am host for an -evening. I have invited six of the distinguished writers of our time and -asked them to relax over their coffee and in a mood of friendliness to -discuss their own work. They have permitted me to have you sit with me -and listen. -</p> - -<p> -An interesting group, surely. Miss Ferber, black-haired, dark-eyed, -vivid, animation itself; Irvin Cobb, tall, heavy-set, with, as his -daughter says, two chins in front and a spare in the rear; Peter B. -Kyne, about five foot six, with the face and figure of a well-fed -priest; Jim Curwood, tall, wiry, outdoorsy in every line and movement; -Nicholson, my idea of an ambassador to the Court of St. James; Harry -Witwer, with the poise and quickness that one learns in the ring. (He -did fight as a youngster; that's why he can make you see a prize ring -when he describes it.) -</p> - -<p> -Yes, an interesting group. Just as interesting to me today, after years -of friendship, as to you, who may meet them for the first time. The sort -of folks that wear well. The sort that haven't been spoiled by success. -For each of them realizes the simplicity of the recipe that won his -success. It can be told in few words: <i>Think better and work harder than -your competitor.</i> -</p> - -<p> -If you get to know these authors well, you will see that is all there -has been to it: they have thought better and worked harder than the -other fellow. And they are still doing it—thinking better and working -harder: that's why their success endures. That's why their names are -trade-marks for interesting, satisfying reading matter. As the -manufacturer who establishes a trade-mark must not let his product -deteriorate, lest he lose his customers, just so the successful writer -must keep his product to high standard lest he lose his readers. -</p> - -<p> -I have asked each of the six to tell you which of all the stories he has -written he likes best, but before they begin let me tell you what -inspired my request. -</p> - -<p> -I grow irritated every now and then when some self-appointed critic -arises to say that he has selected the best short stories for the year. -What he means, of course, is that he has selected the stories which <i>in -his opinion</i> are best. More often than not, his opinion is worthless; it -may even be harmful. For if those studying for a career in writing -accept his views, they may be misled in what really constitutes the -story of distinction. -</p> - -<p> -In this discussion there will be no effort to say that these stories -excel in any year. What they represent is the selection by each of six -authors of his own story which he likes best of all he has written. And -inasmuch as each of these writers has been years at his trade, this -forms a collection not only interesting to you and myself, but -informative and valuable to the student of writing. -</p> - -<p> -Distinction in writing is determined by one test: endurance in public -favor. Not the favor of any one or two persons, but of the great mass of -readers. -</p> - -<p> -A critic here and there may—and often does—select some writer -of freakish material and call him a genius, but that sort of genius is -short-lived. -</p> - -<p> -Freakish writing never lasts. Individual manner of telling a story, -yes—that is essential to distinction. But individuality that endures -results from personality that pleases. -</p> - -<p> -No matter how much it may interest you to see a freak in a side-show, -you would not want one as a lifelong friend. No matter how much it may -interest you to see a piece of freakish writing, you would not keep it -handy on your library shelves or table. As a curiosity, possibly; as a -companion, never. -</p> - -<p> -You will want lifelong friendship with the stories of the six writers -here. They are real writing by real writers. And I am proud of the -privilege of introducing you thus informally to these six writers, just -as I am proud of the fact that they are such vital factors in the -success of Cosmopolitan Magazine under my editorship. I think I may -boast that no editor ever brought together a more distinguished group. -But enough of myself and my views. Let's listen to my guests. -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/figure02.jpg" width="150" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/figure03.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -<div class="caption"> -<p class="center">EDNA FERBER</p> -</div></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>FOREWORD</i></h4> - -<p> -<i>Most writers lie about the way in which they came to write this or that -story. I know I do. Perhaps, though, this act can't quite be classified -as lying. It is not deliberate falsifying. Usually we roll a -retrospective eye while weaving a fantastic confession that we actually -believe to be true. It is much as when a girl says to her sweetheart, -"When did you begin to love me?" and he replies, "Oh, it was the very -first time I saw you, when——" etc. Which probably isn't true at -all. But he thinks it is, and she wants to think it is. And that makes it -almost true.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>It is almost impossible to tell just how a story was born. The process -is such an intricate, painful, and complicated one. Often the idea that -makes up a story is only a nucleus. The finished story may represent an -accumulation of years. It was so in the case of the short story entitled -"The Gay Old Dog."</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>I like "The Gay Old Dog" better than any other short story I've written -(though I've a weakness for "Old Man Minick") because it is a human -story without being a sentimental one; because it presents a picture of -everyday American family life; because its characters are of the type -known as commonplace, and I find the commonplace infinitely more -romantic and fascinating than the bizarre, the spectacular, the rich, or -the poor; it is a story about a man's life, and I like to write about -men; because it is a steadily progressive thing; because its ending is -inevitable.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>It seems to me that I first thought of this character as short-story -material (and my short stories are almost invariably founded on -character, rather than on plot or situation) when I read in a Chicago -newspaper that the old Windsor Hotel, a landmark, was to be torn down. -The newspaper carried what is known as a feature story about this. The -article told of a rather sporty old Chicago bachelor who had lived at -this hotel for years. Its red plush interior represented home for him. -Now he was to be turned out of his hotel refuge. The papers called him -The Waif of the Loop. That part of Chicago's downtown which is encircled -by the elevated tracks is known as the Loop. I thought, idly, that here -was short-story material; the story of this middle-aged, well-to-do -rounder whose only home was a hotel. Why had he lived there all these -years? Was he happy? Why hadn't he married? I put it down in my -note-book (yes, we have them)—The Waif of the Loop. Later I discarded -that title as being too cumbersome and too difficult to grasp. -Non-Chicagoans wouldn't know what the Loop meant.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>So there it was in my note-book. A year or two went by. In all I think -that story must have lain in my mind for five years before I actually -wrote it. That usually is the way with a short story that is rich, deep, -and true. The maturing process is slow. It ripens in the mind. In such -cases the actual mechanical matter of writing is a brief business. It -plumps into the hand like a juicy peach that has hung, all golden and -luscious, on the tree in the sun.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>From time to time I found myself setting down odd fragments related -vaguely to this character. I noticed these overfed, gay-dog men of -middle age whom one sees in restaurants, at the theater, accompanied, -usually, by a woman younger than they—a hard, artificial expensively -gowned woman who wears a diamond bracelet so glittering that you -scarcely notice the absence of ornament on the third finger of the left -hand. Bits of characterization went into the note-book . . . "The kind -of man who knows head waiters by name . . . the kind of man who insists -on mixing his own salad dressing . . . he was always present on first -nights, third row, aisle, right." I watched them. They were lonely, -ponderous, pathetic, generous, wistful, drifting.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Why hadn't he married? Why hadn't he married? It's always interesting -to know why people have missed such an almost universal experience as -marriage. Well, he had had duties, responsibilities. Um-m-m—a mother, -perhaps, and sisters. Unmarried sisters to support. The thing to do then -was to ferret out some business that began to decline in about 1896 and -that kept going steadily downhill. A business of the sort to pinch Jo's -household and make the upkeep of two families impossible for him. It -must, too, be a business that would boom suddenly, because of the War, -when Jo was a middle-aged man. I heard of a man made suddenly rich in -1914 when there came a world-wide demand for leather—leather for -harnesses, straps, men's wrist watches. Slowly, bit by bit, the story -began to set—to solidify—to take shape.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Finally, that happened which always reassures me and makes me happy and -confident. The last paragraph of the story came to me, complete. I set -down that last paragraph, in lead pencil, before the first line of the -story was written. That ending literally wrote itself. I had no power -over it. People have said to me: "Why didn't you make Emily a widow when -they met after years of separation? Then they could have married."</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>The thing simply hadn't written itself that way. It was unchangeable. -The end of the story and the beginning both were by now inevitable. I -knew then that no matter what happened in the middle, that story would -be—perhaps not a pleasant story, nor a happy one, though it might -contain humor—but a story honest, truthful, courageous and human.</i> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/figure04.jpg" width="150" height="70" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap01"></a></h4> - -<h4><i>The</i> GAY OLD DOG<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> -<br /><br /> -By Edna Ferber</h4> - -<p> -Those of you who have dwelt—or even lingered—in Chicago, -Illinois (this is not a humorous story), are familiar with the region known -as the Loop. For those others of you to whom Chicago is a transfer point -between New York and San Francisco there is presented this brief -explanation: -</p> - -<p> -The Loop is a clamorous, smoke-infested district embraced by the iron -arms of the elevated tracks. In a city boasting fewer millions, it would -be known familiarly as downtown. From Congress to Lake Street, from -Wabash almost to the river, those thunderous tracks make a complete -circle, or loop. Within it lie the retail shops, the commercial hotels, -the theaters, the restaurants. It is the Fifth Avenue (diluted) and the -Broadway (deleted) of Chicago. And he who frequents it by night in -search of amusement and cheer is known, vulgarly, as a Loop-hound. -</p> - -<p> -Jo Hertz was a Loop-hound. On the occasion of those sparse first nights -granted the metropolis of the Middle West he was always present, third -row, aisle, left. When a new Loop cafĂ© was opened Jo's table always -commanded an unobstructed view of anything worth viewing. On entering he -was wont to say, "Hello, Gus," with careless cordiality to the head -waiter, the while his eye roved expertly from table to table as he -removed his gloves. He ordered things under glass, so that his table, at -midnight or thereabouts, resembled a hotbed that favors the bell system. -The waiters fought for him. He was the kind of man who mixes his own -salad dressing. He liked to call for a bowl, some cracked ice, lemon, -garlic, paprika, salt, pepper, vinegar, and oil and make a rite of it. -People at near-by tables would lay down their knives and forks to watch, -fascinated. The secret of it seemed to lie in using all the oil in sight -and calling for more. -</p> - -<p> -That was Jo—a plump and lonely bachelor of fifty. A plethoric, -roving-eyed and kindly man, clutching vainly at the garments of a youth -that had long slipped past him. Jo Hertz, in one of those pinch-waist -belted suits and a trench coat and a little green hat, walking up -Michigan Avenue of a bright winter's afternoon, trying to take the curb -with a jaunty youthfulness against which every one of his fat-incased -muscles rebelled, was a sight for mirth or pity, depending on one's -vision. -</p> - -<p> -The gay-dog business was a late phase in the life of Jo Hertz. He had -been a quite different sort of canine. The staid and harassed brother of -three unwed and selfish sisters is an under dog. The tale of how Jo -Hertz came to be a Loop-hound should not be compressed within the limits -of a short story. It should be told as are the photoplays, with frequent -throwbacks and many cut-ins. To condense twenty-three years of a man's -life into some five or six thousand words requires a verbal economy -amounting to parsimony. -</p> - -<p> -At twenty-seven Jo had been the dutiful, hard-working son (in the -wholesale harness business) of a widowed and gummidging mother, who -called him Joey. If you had looked close you would have seen that now and -then a double wrinkle would appear between Jo's eyes—a wrinkle that -had no business there at twenty-seven. Then Jo's mother died, leaving -him handicapped by a death-bed promise, the three sisters and a -three-story-and-basement house on Calumet Avenue. Jo's wrinkle became a -fixture. -</p> - -<p> -Death-bed promises should be broken as lightly as they are seriously -made. The dead have no right to lay their clammy fingers upon the -living. -</p> - -<p> -"Joey," she had said, in her high, thin voice, "take care of the girls." -</p> - -<p> -"I will, Ma," Jo had choked. -</p> - -<p> -"Joey," and the voice was weaker, "promise me you won't marry till the -girls are all provided for." Then as Joe had hesitated, appalled: "Joey, -it's my dying wish. Promise!" "I promise, Ma," he had said. -</p> - -<p> -Whereupon his mother had died, comfortably, leaving him with a -completely ruined life. -</p> - -<p> -They were not bad-looking girls, and they had a certain style, too. That -is, Stell and Eva had. Carrie, the middle one, taught school over on the -West Side. In those days it took her almost two hours each way. She said -the kind of costume she required should have been corrugated steel. But -all three knew what was being worn, and they wore it—or fairly -faithful copies of it. Eva, the housekeeping sister, had a needle knack. -She could skim the State Street windows and come away with a mental -photograph of every separate tuck, hem, yoke, and ribbon. Heads of -departments showed her the things they kept in drawers, and she went -home and reproduced them with the aid of a two-dollar-a-day seamstress. -Stell, the youngest, was the beauty. They called her Babe. She wasn't -really a beauty, but someone had once told her that she looked like -Janice Meredith (it was when that work of fiction was at the height of -its popularity). For years afterward, whenever she went to parties, she -affected a single, fat curl over her right shoulder, with a rose stuck -through it. -</p> - -<p> -Twenty-three years ago one's sisters did not strain at the household -leash, nor crave a career. Carrie taught school, and hated it. Eva kept -house expertly and complainingly. Babe's profession was being the family -beauty, and it took all her spare time. Eva always let her sleep until -ten. -</p> - -<p> -This was Jo's household, and he was the nominal head of it. But it was -an empty title. The three women dominated his life. They weren't -consciously selfish. If you had called them cruel they would have put -you down as mad. When you are the lone brother of three sisters, it -means that you must constantly be calling for, escorting, or dropping -one of them somewhere. Most men of Jo's age were standing before their -mirror of a Saturday night, whistling blithely and abstractedly while -they discarded a blue polka-dot for a maroon tie, whipped off the maroon -for a shot-silk, and at the last moment decided against a shot-silk, in -favor of a plain black-and-white, because she had once said she -preferred quiet ties. Jo, when he should have been preening his feathers -for conquest, was saying: -</p> - -<p> -"Well, my God, I <i>am</i> hurrying! Give a man time, can't you? I just got -home. You girls have been laying around the house all day. No wonder -you're ready." -</p> - -<p> -He took a certain pride in seeing his sisters well dressed, at a time -when he should have been reveling in fancy waistcoats and brilliant-hued -socks, according to the style of that day, and the inalienable right of -any unwed male under thirty, in any day. On those rare occasions when -his business necessitated an out-of-town trip, he would spend half a day -floundering about the shops selecting handkerchiefs, or stockings, or -feathers, or fans, or gloves for the girls. They always turned out to be -the wrong kind, judging by their reception. -</p> - -<p> -From Carrie, "What in the world do I want of a fan!" -</p> - -<p> -"I thought you didn't have one," Jo would say. -</p> - -<p> -"I haven't. I never go to dances." -</p> - -<p> -Jo would pass a futile hand over the top of his head, as was his way -when disturbed. "I just thought you'd like one. I thought every girl -liked a fan. Just," feebly, "just to—to have." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, for pity's sake!" -</p> - -<p> -And from Eva or Babe, "I've <i>got</i> silk stockings, Jo." Or, "You -brought me handkerchiefs the last time." -</p> - -<p> -There was something selfish in his giving, as there always is in any -gift freely and joyfully made. They never suspected the exquisite -pleasure it gave him to select these things; these fine, soft, silken -things. There were many things about this slow-going, amiable brother of -theirs that they never suspected. If you had told them he was a dreamer -of dreams, for example, they would have been amused. Sometimes, -dead-tired by nine o'clock, after a hard day downtown, he would doze -over the evening paper. At intervals he would wake, red-eyed, to a -snatch of conversation such as, "Yes, but if you get a blue you can wear -it anywhere. It's dressy, and at the same time it's quiet, too." Eva, -the expert, wrestling with Carrie over the problem of the new spring -dress. They never guessed that the commonplace man in the frayed old -smoking-jacket had banished them all from the room long ago; had -banished himself, for that matter. In his place was a tall, debonair, -and rather dangerously handsome man to whom six o'clock spelled evening -clothes. The kind of man who can lean up against a mantel, or propose a -toast, or give an order to a man-servant, or whisper a gallant speech in -a lady's ear with equal ease. The shabby old house on Calumet Avenue was -transformed into a brocaded and chandeliered rendezvous for the -brilliance of the city. Beauty was here, and wit. But none so beautiful -and witty as She. Mrs.—er—Jo Hertz. There was wine, of course; -but no vulgar display. There was music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter. -And he the gracious, tactful host, king of his own domain—— -</p> - -<p> -"Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore, go to bed!" -</p> - -<p> -"Why—did I fall asleep?" -</p> - -<p> -"You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A person would think -you were fifty instead of thirty." -</p> - -<p> -And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, gray, commonplace brother of three -well-meaning sisters. -</p> - -<p> -Babe used to say petulantly: "Jo, why don't you ever bring home any of -your men friends? A girl might as well not have any brother, all the -good you do." -</p> - -<p> -Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. But a man who has -been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow, of comradeship -with men. He acquires, too, a knowledge of women, and a distaste for -them, equaled only, perhaps, by that of an elevator-starter in a -department store. -</p> - -<p> -Which brings us to one Sunday in May. Jo came home from a late Sunday -afternoon walk to find company for supper. Carrie often had in one of -her school-teacher friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or -even Eva a staid guest of the old-girl type. There was always a Sunday -night supper of potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee, and perhaps a -fresh cake. Jo rather enjoyed it, being a hospitable soul. But he -regarded the guests with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were -just so many petticoats, timid of the night streets and requiring escort -home. If you had suggested to him that some of his sisters' popularity -was due to his own presence, or if you had hinted that the more -kittenish of these visitors were probably making eyes at him, he would -have stared in amazement and unbelief. -</p> - -<p> -This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie's friends. -</p> - -<p> -"Emily," said Carrie, "this is my brother, Jo." -</p> - -<p> -Jo had learned what to expect in Carrie's friends. Drab-looking women in -the late thirties, whose facial lines all slanted downward. -</p> - -<p> -"Happy to meet you," said Jo, and looked down at a different sort -altogether. A most surprisingly different sort, for one of Carrie's -friends. This Emily person was very small, and fluffy, and blue-eyed, -and sort of—well, crinkly-looking. You know. The corners of her mouth -when she smiled, and her eyes when she looked up at you, and her hair, -which was brown, but had the miraculous effect, somehow, of being -golden. -</p> - -<p> -Jo shook hands with her. Her hand was incredibly small, and soft, so -that you were afraid of crushing it, until you discovered she had a firm -little grip all her own. It surprised and amused you, that grip, as does -a baby's unexpected clutch on your patronizing forefinger. As Jo felt it -in his own big clasp, the strangest thing happened to him. Something -inside Jo Hertz stopped working for a moment, then lurched sickeningly, -then thumped like mad. It was his heart. He stood staring down at her, -and she up at him, until the others laughed. Then their hands fell -apart, lingeringly. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you a school-teacher, Emily?" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Kindergarten. It's my first year. And don't call me Emily, please." -</p> - -<p> -"Why not? It's your name. I think it's the prettiest name in the world." -Which he hadn't meant to say at all. In fact, he was perfectly aghast to -find himself saying it. But he meant it. -</p> - -<p> -At supper he passed her things, and stared, until everybody laughed -again, and Eva said acidly, "Why don't you feed her?" -</p> - -<p> -It wasn't that Emily had an air of helplessness. She just made you feel -you wanted her to be helpless, so that you could help her. -</p> - -<p> -Jo took her home, and from that Sunday night he began to strain at the -leash. He took his sisters out, dutifully, but he would suggest, with a -carelessness that deceived no one, "Don't you want one of your girl friends -to come along? That little What's-her-name—Emily, or something. -So long's I've got three of you, I might as well have a full squad." -</p> - -<p> -For a long time he didn't know what was the matter with him. He only -knew he was miserable, and yet happy. Sometimes his heart seemed to ache -with an actual physical ache. He realized that he wanted to do things for -Emily. He wanted to buy things for Emily—useless, pretty, expensive -things that he couldn't afford. He wanted to buy everything that Emily -needed, and everything that Emily desired. He wanted to marry Emily. -That was it. He discovered that one day, with a shock, in the midst of a -transaction in the harness business. He stared at the man with whom he -was dealing until that startled person grew uncomfortable. -</p> - -<p> -"What's the matter, Hertz?" -</p> - -<p> -"Matter?" -</p> - -<p> -"You look as if you'd seen a ghost or found a gold mine. I don't know -which." -</p> - -<p> -"Gold mine," said Jo. And then, "No. Ghost." -</p> - -<p> -For he remembered that high, thin voice, and his promise. And the -harness business was slithering downhill with dreadful rapidity, as the -automobile business began its amazing climb. Jo tried to stop it. But he -was not that kind of business man. It never occurred to him to jump out -of the down-going vehicle and catch the up-going one. He stayed on, -vainly applying brakes that refused to work. -</p> - -<p> -"You know, Emily, I couldn't support two households now. Not the way -things are. But if you'll wait. If you'll only wait. The girls -might—that is, Babe and Carrie——" -</p> - -<p> -She was a sensible little thing, Emily. "Of course I'll wait. But we -mustn't just sit back and let the years go by. We've got to help." -</p> - -<p> -She went about it as if she were already a little match-making matron. -She corralled all the men she had ever known and introduced them to Babe, -Carrie, and Eva separately, in pairs, and <i>en masse.</i> She arranged -parties at which Babe could display the curl. She got up picnics. She -stayed home while Jo took the three about. When she was present she -tried to look as plain and obscure as possible, so that the sisters -should show up to advantage. She schemed, and planned, and contrived, -and hoped; and smiled into Jo's despairing eyes. -</p> - -<p> -And three years went by. Three precious years. Carrie still taught -school, and hated it. Eva kept house, more and more complainingly as -prices advanced and allowance retreated. Stell was still Babe, the -family beauty; but even she knew that the time was past for curls. -Emily's hair, somehow, lost its glint and began to look just plain -brown. Her crinkliness began to iron out. -</p> - -<p> -"Now, look here!" Jo argued, desperately, one flight. "We could be -happy, anyway. There's plenty of room at the house. Lots of people begin -that way. Of course, I couldn't give you all I'd like to, at first. But -maybe, after a while——" -</p> - -<p> -No dreams of salons, and brocade, and velvet-footed servitors, and satin -damask now. Just two rooms, all their own, all alone, and Emily to work -for. That was his dream. But it seemed less possible than that other -absurd one had been. -</p> - -<p> -You know that Emily was as practical a little thing as she looked -fluffy. She knew women. Especially did she know Eva, and Carrie, and -Babe. She tried to imagine herself taking the household affairs and the -housekeeping pocket-book out of Eva's expert hands. Eva had once -displayed to her a sheaf of aigrettes she had bought with what she saved -out of the housekeeping money. So then she tried to picture herself -allowing the reins of Jo's house to remain in Eva's hands. And -everything feminine and normal in her rebelled. Emily knew she'd want to -put away her own freshly laundered linen, and smooth it, and pat it. She -was that kind of woman. She knew she'd want to do her own delightful -haggling with butcher and vegetable peddler. She knew she'd want to muss -Jo's hair, and sit on his knee, and even quarrel with him, if necessary, -without the awareness of three ever-present pairs of maiden eyes and -ears. -</p> - -<p> -"No! No! We'd only be miserable. I know. Even if they didn't object. And -they would, Jo. Wouldn't they?" -</p> - -<p> -His silence was miserable assent. Then, "But you do love me, don't you, -Emily?" -</p> - -<p> -"I do, Jo. I love you—and love you—and love you. But, Jo, -I—can't." -</p> - -<p> -"I know it, dear. I knew it all the time, really. I just thought, maybe, -somehow——" -</p> - -<p> -The two sat staring for a moment into space, their hands clasped. Then -they both shut their eyes, with a little shudder, as though what they -saw was terrible to look upon. Emily's hand, the tiny hand that was so -unexpectedly firm, tightened its hold on his, and his crushed the absurd -fingers until she winced with pain. -</p> - -<p> -That was the beginning of the end, and they knew it. -</p> - -<p> -Emily wasn't the kind of girl who would be left to pine. There are too -many Jo's in the world whose hearts are prone to lurch and then thump at -the feel of a soft, fluttering, incredibly small hand in their grip. One -year later Emily was married to a young man whose father owned a large, -pie-shaped slice of the prosperous state of Michigan. -</p> - -<p> -That being safely accomplished, there was something grimly humorous in -the trend taken by affairs in the old house on Calumet. For Eva married. -Of all people, Eva! Married well, too, though he was a great deal older -than she. She went off in a hat she had copied from a French model at -Field's, and a suit she had contrived with a home dressmaker, aided by -pressing on the part of the little tailor in the basement over on -Thirty-first Street. It was the last of that, though. The next time they -saw her, she had on a hat that even she would have despaired of copying, -and a suit that sort of melted into your gaze. She moved to the North -Side (trust Eva for that), and Babe assumed the management of the -household on Calumet Avenue. It was rather a pinched little household -now, for the harness business shrank and shrank. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't see how you can expect me to keep house decently on this!" Babe -would say contemptuously. Babe's nose, always a little inclined to -sharpness, had whittled down to a point of late. "If you knew what Ben -gives Eva." -</p> - -<p> -"It's the best I can do, Sis. Business is something rotten." -</p> - -<p> -"Ben says if you had the least bit of——" Ben was Eva's husband, -and quotable, as are all successful men. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't care what Ben says," shouted Jo, goaded into rage. "I'm sick of -your everlasting Ben. Go and get a Ben of your own, why don't you, if -you're so stuck on the way he does things." -</p> - -<p> -And Babe did. She made a last desperate drive, aided by Eva, and she -captured a rather surprised young man in the brokerage way, who had made -up his mind not to marry for years and years. Eva wanted to give her -wedding things, but at that Jo broke into sudden rebellion. -</p> - -<p> -"No, sir! No Ben is going to buy my sister's wedding clothes, -understand? I guess I'm not broke—yet. I'll furnish the money for her -things, and there'll be enough of them, too." -</p> - -<p> -Babe had as useless a trousseau, and as filled with extravagant -pink-and-blue and lacy and frilly things as any daughter of doting -parents. Jo seemed to find a grim pleasure in providing them. But it -left him pretty well pinched. After Babe's marriage (she insisted that -they call her Estelle now) Jo sold the house on Calumet. He and Carrie -took one of those little flats that were springing up, seemingly -overnight, all through Chicago's South Side. -</p> - -<p> -There was nothing domestic about Carrie. She had given up teaching two -years before, and had gone into Social Service work on the West Side. She -had what is known as a legal mind—hard, clear, orderly—and she -made a great success of it. Her dream was to live at the Settlement -House and give all her time to the work. Upon the little household she -bestowed a certain amount of grim, capable attention. It was the same -kind of attention she would have given a piece of machinery whose oiling -and running had been entrusted to her care. She hated it, and didn't -hesitate to say so. -</p> - -<p> -Jo took to prowling about department store basements, and household -goods sections. He was always sending home a bargain in a ham, or a sack -of potatoes, or fifty pounds of sugar, or a window clamp, or a new kind -of paring knife. He was forever doing odd little jobs that the janitor -should have done. It was the domestic in him claiming its own. -</p> - -<p> -Then, one night, Carrie came home with a dull glow in her leathery -cheeks, and her eyes alight with resolve. They had what she called a -plain talk. -</p> - -<p> -"Listen, Jo. They've offered me the job of first assistant resident -worker. And I'm going to take it. Take it! I know fifty other girls -who'd give their ears for it. I go in next month." -</p> - -<p> -They were at dinner. Jo looked up from his plate, dully. Then he glanced -around the little dining-room, with its ugly tan walls and its heavy, -dark furniture (the Calumet Avenue pieces fitted cumbersomely into the -five-room flat). -</p> - -<p> -"Away? Away from here, you mean—to live?" -</p> - -<p> -Carrie laid down her fork. "Well, really, Jo! After all that -explanation." -</p> - -<p> -"But to go over there to live! Why, that neighborhood's full of dirt, -and disease, and crime, and the Lord knows what all. I can't let you do -that, Carrie." -</p> - -<p> -Carrie's chin came up. She laughed a short little laugh. "Let me! That's -eighteenth-century talk, Jo. My life's my own to live. I'm going." -</p> - -<p> -And she went. -</p> - -<p> -Jo stayed on in the apartment until the lease was up. Then he sold what -furniture he could, stored or gave away the rest, and took a room on -Michigan Avenue in one of the old stone mansions whose decayed splendor -was being put to such purpose. -</p> - -<p> -Jo Hertz was his own master. Free to marry. Free to come and go. And he -found he didn't even think of marrying. He didn't even want to come or -go, particularly. A rather frumpy old bachelor, with thinning hair and a -thickening neck. Much has been written about the unwed, middle-aged -woman; her fussiness, her primness, her angularity of mind and body. In -the male that same fussiness develops, and a certain primness, too. But -he grows flabby where she grows lean. -</p> - -<p> -Every Thursday evening he took dinner at Eva's, and on Sunday noon at -Stell's. He tucked his napkin under his chin and openly enjoyed the -home-made soup and the well-cooked meats. After dinner he tried to talk -business with Eva's husband, or Stell's. His business talks were the -old-fashioned kind, beginning: -</p> - -<p> -"Well, now, looka here. Take, f'rinstance your rawhides and leathers." -</p> - -<p> -But Ben and George didn't want to "take, f'rinstance, your rawhides and -leathers." They wanted, when they took anything at all, to take golf or -politics or stocks. They were the modern type of business man who -prefers to leave his work out of his play. Business, with them, was a -profession—a finely graded and balanced thing, differing from Jo's -clumsy, downhill style as completely as does the method of a great -criminal detective differ from that of a village constable. They would -listen, restively, and say, "Uh-uh," at intervals, and at the first -chance they would sort of fade out of the room, with a meaning glance at -their wives. Eva had two children now. Girls. They treated Uncle Jo with -good-natured tolerance. Stell had no children. Uncle Jo degenerated, by -almost imperceptible degrees, from the position of honored guest, who is -served with white meat, to that of one who is content with a leg and one -of those obscure and bony sections which, after much turning with a -bewildered and investigating knife and fork, leave one baffled and -unsatisfied. -</p> - -<p> -Eva and Stell got together and decided that Jo ought to marry. -</p> - -<p> -"It isn't natural," Eva told him. "I never saw a man who took so little -interest in women." -</p> - -<p> -"Me!" protested Jo, almost shyly. "Women." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Of course. You act like a frightened schoolboy." -</p> - -<p> -So they had in for dinner certain friends and acquaintances of fitting -age. They spoke of them as "splendid girls." Between thirty-six and -forty. They talked awfully well, in a firm, clear way, about civics, and -classes, and politics, and economics, and boards. They rather terrified -Jo. He didn't understand much that they talked about, and he felt humbly -inferior, and yet a little resentful, as if something had passed him by. -He escorted them home, dutifully, though they told him not to bother, -and they evidently meant it. They seemed capable, not only of going home -quite unattended, but of delivering a pointed lecture to any highwayman -or brawler who might molest them. -</p> - -<p> -The following Thursday Eva would say, "How did you like her, Jo?" -</p> - -<p> -"Like who?" Jo would spar feebly. -</p> - -<p> -"Miss Matthews." -</p> - -<p> -"Who's she?" -</p> - -<p> -"Now, don't be funny, Jo. You know very well I mean the girl who was -here for dinner. The one who talked so well on the immigration -question." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, her! Why, I liked her all right. Seems to be a smart woman." -</p> - -<p> -"Smart! She's a perfectly splendid girl." -</p> - -<p> -"Sure," Jo would agree cheerfully. -</p> - -<p> -"But didn't you like her?" -</p> - -<p> -"I can't say I did, Eve. And I can't say I didn't. She made me think a -lot of a teacher I had in the fifth reader. Name of Himes. As I recall -her, she must have been a fine woman. But I never thought of her as a -woman at all. She was just Teacher." -</p> - -<p> -"You make me tired," snapped Eva impatiently. "A man of your age. You -don't expect to marry a girl, do you? A child!" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't expect to marry anybody," Jo had answered. -</p> - -<p> -And that was the truth, lonely though he often was. -</p> - -<p> -The following spring Eva moved to Winnetka. Anyone who got the meaning -of the Loop knows the significance of a move to a North Shore suburb, -and a house. Eva's daughter, Ethel, was growing up, and her mother had -an eye on society. -</p> - -<p> -That did away with Jo's Thursday dinner. Then Stell's husband bought a -car. They went out into the country every Sunday. Stell said it was -getting so that maids objected to Sunday dinners, anyway. Besides, they -were unhealthy, old-fashioned things. They always meant to ask Jo to -come along, but by the time their friends were placed, and the lunch, -and the boxes, and sweaters, and George's camera, and everything, there -seemed to be no room for a man of Jo's bulk. So that eliminated the -Sunday dinners. -</p> - -<p> -"Just drop in any time during the week," Stell said, "for dinner. Except -Wednesday—that's our bridge night—and Saturday. And, of course, -Thursday. Cook is out that night. Don't wait for me to phone." -</p> - -<p> -And so Jo drifted into that sad-eyed, dyspeptic family made up of those -you see dining in second-rate restaurants, their paper propped up -against the bowl of oyster crackers, munching solemnly and with -indifference to the stare of the passer-by surveying them through the -brazen plate-glass window. -</p> - -<p> -And then came the War. The war that spelled death and destruction to -millions. The war that brought a fortune to Jo Hertz, and transformed -him, overnight, from a baggy-kneed old bachelor, whose business was a -failure, to a prosperous manufacturer whose only trouble was the shortage -in hides for the making of his product—leather! The armies of -Europe called for it. Harnesses! More harnesses! Straps! Millions of -straps. More! More! -</p> - -<p> -The musty old harness business over on Lake Street was magically changed -from a dust-covered, dead-alive concern to an orderly hive that hummed -and glittered with success. Orders poured in. Jo Hertz had inside -information on the War. He knew about troops and horses. He talked with -French and English and Italian buyers—noblemen, many of -them—commissioned by their countries to get American-made supplies. -And now, when he said to Ben and George "Take f'rinstance your rawhides and -leathers," they listened with respectful attention. -</p> - -<p> -And then began the gay-dog business in the life of Jo Hertz. He -developed into a Loop-hound, ever keen on the scent of fresh pleasure. -That side of Jo Hertz which had been repressed and crushed and ignored -began to bloom, unhealthily. At first he spent money on his rather -contemptuous nieces. He sent them gorgeous fans, and watch bracelets, -and velvet bags. He took two expensive rooms at a downtown hotel, and -there was something more tear-compelling than grotesque about the way he -gloated over the luxury of a separate ice-water tap in the bathroom. He -explained it. -</p> - -<p> -"Just turn it on. Ice-water! Any hour of the day or night." -</p> - -<p> -He bought a car. Naturally. A glittering affair; in color a bright blue, -with pale blue leather straps and a great deal of gold fittings, and -wire wheels. Eva said it was the kind of thing a soubrette would use, -rather than an elderly business man. You saw him driving about in it, -red-faced and rather awkward at the wheel. You saw him, too, in the -Pompeian room at the Congress Hotel of a Saturday afternoon when -doubtful and roving-eyed matrons in kolinsky capes are wont to -congregate to sip pale amber drinks. Actors grew to recognize the -semi-bald head and the shining, round, good-natured face looming out at -them from the dim well of the parquet, and sometimes, in a musical show, -they directed a quip at him, and he liked it. He could pick out the -critics as they came down the aisle, and even had a nodding acquaintance -with two of them. -</p> - -<p> -"Kelly, of the <i>Herald</i>," he would say carelessly. "Bean, of the -<i>Trib.</i> They're all afraid of him." -</p> - -<p> -So he frolicked, ponderously. In New York he might have been called a -Man About Town. -</p> - -<p> -And he was lonesome. He was very lonesome. So he searched about in his -mind and brought from the dim past the memory of the luxuriously -furnished establishment of which he used to dream in the evenings when -he dozed over his paper in the old house on Calumet. So he rented an -apartment, many-roomed and expensive, with a man-servant in charge, and -furnished it in styles and periods ranging through all the Louis's. The -living-room was mostly rose-color. It was like an unhealthy and bloated -boudoir. And yet there was nothing sybaritic or uncleanly in the sight -of this paunchy, middle-aged man sinking into the rosy-cushioned luxury -of his ridiculous home. It was a frank and naĂŻve indulgence of -long-starved senses, and there was in it a great resemblance to the -rolling-eyed ecstasy of a schoolboy smacking his lips over an all day -sucker. -</p> - -<p> -The War went on, and on, and on. And the money continued to roll -in—a flood of it. Then, one afternoon, Eva, in town on shopping -bent, entered a small, exclusive, and expensive shop on Michigan Avenue. -Exclusive, that is, in price. Eva's weakness, you may remember, was -hats. She was seeking a hat now. She described what she sought with a -languid conciseness, and stood looking about her after the saleswoman -had vanished in quest of it. The room was becomingly rose-illumined and -somewhat dim, so that some minutes had passed before she realized that a -man seated on a raspberry brocade settee not five feet away—a man -with a walking stick, and yellow gloves, and tan spats, and a check -suit—was her brother Jo. From him Eva's wild-eyed glance leaped to -the woman who was trying on hats before one of the many long mirrors. -She was seated, and a saleswoman was exclaiming discreetly at her elbow. -</p> - -<p> -Eva turned sharply and encountered her own saleswoman returning, -hat-laden. "Not today," she gasped. "I'm feeling ill. Suddenly." And -almost ran from the room. -</p> - -<p> -That evening she told Stell, relating her news in that telephone -pidgin-English devised by every family of married sisters as protection -against the neighbors and Central. Translated, it ran thus: -</p> - -<p> -"He looked straight at me. My dear, I thought I'd die! But at least he -had sense enough not to speak. She was one of those limp, willowy -creatures with the greediest eyes that she tried to keep softened to a -baby stare, and couldn't, she was so crazy to get her hands on those -hats. I saw it all in, one awful minute. You know the way I do. I -suppose some people would call her pretty. I don't. And her color! Well! -And the most expensive-looking hats. Aigrettes, and paradise, and -feathers. Not one of them under seventy-five. Isn't it disgusting! At -his age! Suppose Ethel had been with me!" -</p> - -<p> -The next time it was Stell who saw them. In a restaurant. She said it -spoiled her evening. And the third time it was Ethel. She was one of the -guests at a theater party given by Nicky Overton II. You know. The North -Shore Overtons. Lake Forest. They came in late, and occupied the entire -third row at the opening performance of "Believe Me!" And Ethel was -Nicky's partner. She was growing like a rose. When the lights went up -after the first act Ethel saw that her uncle Jo was seated just ahead of -her with what she afterward described as a blonde. Then her uncle had -turned around, and seeing her, had been surprised into a smile that -spread genially all over his plump and rubicund face. Then he had turned -to face forward again, quickly. -</p> - -<p> -"Who's the old bird?" Nicky had asked. Ethel had pretended not to hear, -so he had asked again. -</p> - -<p> -"My uncle," Ethel answered, and flushed all over her delicate face, and -down to her throat. Nicky had looked at the blonde, and his eyebrows had -gone up ever so slightly. -</p> - -<p> -It spoiled Ethel's evening. More than that, as she told her mother of it -later, weeping, she declared it had spoiled her life. -</p> - -<p> -Eva talked it over with her husband in that intimate, kimonoed hour that -precedes bedtime. She gesticulated heatedly with her hair brush. -</p> - -<p> -"It's disgusting, that's what it is. Perfectly disgusting. There's no -fool like an old fool. Imagine! A creature like that. At his time of -life." -</p> - -<p> -There exists a strange and loyal kinship among men. "Well, I don't -know," Ben said now, and even grinned a little. "I suppose a boy's got -to sow his wild oats sometime." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be any more vulgar than you can help," Eva retorted. "And I think -you know, as well as I, what it means to have that Overton boy -interested in Ethel." -</p> - -<p> -"If he's interested in her," Ben blundered, "I guess the fact that -Ethel's uncle went to the theater with someone who wasn't Ethel's aunt -won't cause a shudder to run up and down his frail young frame, will -it?" -</p> - -<p> -"All right," Eva had retorted. "If you're not man enough to stop it, -I'll have to, that's all. I'm going up there with Stell this week." -</p> - -<p> -They did not notify Jo of their coming. Eva telephoned his apartment -when she knew he would be out, and asked his man if he expected his -master home to dinner that evening. The man had said yes. Eva arranged -to meet Stell in town. They would drive to Jo's apartment together, and -wait for him there. -</p> - -<p> -When she reached the city Eva found turmoil there. The first of the -American troops to be sent to France were leaving. Michigan Boulevard -was a billowing, surging mass: Flags, pennants, banners, crowds. All the -elements that make for demonstration. And over the whole—quiet. No -holiday crowd, this. A solid, determined mass of people waiting patient -hours to see the khaki-clads go by. Three years of indefatigable reading -had brought them to a clear knowledge of what these boys were going to. -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't it dreadful!" Stell gasped. -</p> - -<p> -"Nicky Overton's only nineteen, thank goodness." Their car was caught in -the jam. When they moved at all it was by inches. When at last they -reached Jo's apartment they were flushed, nervous, apprehensive. But he -had not yet come in. So they waited. -</p> - -<p> -No, they were not staying to dinner with their brother, they told the -relieved houseman. -</p> - -<p> -Jo's home has already been described to you. Stell and Eva, sunk in -rose-colored cushions, viewed it with disgust, and some mirth. They -rather avoided each other's eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"Carrie ought to be here," Eva said. They both smiled at the thought of -the austere Carrie in the midst of those rosy cushions, and hangings, -and lamps. Stell rose and began to walk about, restlessly. She picked up -a vase and laid it down; straightened a picture. Eva got up, too, and -wandered into the hall. She stood there a moment, listening. Then she -turned and passed into Jo's bedroom. And there you knew Jo for what he -was. -</p> - -<p> -This room was as bare as the other had been ornate. It was Jo, the -clean-minded and simple-hearted, in revolt against the cloying luxury -with which he had surrounded himself. The bedroom, of all rooms in any -house, reflects the personality of its occupant. True, the actual -furniture was paneled, cupid-surmounted, and ridiculous. It had been the -fruit of Jo's first orgy of the senses. But now it stood out in that -stark little room with an air as incongruous and ashamed as that of a -pink tarleton <i>danseuse</i> who finds herself in a monk's cell. None of -those wall-pictures with which bachelor bedrooms are reputed to be hung. -No satin slippers. No scented notes. Two plain-backed military brushes -on the chiffonier (and he so nearly hairless!). A little orderly stack -of books on the table near the bed. Eva fingered their titles and gave a -little gasp. One of them was on gardening. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of all things!" exclaimed Stell. A book on the War, by an -Englishman. A detective story of the lurid type that lulls us to sleep. -His shoes ranged in a careful row in the closet, with a shoe-tree in -every one of them. There was something speaking about them. They looked -so human. Eva shut the door on them, quickly. Some bottles on the -dresser. A jar of pomade. An ointment such as a man uses who is growing -bald and is panic-stricken too late. An insurance calendar on the wall. -Some rhubarb-and-soda mixture on the shelf in the bathroom, and a little -box of pepsin tablets. -</p> - -<p> -"Eats all kinds of things at all hours of the night," Eva said, and -wandered out into the rose-colored front room again with the air of one -who is chagrined at her failure to find what she has sought. Stell -followed her furtively. -</p> - -<p> -"Where do you suppose he can be?" she demanded. "It's"—she glanced at -her wrist—"why, it's after six!" -</p> - -<p> -And then there was a little dick. The two women sat up, tense. The door -opened. Jo came in. He blinked a little. The two women in the rosy room -stood up. -</p> - -<p> -"Why—Eve! Why, Babe! Well! Why didn't you let me know?" -</p> - -<p> -"We were just about to leave. We thought you weren't coming home." -</p> - -<p> -Jo came in, slowly. -</p> - -<p> -"I was in the jam on Michigan, watching the boys go by." He sat down, -heavily. The light from the window fell on him. And you saw that his -eyes were red. -</p> - -<p> -And you'll have to learn why. He had found himself one of the thousands -in the jam on Michigan Avenue, as he said. He had a place near the curb, -where his big frame shut off the view of the unfortunates behind him. He -waited with the placid interest of one who has subscribed to all the -funds and societies to which a prosperous, middle-aged business man is -called upon to subscribe in war time. Then, just as he was about to -leave, impatient at the delay, the crowd had cried, with a queer -dramatic, exultant note in its voice, "Here they come! Here come the -boys!" -</p> - -<p> -Just at that moment two little, futile, frenzied fists began to beat a -mad tattoo on Jo Hertz's broad back. Jo tried to turn in the crowd, all -indignant resentment. "Say, look here!" -</p> - -<p> -The little fists kept up their frantic beating and pushing. And a -voice—a choked, high little voice—cried: "Let me by! I can't -see! You man, you! You big fat man! My boy's going by—to -war—and I can't see! Let me by!" -</p> - -<p> -Jo scrooged around, still keeping his place. He looked down. And -upturned to him in agonized appeal was the face of little Emily. They -stared at each other for what seemed a long, long time. It was really -only the fraction of a second. Then Jo put one great arm firmly around -Emily's waist and swung her around in front of him. His great bulk -protected her. Emily was clinging to his hand. She was breathing -rapidly, as if she had been running. Her eyes were straining up the -street. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Emily, how in the world——" -</p> - -<p> -"I ran away. Fred didn't want me to come. He said it would excite me too -much." -</p> - -<p> -"Fred?" -</p> - -<p> -"My husband. He made me promise to say good-by to Jo at home." -</p> - -<p> -"Jo?" -</p> - -<p> -"Jo's my boy. And he's going to war. So I ran away. I had to see him. I -had to see him go." -</p> - -<p> -She was dry-eyed. Her gaze was straining up the street. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, sure," said Jo. "Of course you want to see him." And then the -crowd gave a great roar. There came over Jo a feeling of weakness. He -was trembling. The boys went marching by. -</p> - -<p> -"There he is," Emily shrilled, above the din. "There he is! There he is! -There he——" And waved a futile little hand. It wasn't so much -a wave as a clutching. A clutching after something beyond her reach. -</p> - -<p> -"Which one? Which one, Emily?" -</p> - -<p> -"The handsome one. The handsome one. There!" Her voice quavered and -died. -</p> - -<p> -Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. "Point him out," he commanded. -"Show me." And the next instant: "Never mind. I see him." -</p> - -<p> -Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among the hundreds. Had -picked him as surely as his own father might have. It was Emily's boy. -He was marching by, rather stiffly. He was nineteen, and fun-loving, and -he had a girl, and he didn't particularly want to go to France and—to -go to France. But more than he had hated going, he had hated not to go. -So he marched by, looking straight ahead, his jaw set so that his chin -stuck out just a little. Emily's boy. -</p> - -<p> -Jo looked at him, and his face flushed purple. His eyes, the hard-boiled -eyes of a Loop-hound, took on the look of a sad old man. And suddenly he -was no longer Jo, the sport; old J. Hertz, the gay-dog. He was Jo Hertz, -thirty, in love with life, in love with Emily, and with the stinging -blood of young manhood coursing through his veins. -</p> - -<p> -Another minute and the boy had passed on up the broad street—the -fine, flag-bedecked street—just one of a hundred service-hats -bobbing in rhythmic motion like sandy waves lapping a shore and flowing -on. -</p> - -<p> -Then he disappeared altogether. -</p> - -<p> -Emily was clinging to Jo. She was mumbling something, over and over. "I -can't. I can't. Don't ask me to. I can't let him go. Like that. I -can't." -</p> - -<p> -Jo said a queer thing. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Emily! We wouldn't have him stay home, would we? We wouldn't want -him to do anything different, would we? Not our boy. I'm glad he -enlisted. I'm proud of him. So are you glad." -</p> - -<p> -Little by little he quieted her. He took her to the car that was -waiting, a worried chauffeur in charge. They said good-by, awkwardly. -Emily's face was a red, swollen mass. -</p> - -<p> -So it was that when Jo entered his own hallway half an hour later he -blinked, dazedly, and when the light from the window fell on him you saw -that his eyes were red. -</p> - -<p> -Eva was not one to beat about the bush. She sat forward in her chair, -clutching her bag rather nervously. -</p> - -<p> -"Now, look here, Jo. Stell and I are here for a reason. We're here to -tell you that this thing's got to stop." -</p> - -<p> -"Thing? Stop?" -</p> - -<p> -"You know very well what I mean. You saw me at the milliner's that day. -And night before last, Ethel. We're all disgusted. If you must go about -with people like that, please have some sense of decency." -</p> - -<p> -Something gathering in Jo's face should have warned her. But he was -slumped down in his chair in such a huddle, and he looked so old and fat -that she did not heed it. She went on. "You've got us to consider. Your -sisters. And your nieces. Not to speak of your own——" -</p> - -<p> -But he got to his feet then, shaking, and at what she saw in his face -even Eva faltered and stopped. It wasn't at all the face of a fat, -middle-aged sport. It was a face Jovian, terrible. -</p> - -<p> -"You!" he began, low-voiced, ominous. "You!" He raised a great fist -high. "You two murderers! You didn't consider me, twenty years ago. You -come to me with talk like that. Where's my boy! You killed him, you two, -twenty years ago. And now he belongs to somebody else. Where's my son -that should have gone marching by today?" He flung his arms out in a -great gesture of longing. The red veins stood out on his forehead. -"Where's my son! Answer me that, you two selfish, miserable women. -Where's my son!" Then, as they huddled together, frightened, wild-eyed: -"Out of my house! Out of my house! Before I hurt you!" -</p> - -<p> -They fled, terrified. The door banged behind them. -</p> - -<p> -Jo stood, shaking, in the center of the room. Then he reached for a -chair, gropingly, and sat down. He passed one moist, flabby hand over -his forehead and it came away wet. The telephone rang. He sat still. It -sounded far away and unimportant, like something forgotten. I think he -did not even hear it with his conscious ear. But it rang and rang -insistently. Jo liked to answer his telephone, when at home. -</p> - -<p> -"Hello!" He knew instantly the voice at the other end. -</p> - -<p> -"That you, Jo?" it said. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." -</p> - -<p> -"How's my boy?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm—all right." -</p> - -<p> -"Listen, Jo. The crowd's coming over tonight. I've fixed up a little -poker game for you. Just eight of us." -</p> - -<p> -"I can't come tonight, Gert." -</p> - -<p> -"Can't! Why not?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not feeling so good." -</p> - -<p> -"You just said you were all right." -</p> - -<p> -"I am all right. Just kind of tired." -</p> - -<p> -The voice took on a cooing note. "Is my Joey tired? Then he shall be all -comfy on the sofa, and he doesn't need to play if he don't want to. No, -sir." -</p> - -<p> -Jo stood staring at the black mouthpiece of the telephone. He was seeing -a procession go marching by. Boys, hundreds of boys, in khaki. -</p> - -<p> -"Hello! Hello!" The voice took on an anxious note. "Are you there?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," wearily. -</p> - -<p> -"Jo, there's something the matter. You're sick. I'm coming right over." -</p> - -<p> -"No!" -</p> - -<p> -"Why not? You sound as if you'd been sleeping. Look here——" -</p> - -<p> -"Leave me alone!" cried Jo, suddenly, and the receiver clacked onto the -hook. "Leave me alone. Leave me alone." Long after the connection had -been broken. -</p> - -<p> -He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes. Then he turned -and walked into the front room. All the light had gone out of it. Dusk -had come on. All the light had gone out of everything. The zest had gone -out of life. The game was over—the game he had been playing against -loneliness and disappointment. And he was just a tired old man. A -lonely, tired old man in a ridiculous, rose-colored room that had grown, -all of a sudden, drab. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a><i>From Edna Ferber's Cheerful by Request. Copyright, 1918, -1922, by Doubleday, Page & Co. By permission of the publishers.</i></p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/figure05.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -<div class="caption"> -<p class="center">IRVIN S. COBB</p> -</div></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>FOREWORD</i></h4> - -<p> -<i>My favorite short story of all the short stories I have written is "The -Escape of Mr. Trimm." It was the first piece of avowed fiction I wrote. -It was written more than twelve years ago.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>At the time, I was on the city staff of the New York Evening World. I -was a reasonably busy person in those days. I did assignments, both special -and ordinary; I handled my share of the "re-write"—that is, the -building, inside the office, of news-stories based on details telephoned -in by "leg men" or outside workers; I covered most of the big criminal -trials that coincidentally took place; I wrote a page of alleged humor -for the color section of the Sunday World and for the McClure syndicate; -and every week I turned out a given number of shorter and also -supposedly humorous articles for the magazine page of the Evening -World.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>In the run of my contemporaneous duties I was detailed to report the -trial, in Federal Court, of a famous financier. This trial lasted -several weeks. What most deeply impressed me was the bearing of the -accused man. Although he had distinguished counsel, he practically -conducted his own defense. When the jurors came in with a verdict of -guilty and the judge sentenced him to a long term of imprisonment at -hard labor, he kept his nerve and his wits. I said to myself that this -man would never serve out his sentence; he was too smart for that; he -would find a way to beat the law, even though his appeals were denied. -And he did.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>On the concluding day of the trial I fell to wondering just what -possibly could defeat the will of such a man as this man was. At once a -notion jumped into my head and, then and there, sitting at the -reporters' table, I decided to write a story focusing about this central -idea.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>I had written fiction before—every reporter has—fiction -masquerading as the lighter side of the news. But I said to myself that -this story should be out-and-out fiction. Such small reputation as I had as -a special writer largely was founded on my efforts at humor. But I made up -my mind that this story should contain no humor at all.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Not until six months had passed did I get my chance. In the following -summer I went on my annual vacation of two weeks. In the concluding two -days of that vacation I wrote the first draft of the yarn, and, back at -the shop, in odd moments, I wrote it over again, making, though, only a -few changes in the original text, and none at all in the sequence of -imaginary events.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>I sent the manuscript to Mr. George Horace Lorimer, Editor of the -Saturday Evening Post. He accepted it and invited me to submit other -manuscripts to him. But I had to wait another full year—until -vacation time came again—before there was opportunity for any more -short-story writing. Then I did two more stories. Mr. Lorimer bought -them both, and thereby I was encouraged to give up my newspaper job, -with its guarantee of a pay envelope every Saturday, for the less -certain but highly alluring rĂ´le of a free-lance contributor to weekly -and monthly periodicals.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Maybe I like "The Escape of Mr. Trimm" best of all my stories because -it was this story which opened the door for me into magazine work. A -writer's estimate of his own output rarely agrees with the judgment of -his friends. But, after a period of consideration, after weighing this -against that, after trying to forget what some of the professional -reviewers have had to say about certain of my efforts, and striving -instead to remember only what more gentle critics, out of the goodness -of the heart, sometimes have told me, I still find myself committed to the -belief that the story which appears in this volume is—so far as my -prejudiced opinion goes—the best story I have ever written.</i> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/figure04.jpg" width="150" height="70" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap02"></a></h4> - -<h4><i>The</i> ESCAPE <i>of</i> MR. TRIMM<a name="FNanchor_2_1" id="FNanchor_2_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_1" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> -<br /><br /> -By IRVIN S. COBB</h4> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm, recently president of the late Thirteenth National Bank, was -taking a trip which was different in a number of ways from any he had -ever taken. To begin with, he was used to parlor cars and Pullmans and -even luxurious private cars when he went anywhere; whereas now he rode -with a most mixed company in a dusty, smelly day coach. In the second -place, his traveling companion was not such a one as Mr. Trimm would -have chosen had the choice been left to him, being a stupid-looking -German-American with a drooping, yellow mustache. And in the third -place, Mr. Trimm's plump white hands were folded in his lap, held in a -close and enforced companionship by a new and shiny pair of Bean's -Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs. Mr. Trimm was on his way to the -Federal penitentiary to serve twelve years at hard labor for breaking, -one way or another, about all the laws that are presumed to govern -national banks. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -All the time Mr. Trimm was in the Tombs, fighting for a new trial, a -certain question had lain in his mind unasked and unanswered. Through -the seven months of his stay in the jail that question had been always -at the back part of his head, ticking away there like a little watch -that never needed winding. A dozen times a day it would pop into his -thoughts and then go away, only to come back again. -</p> - -<p> -When Copley was taken to the penitentiary—Copley being the cashier -who got off with a lighter sentence because the judge and jury held him to -be no more than a blind accomplice in the wrecking of the Thirteenth -National—Mr. Trimm read closely every line that the papers carried -about Copley's departure. But none of them had seen fit to give the -young cashier more than a short and colorless paragraph. For Copley was -only a small figure in the big intrigue that had startled the country; -Copley didn't have the money to hire big lawyers to carry his appeal to -the higher courts for him; Copley's wife was keeping boarders; and as -for Copley himself, he had been wearing stripes several months now. -</p> - -<p> -With Mr. Trimm it had been vastly different. From the very beginning he -had held the public eye. His bearing in court when the jury came in with -their judgment; his cold defiance when the judge, in pronouncing -sentence, mercilessly arraigned him and the system of finance for which -he stood; the manner of his life in the Tombs; his spectacular fight to -beat the verdict, had all been worth columns of newspaper space. If Mr. -Trimm had been a popular poisoner, or a society woman named as -corespondent in a sensational divorce suit, the papers could not have -been more generous in their space allotments. And Mr. Trimm in his cell -had read all of it with smiling contempt, even to the semi-hysterical -outpourings of the lady special writers who called him The Iron Man of -Wall Street and undertook to analyze his emotions—and missed the mark -by a thousand miles or two. -</p> - -<p> -Things had been smoothed as much as possible for him in the Tombs, for -money and the power of it will go far toward ironing out even the -corrugated routine of that big jail. He had a large cell to himself in -the airiest, brightest corridor. His meals were served by a caterer from -outside. Although he ate them without knife or fork, he soon learned -that a spoon and the fingers can accomplish a good deal when backed by a -good appetite, and Mr. Trimm's appetite was uniformly good. The warden -and his underlings had been models of official kindliness; the -newspapers had sent their brightest young men to interview him whenever -he felt like talking, which wasn't often; and surely his lawyers had done -all in his behalf that money—a great deal of money—could do. -Perhaps it was because of these things that Mr. Trimm had never been -able to bring himself to realize that he was the Hobart W. Trimm who had -been sentenced to the Federal prison; it seemed to him, somehow, that -he, personally, was merely a spectator standing at one side watching the -fight of another man to dodge the penitentiary. -</p> - -<p> -However, he didn't fail to give the other man the advantage of every -chance that money would buy. This sense of aloofness to the whole thing -had persisted even when his personal lawyer came to him one night in the -early fall and told him that the court of last possible resort had -denied the last possible motion. Mr. Trimm cut the lawyer short with a -shake of his head as the other began saying something about the chances -of a pardon from the President. Mr. Trimm wasn't in the habit of letting -men deceive him with idle words. No President would pardon him, and he -knew it. -</p> - -<p> -"Never mind that, Walling," he said steadily, when the lawyer offered to -come to see him again before he started for prison the next day. "If you'll -see that a drawing-room on the train is reserved for me—for us, -I mean—and all that sort of thing, I'll not detain you any further. I -have a good many things to do tonight. Good night." -</p> - -<p> -"Such a man, such a man," said Walling to himself as he climbed into his -car; "all chilled steel and brains. And they are going to lock that -brain up for twelve years. It's a crime," said Walling, and shook his -head. Walling always said it was a crime when they sent a client of his -to prison. To his credit be it said, though, they sent very few of them -there. Walling made as high as eighty thousand a year at criminal law. -Some of it was very criminal law indeed. His specialty was picking holes -in the statutes faster than the legislature could make them and provide -them and putty them up with amendments. This was the first case he had -lost in a good long time. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -When Jerry, the turnkey, came for him in the morning Mr. Trimm had made -as careful a toilet as the limited means at his command permitted, and -he had eaten a hearty breakfast and was ready to go, all but putting on -his hat. Looking the picture of well-groomed, close-buttoned, iron-gray -middle age, Mr. Trimm followed the turnkey through the long corridor and -down the winding iron stairs to the warden's office. He gave no heed to -the curious eyes that followed him through the barred doors of many -cells; his feet rang briskly on the flags. -</p> - -<p> -The warden, Hallam, was there in the private office with another man, a -tall, raw-boned man with a drooping, straw-colored mustache and the -unmistakable look about him of the police officer. Mr. Trimm knew -without being told that this was the man who would take him to prison. -The stranger was standing at a desk, signing some papers. -</p> - -<p> -"Sit down, please, Mr. Trimm," said the warden with a nervous -cordiality. "Be through here in just one minute. This is Deputy Marshal -Meyers," he added. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm started to tell this Mr. Meyers he was glad to meet him, but -caught himself and merely nodded. The man stared at him with neither -interest nor curiosity in his dull blue eyes. The warden moved over -toward the door. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Trimm," he said, clearing his throat, "I took the liberty of -calling a cab to take you gents up to the Grand Central. It's out front -now. But there's a big crowd of reporters and photographers and a lot of -other people waiting, and if I was you I'd slip out the back way—one -of my men will open the yard gate for you—and jump aboard the subway -down at Worth Street. Then you'll miss those fellows." -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you, Warden—very kind of you," said Mr. Trimm in that crisp, -businesslike way of his. He had been crisp and businesslike all his -life. He heard a door opening softly be hind him, and when he turned to -look he saw the warden slipping out, furtively, in almost an embarrassed -fashion. -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said Meyers, "all ready?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Mr. Trimm, and he made as if to rise. -</p> - -<p> -"Wait one minute," said Meyers. -</p> - -<p> -He half turned his back on Mr. Trimm and fumbled at the side pocket of -his ill-hanging coat. Something inside of Mr. Trimm gave the least -little jump, and the question that had ticked away so busily all those -months began to buzz, buzz in his ears; but it was only a handkerchief -the man was getting out. Doubtless he was going to mop his face. -</p> - -<p> -He didn't mop his face, though. He unrolled the handkerchief slowly, as -if it contained something immensely fragile and valuable, and then, -thrusting it back in his pocket, he faced Mr. Trimm. He was carrying in -his hands a pair of handcuffs that hung open-jawed. The jaws had little -notches in them, like teeth that could bite. The question that had -ticked in Mr. Trimm's head was answered at last—in the sight of these -steel things with their notched jaws. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm stood up and, with a movement as near to hesitation as he had -ever been guilty of in his life, held out his hands, backs upward. -</p> - -<p> -"I guess you're new at this kind of thing," said Meyers, grinning. "This -here way—one at a time." -</p> - -<p> -He took hold of Mr. Trimm's right hand, turned it sideways and settled -one of the steel cuffs over the top of the wrist, flipping the notched -jaw up from beneath and pressing it in so that it locked automatically -with a brisk little click. Slipping the locked cuff back and forth on -Mr. Trimm's lower arm like a man adjusting a part of machinery, and then -bringing the left hand up to meet the right, he treated it the same way. -Then he stepped back. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm hadn't meant to protest. The word came unbidden. -</p> - -<p> -"This—this isn't necessary, is it?" he asked in a voice that was -husky and didn't seem to belong to him. -</p> - -<p> -"Yep," said Meyers, "Standin' orders is play no favorites and take no -chances. But you won't find them things uncomfortable. Lightest pair -there was in the office, and I fixed 'em plenty loose." -</p> - -<p> -For half a minute Mr. Trimm stood like a rooster hypnotized by a -chalkmark, his arms extended, his eyes set on his bonds. His hands had -fallen perhaps four inches apart, and in the space between his wrists a -little chain was stretched taut. In the mounting tumult that filled his -brain there sprang before Mr. Trimm's consciousness a phrase he had -heard or read somewhere, the title of a story or, perhaps, it was a -headline—The Grips of the Law. The Grips of the Law were upon Mr. -Trimm—he felt them now for the first time in these shiny wristlets -and this bit of chain that bound his wrists and filled his whole body with -a strange, sinking feeling that made him physically sick. A sudden sweat -beaded out on Mr. Trimm's face, turning it slick and wet. -</p> - -<p> -He had a handkerchief, a fine linen handkerchief with a hemstitched -border and a monogram on it, in the upper breast pocket of his buttoned -coat. He tried to reach it. His hands went up, twisting awkwardly like -crab claws. The fingers of both plucked out the handkerchief. Holding it -so, Mr. Trimm mopped the sweat away. The links of the handcuffs fell in -upon one another and lengthened out again at each movement, filling the -room with a smart little sound. -</p> - -<p> -He got the handkerchief stowed away with the same clumsiness. He raised -the manacled hands to his hat brim, gave it a downward pull that brought -it over his face and then, letting his short arms slide down upon his -plump stomach, he faced the man who had put the fetters upon him, -squaring his shoulders back. But it was hard, somehow, for him to square -his shoulders—perhaps because of his hands being drawn so closely -together. And his eyes would waver and fall upon his wrists. Mr. Trimm -had a feeling that the skin must be stretched very tight on his jawbones -and his forehead. -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't there some way to hide these—these things?" -</p> - -<p> -He began by blurting and ended by faltering it. His hands shuffled -together, one over, then under the other. -</p> - -<p> -"Here's a way," said Meyers. "This'll help." -</p> - -<p> -He bestirred himself, folding one of the chained hands upon the other, -tugging at the white linen cuffs and drawing the coat sleeves of his -prisoner down over the bonds as far as the chain would let them come. -</p> - -<p> -"There's the notion," he said. "Just do that-a-way and them bracelets -won't hardly show a-tall. Ready? Let's be movin', then." -</p> - -<p> -But handcuffs were never meant to be hidden. Merely a pair of steel -rings clamped to one's wrists and coupled together with a scrap of -chain, but they'll twist your arms and hamper the movements of your body -in a way constantly to catch the eye of the passer-by. When a man is -coming toward you, you can tell that he is handcuffed before you see the -cuffs. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm was never able to recall afterward exactly how he got out of -the Tombs. He had a confused memory of a gate that was swung open by -someone whom Mr. Trimm saw only from the feet to the waist; then he and -his companion were out on Lafayette Street speeding south toward the -subway entrance at Worth Street, two blocks below, with the marshal's -hand cupped under Mr. Trimm's right elbow and Mr. Trimm's plump legs -almost trotting in their haste. For a moment it looked as if the -warden's well-meant artifice would serve. -</p> - -<p> -But New York reporters are up to the tricks of people who want to evade -them. At the sight of them a sentry reporter on the corner shouted a -warning which was instantly caught up and passed on by another picket -stationed half-way down the block; and around the wall of the Tombs came -pelting a flying mob of newspaper photographers and reporters, with a -choice rabble behind them. Foot passengers took up the chase, not -knowing what it was about, but sensing a free show. Truckmen halted -their teams, jumped down from their wagon seats and joined in. A -man-chase is one of the pleasantest outdoor sports that a big city like -New York can offer its people. -</p> - -<p> -Fairly running now, the manacled banker and the deputy marshal shot down -the winding steps into the subway a good ten yards ahead of the foremost -pursuers. But there was one delay, while Meyers skirmished with his free -hand in his trousers pocket for a dime for the tickets, and another -before a northbound local rolled into the station. Shouted at, jeered -at, shoved this way and that, panting in gulping breaths, for he was -stout by nature and staled by lack of exercise, Mr. Trimm, with Meyers -clutching him by the arm, was fairly shot aboard one of the cars, at the -apex of a human wedge. The astonished guard sensed the situation as the -scrooging, shoving, noisy wave rolled across the platform toward the -doors which he had opened and, thrusting the officer and his prisoner -into the narrow platform space behind him, he tried to form with his -body a barrier against those who came jamming in. -</p> - -<p> -It, didn't do any good. He was brushed away, protesting and blustering. -The excitement spread through the train, and men, and even women, left -their seats, overflowing the aisles. -</p> - -<p> -There is no cruder thing than a city crowd, all eyes and morbid -curiosity. But Mr. Trimm didn't see the staring eyes on that ride to the -Grand Central. What he saw was many shifting feet and a hedge of legs -shutting him in closely—those and the things on his wrists. What the -eyes of the crowd saw was a small, stout man who, for all his bulk, -seemed to have dried up inside his clothes so that they bagged on him -some places and bulged others, with his head tucked on his chest, his -hat over his face and his fingers straining to hold his coat sleeves -down over a pair of steel bracelets. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm gave mental thanks to a Deity whose existence he thought he -had forgotten when the gate of the train-shed clanged behind him, -shutting out the mob that had come with them all the way. Cameras had -been shoved in his face like gun muzzles, reporters had scuttled -alongside him, dodging under Meyers' fending arm to shout questions in -his ears. He had neither spoken nor looked at them. The sweat still ran -down his face, so that when finally he raised his head in the -comparative quiet of the train-shed his skin was a curious gray under -the jail paleness like the color of wet wood ashes. -</p> - -<p> -"My lawyer promised to arrange for a compartment—for some private -place on the train," he said to Meyers. "The conductor ought to know." -</p> - -<p> -They were the first words he had uttered since he left the Tombs. Meyers -spoke to a jaunty Pullman conductor who stood alongside the car where -they had halted. -</p> - -<p> -"No such reservation," said the conductor, running through his sheaf of -slips, with his eyes shifting from Mr. Trimm's face to Mr. Trimm's hands -and back again, as though he couldn't decide which was the more -interesting part of him; "must be some mistake. Or else it was for some -other train. Too late to change now—we pull out in three minutes." -</p> - -<p> -"I reckon we better git on the smoker," said Meyers, "if there's room -there." -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm was steered back again the length of the train through a -double row of pop-eyed porters and staring trainmen. At the steps where -they stopped the instinct to stretch out one hand and swing himself up -by the rail operated automatically and his wrists got a nasty twist. -Meyers and a brakeman practically lifted him up the steps and Meyers -headed him into a car that was hazy with blue tobacco smoke. He was -confused in his gait, almost as if his lower limbs had been fettered, -too. -</p> - -<p> -The car was full of shirt-sleeved men who stood up, craning their necks -and stumbling over each other in their desire to see him. These men came -out into the aisle, so that Meyers had to shove through them. -</p> - -<p> -"This here'll do as well as any, I guess," said Meyers. He drew Mr. -Trimm past him into the seat nearer the window and sat down alongside -him on the side next the aisle, settling himself on the stuffy plush -seat and breathing deeply, like a man who had got through the hardest -part of a not easy job. -</p> - -<p> -"Smoke?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm shook his head without raising it. -</p> - -<p> -"Them cuffs feel plenty easy?" was the deputy's next question. He lifted -Mr. Trimm's hands as casually as if they had been his hands and not Mr. -Trimm's, and looked at them. -</p> - -<p> -"Seem to be all right," he said as he let them fall back. "Don't pinch -none, I reckon?" There was no answer. -</p> - -<p> -The deputy tugged a minute at his mustache, searching his arid mind. An -idea came to him. He drew a newspaper from his pocket, opened it out -flat and spread it over Mr. Trimm's lap so that it covered the chained -wrists. Almost instantly the train was in motion, moving through the -yards. -</p> - -<p> -"Be there in two hours more," volunteered Meyers. It was late afternoon. -They were sliding through woodlands with occasional openings which -showed meadows melting into wide, flat lands. -</p> - -<p> -"Want a drink?" said the deputy, next. "No? Well, I guess I'll have a -drop myself. Travelin' fills a feller's throat full of dust." He got up, -lurching to the motion of the flying train, and started forward to the -water cooler behind the car door. He had gone perhaps two-thirds of the -way when Mr. Trimm felt a queer, grinding sensation beneath his feet; it -was exactly as though the train were trying to go forward and back at -the same time. Almost slowly, it seemed to him, the forward end of the -car slued out of its straight course, at the same time tilting up. There -was a grinding, roaring, grating sound, and before Mr. Trimm's eyes -Meyers vanished, tumbling forward out of sight as the car floor buckled -under his feet. Then, as everything—the train, the earth, the -sky—all fused together in a great spatter of white and black, Mr. -Trimm was plucked from his seat as though a giant hand had him by the -collar and shot forward through the air over the seat-backs, his chained -hands aloft, clutching wildly. He rolled out of a ragged opening where -the smoker had broken in two, flopped gently on the sloping side of the -right-of-way and slid easily to the bottom, where he lay quiet and still -on his back in a bed of weeds and wild grass, staring straight up. -</p> - -<p> -How many minutes he lay there Mr. Trimm didn't know. It may have been -the shrieks of the victims or the glare from the fire that brought him -out of the daze. He wriggled his body to a sitting posture, got on his -feet, holding his head between his coupled hands, and gazed full-face -into the crowning railroad horror of the year. -</p> - -<p> -There were numbers of the passengers who had escaped serious hurt, but -for the most part these persons seemed to have gone daft from terror and -shock. Some were running aimlessly up and down and some, a few, were -pecking feebly with improvised tools at the wreck, an indescribable -jumble of ruin, from which there issued cries of mortal agony, and from -which, at a point where two locomotives were lying on their sides, -jammed together like fighting bucks that had died with locked horns, a -tall flame already rippled and spread, sending up a pillar of black -smoke that rose straight, poisoning the clear blue of the sky. Nobody -paid any attention to Mr. Trimm as he stood swaying upon his feet. There -wasn't a scratch on him. His clothes were hardly rumpled, his hat was -still on his head. He stood a minute and then, moved by a sudden -impulse, he turned round and went running straight away from the -railroad at the best speed his pudgy legs could accomplish, with his -arms pumping up and down in front of him and his fingers interlaced. It -was a grotesque gait, rather like a rabbit hopping on its hindlegs. -</p> - -<p> -Instantly, almost, the friendly woods growing down to the edge of the -fill swallowed him up. He dodged and doubled back and forth among the -tree trunks, his small, patent-leathered feet skipping nimbly over the -irregular turf, until he stopped for lack of wind in his lungs to carry -him another rod. When he had got his breath back Mr. Trimm leaned -against a tree and bent his head this way and that, listening. No sound -came to his ears except the sleepy calls of birds. As well as Mr. Trimm -might judge he had come far into the depths of a considerable woodland. -Already the shadows under the low limbs were growing thick and confused -as the hurried twilight of early September came on. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm sat down on a natural cushion of thick green moss between two -roots of an oak. The place was clean and soft and sweet-scented. For -some little time he sat there motionless, in a sort of mental haze. Then -his round body slowly slid down fiat upon the moss, his head lolled to -one side and, the reaction having come, Mr. Trimm's limbs all relaxed -and he went to sleep straightway. -</p> - -<p> -After a while, when the woods were blade and still, the half-grown moon -came up and, sifting through a chink in the canopy of leaves above, -shone down full on Mr. Trimm as he lay snoring gently with his mouth -open and his hands rising and falling on his breast. The moonlight -struck upon the Little Giant handcuffs, making them look like -quicksilver. -</p> - -<p> -Toward daylight it turned off sharp and cool. The dogwoods which had -been a solid color at nightfall now showed pink in one light and green -in another, like changeable silk, as the first level rays of the sun -came up over the rim of the earth and made long, golden lanes between -the tree trunks. Mr. Trimm opened his eyes slowly, hardly sensing for -the first moment or two how he came to be lying under a canopy of -leaves, and gaped, seeking to stretch his arms. At that he remembered -everything; he hunched his shoulders against the tree roots and wriggled -himself up to a sitting position where he stayed for a while, letting -his mind run over the sequence of events that had brought him where he -was and taking inventory of the situation. -</p> - -<p> -Of escape he had no thought. The hue and cry must be out for him before -now; doubtless men were already searching for him. It would be better -for him to walk in and surrender than to be taken in the woods like some -animal escaped from a traveling menagerie. But the mere thought of -enduring again what he had already gone through—the thought of being -tagged by crowds and stared at, with his fetters on—filled him with a -nausea. Nothing that the Federal penitentiary might hold in store for -him could equal the black, blind shamefulness of yesterday; he knew -that. The thought of the new ignominy that faced him made Mr. Trimm -desperate. He had a desire to burrow into the thicket yonder and hide -his face and his chained hands. -</p> - -<p> -But perhaps he could get the handcuffs off and so go to meet his captors -in some manner of dignity. Strange that the idea hadn't occurred to him -before! It seemed to Mr. Trimm that he desired to get his two hands -apart more than he had ever desired anything in his whole life before. -</p> - -<p> -The hands had begun naturally to adjust themselves to their enforced -companionship, and it wasn't such a very hard matter, though it cost him -some painful wrenches and much twisting of the fingers, for Mr. Trimm to -get his coat unbuttoned and his eyeglasses in their small leather case -out of his upper waistcoat pocket. With the glasses on his nose he -subjected his bonds to a critical examination. Each rounded steel band -ran unbroken except for the smooth, almost jointless hinge and the small -lock which sat perched on the back of the wrist in a little rounded -excrescence like a steel wart. In the flat center of each lock was a -small keyhole and alongside of it a notched nub, the nub being sunk in a -minute depression. On the inner side, underneath, the cuffs slid into -themselves—two notches on each showing where the jaws might be -tightened to fit a smaller hand than his—and right over the large -blue veins in the middle of the wrists were swivel links, shackle-bolted to -the cuffs and connected by a flat, slightly larger middle link, giving -the hands a palm-to-palm play of not more than four or five inches. The -cuffs did not hurt—even after so many hours there was no actual -discomfort from them and the flesh beneath them was hardly reddened. -</p> - -<p> -But it didn't take Mr. Trimm long to find out that they were not to be -got off. He tugged and pulled, trying with his fingers for a purchase. -All he did was to chafe his skin and make his wrists throb with pain. -The cuffs would go forward just so far, then the little humps of bone -above the hands would catch and hold them. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm was not a man to waste time in the pursuit of the obviously -hopeless. Presently he stood up, shook himself and started off at a fair -gait through the woods. The sun was up now and the turf was all dappled -with lights and shadows, and about him much small, furtive wild life was -stirring. He stepped along briskly, a strange figure for that green -solitude, with his correct city garb and the glint of the steel at his -sleeve ends. -</p> - -<p> -Presently he heard the long-drawn, quavering, banshee wail of a -locomotive. The sound came from almost behind him, in an opposite -direction from where he supposed the track to be. So he turned around -and went back the other way. He crossed a half-dried-up runlet and -climbed a small hill, neither of which he remembered having met in his -flight from the wreck, and in a little while he came out upon the -railroad. To the north a little distance the rails bent round a curve. -To the south, where the diminishing rails running through the unbroken -woodland met in a long, shiny V, he could see a big smoke smudge against -the horizon. This smoke Mr. Trimm knew must come from the wreck—which -was still burning, evidently. As nearly as he could judge he had come -out of cover at least two miles above it. After a moment's consideration -he decided to go south toward the wreck. Soon he could distinguish small -dots like ants moving in and out about the black spot, and he knew these -dots must be men. -</p> - -<p> -A whining, whirring sound came along the rails to him from behind. He -faced about just as a handcar shot out around the curve from the north, -moving with amazing rapidity under the strokes of four men at the pumps. -Other men, laborers to judge by their blue overalls, were sitting on the -edges of the car with their feet dangling. For the second time within -twelve hours impulse ruled Mr. Trimm, who wasn't given to impulses -normally. He made a jump off the right-of-way, and as the handcar -flashed by he watched its flight from the covert of a weed tangle. -</p> - -<p> -But even as the handcar was passing him Mr. Trimm regretted his -hastiness. He must surrender himself sooner or later; why not to these -overalled laborers, since it was a thing that had to be done? He slid -out of hiding and came trotting back to the tracks. Already the handcar -was a hundred yards away, flitting into distance like some big, -wonderfully fast bug, the figures of the men at the pumps rising and -falling with a walking-beam regularity. As he stood watching them fade -away and minded to try hailing them, yet still hesitating against his -judgment, Mr. Trimm saw something white drop from the hands of one of -the blue-clad figures on the handcar, unfold into a newspaper and come -fluttering back along the tracks toward him. Just as he, starting -doggedly ahead, met it, the little ground breeze that had carried it -along died out and the paper dropped and flattened right in front of -him. The front page was uppermost and he knew it must be of that -morning's issue, for across the column tops ran the flaring headline: -"Twenty Dead in Frightful Collision." -</p> - -<p> -Squatting on the cindered track, Mr. Trimm patted the crumpled sheet -flat with his hands. His eyes dropped from the first of the glaring -captions to the second, to the next—and then his heart gave a great -bound inside of him and, clutching up the newspaper to his breast he -bounded off the tracks back into another thicket and huddled there with -the paper spread on the earth in front of him, reading by gulps while -the chain, that linked wrist to wrist tinkled to the tremors running -through him. What he had seen first, in staring black-face type, was his -own name leading the list of known dead, and what he saw now, broken up -into choppy paragraphs and done in the nervous English of a trained -reporter throwing a great news story together to catch an edition, but -telling a clear enough story nevertheless, was a narrative in which his -name recurred again and again. The body of the United States deputy -marshal, Meyers, frightfully crushed, had been taken from the wreckage -of the smoker—so the double-leaded story ran—and near to Meyers -another body, with features burned beyond recognition, yet still -retaining certain distinguishing marks of measurement and contour, had -been found and identified as that of Hobart W. Trimm, the convicted -banker. The bodies of these two, with eighteen other mangled dead, had -been removed to a town called Westfield, from which town of Westfield -the account of the disaster had been telegraphed to the New York paper. -In another column farther along was more about Banker Trimm; facts about -his soiled, selfish, greedy, successful life, his great fortune, his -trial, and a statement that, in the absence of any close kin to claim -his body, his lawyers had been notified. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm read the account through to the end, and as he read the sense -of dominant, masterful self-control came back to him in waves. He got -up, taking the paper with him, and went back into the deeper woods, -moving warily and watchfully. As he went his mind, trained to take hold -of problems and wring the essence out of them, was busy. Of the charred, -grisly thing in the improvised morgue at Westfield, wherever that might -be, Mr. Trimm took no heed nor wasted any pity. All his life he had used -live men to work his will, with no thought of what might come to them -afterward. The living had served him, why not the dead? -</p> - -<p> -He had other things to think of than this dead proxy of his. He was as -good as free! There would be no hunt for him now; no alarm out, no -posses combing every scrap of cover for a famous criminal turned -fugitive. He had only to lie quiet a few days, somewhere, then get in -secret touch with Walling. Walling would do anything for money. And he -had the money—four millions and more, cannily saved from the crash -that had ruined so many others. -</p> - -<p> -He would alter his personal appearance, change his name—he thought -of Duvall, which was his mother's name—and with Walling's aid he -would get out of the country and into some other country where a man -might live like a prince on four millions or the fractional part of it. -He thought of South America, of South Africa, of a private yacht -swinging through the little frequented islands of the South Seas. All -that the law had tried to take from him would be given back. Walling -would work out the details of the escape—and make it safe and -sure—trust Walling for those things. On one side was the prison, -with its promise of twelve grinding years sliced out of the very heart -of his life; on the other, freedom, ease, security, even power. Through -Mr. Trimm's mind tumbled thoughts of concessions, enterprises, -privileges—the back corners of the globe were full of -possibilities for the right man. And between this prospect and Mr. Trimm -there stood nothing in the way, nothing but—— -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm's eyes fell upon his bound hands. Snug-fitting, shiny steel -bands irked his wrists. The Grips of the Law were still upon him. -</p> - -<p> -But only in a way of speaking. It was preposterous, unbelievable, -altogether out of the question that a man with four millions salted down -and stored away, a man who all his life had been used to grappling with -the big things and wrestling them down into submission, a man whose luck -had come to be a byword—and had not it held good even in this last -emergency?—would be balked by puny scraps of forged steel and a -trumpery lock or two. Why, these cuffs were no thicker than the gold -bands that Mr. Trimm had seen on the arms of overdressed women at the -opera. The chain that joined them was no larger and, probably, no -stronger than the chains which Mr. Trimm's chauffeur wrapped around the -tires of the touring-car in winter to keep the wheels from skidding on -the slush. There would be a way, surely, for Mr. Trimm to free himself -from these things. There must be—that was all there was to it. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm looked himself over. His clothes were not badly rumpled; his -patent-leather boots were scarcely scratched. Without the handcuffs he -could pass unnoticed anywhere. By night then he must be free of them and -on his way to some small inland city, to stay quiet there until the -guarded telegram that he would send in cipher had reached Walling. There -in the woods by himself Mr. Trimm no longer felt the ignominy of his -bonds; he felt only the temporary embarrassment of them and the need of -added precaution until he should have mastered them. -</p> - -<p> -He was once more the unemotional man of affairs who had stood Wall -Street on its esteemed head and caught the golden streams that trickled -from its pockets. First making sure that he was in a well-screened -covert of the woods he set about exploring all his pockets. The coat -pockets were comparatively easy, now that he had got used to using two -hands where one had always served, but it cost him a lot of twisting of -his body and some pain to his mistreated wrist bones to bring forth the -contents of his trousers pockets. The chain kinked time and again as he -groped with the undermost hand for the openings; his dumpy, pudgy form -writhed grotesquely. But finally he finished. The search produced four -cigars somewhat crumpled and frayed; some matches in a gun-metal case, a -silver cigar cutter, two five-dollar bills, a handful of silver chicken -feed, the leather case of the eyeglasses, a couple of quill toothpicks, -a gold watch with a dangling fob, a note-book and some papers. Mr. Trimm -ranged these things in a neat row upon a log, like a watchmaker putting -out his kit, and took swift inventory of them. Some he eliminated from -his design, stowing them back in the pockets easiest to reach. He kept -for present employment the match safe, the cigar cutter and the watch. -</p> - -<p> -This place where he had halted would suit his present purpose well, he -decided. It was where an uprooted tree, fallen across an incurving bank, -made a snug little recess that was closed in on three sides. Spreading -the newspaper on the turf to save his knees from soiling, he knelt and -set to his task. For the time he felt neither hunger nor thirst. He had -found out during his earlier experiments that the nails of his little -fingers, which were trimmed to a point, could invade the keyholes in the -little steel warts on the backs of his wrists and touch the locks. The -mechanism had even twitched a little bit under the tickle of the nail -ends. So, having already smashed the gun-metal match safe under his -heel, Mr. Trimm selected a slender-pointed bit from among its fragments -and got to work, the left hand drawn up under the right, the fingers of -the right busy with the lock of the left, the chain tightening and -slackening with subdued clinking sounds at each movement. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm didn't know much about picking a lock. He had got his money by -a higher form of burglary that did not require a knowledge of -lock-picking. Nor as a boy had he been one to play at mechanics. He had -let other boys make the toy fluttermills and the wooden traps and the -like, and then he had traded for them. He was sorry now that he hadn't -given more heed to the mechanical side of things when he was growing up. -</p> - -<p> -He worked with a deliberate slowness, steadily. Nevertheless, it was hot -work. The sun rose over the bank and shone on him through the limbs of -the uprooted tree. His hat was on the ground alongside of him. The sweat -ran down his face, streaking it and wilting his collar flat. The scrap -of gun metal kept slipping out of his wet fingers. Down would go the -chained hands to scrabble in the grass for it, and then the picking -would go on again. This happened a good many times. Birds, nervous with -the spirit that presages the fall migration, flew back and forth along -the creek, almost grazing Mr. Trimm sometimes. A rain crow wove a brown -thread in the green warp of the bushes above his head. A chattering red -squirrel sat up on a tree limb to scold him. At intervals, distantly, -came the cough of laboring trains, showing that the track must have been -cleared. There were times when Mr. Trimm thought he felt the lock -giving. These times he would work harder. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -Late in the afternoon Mr. Trimm lay back against the bank, panting. His -face was splotched with red, and the little hollows at the sides of his -forehead pulsed rapidly up and down like the bellies of scared tree -frogs. The bent outer case of the watch littered a bare patch on the -log; its mainspring had gone the way of the fragments of the gun-metal -match safe which were lying all about, each a worn-down, twisted wisp of -metal. The spring of the eyeglasses had been confiscated long ago and -the broken crystals powdered the earth where Mr. Trimm's toes had -scraped a smooth patch. The nails of the two little fingers were worn to -the quick and splintered down into the raw flesh. There were countless -tiny scratches and mars on the locks of the handcuffs, and the steel -wristbands were dulled with blood smears and pale-red tarnishes of new -rust; but otherwise they were as stanch and strong a pair of Bean's -Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs as you'd find in any hardware store -anywhere. -</p> - -<p> -The devilish, stupid malignity of the damned things! With an acid oath -Mr. Trimm raised his hands and brought them down on the log violently. -There was a double click and the bonds tightened painfully, pressing the -chafed red skin white. Mr. Trimm snatched up his hands close to his -near-sighted eyes and looked. One of the little notches on the under -side of each cuff had disappeared. It was as if they were living things -that had turned and bitten him for the blow he gave them. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -From the time the sun went down there was a tingle of frost in the air. -Mr. Trimm didn't sleep much. Under the squeeze of the tightened fetters -his wrists throbbed steadily and racking cramps ran through his arms. -His stomach felt as though it were tied into knots. The water that he -drank from the branch only made his hunger sickness worse. His -undergarments, that had been wet with perspiration, clung to him -clammily. His middle-aged, tenderly cared-for body called through every -pore for clean linen and soap and water and rest, as his empty insides -called for food. -</p> - -<p> -After a while he became so chilled that the demand for warmth conquered -his instinct for caution. He felt about him in the darkness gathering -scraps of dead wood, and, after breaking several of the matches that had -been in the gun-metal match safe, he managed to strike one and with its -tiny flame started a fire. He huddled almost over the fire, coughing -when the smoke blew into his face and twisting and pulling at his arms -in an effort to get relief from the everlasting cramps. It seemed to him -that if he could only get an inch or two more of play for his hands he -would be ever so much more comfortable. But he couldn't, of course. -</p> - -<p> -He dozed, finally, sitting crosslegged with his head sunk between his -hunched shoulders. A pain in a new place woke him. The fire had burned -almost through the thin sole of his right shoe, and as he scrambled to -his feet and stamped, the clap of the hot leather flat against his -blistered foot almost made him cry out. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -Soon after sunrise a boy came riding a horse down a faintly traced -footpath along the creek, driving a cow with a bell on her neck ahead of -him. Mr. Trimm's ears caught the sound of the clanking bell before -either the cow or her herder was in sight, and he limped away, running, -skulking through the thick cover. A pendent loop of a wild grapevine, -swinging low, caught his hat and flipped it off his head; but Mr. Trimm, -imagining pursuit, did not stop to pick it up and went on bareheaded -until he had to stop from exhaustion. He saw some dark-red berries on a -shrub upon which he had trod, and, stooping, he plucked some of them -with his two hands and put three or four in his mouth experimentally. -Warned instantly by the harsh, burning taste, he spat the crushed -berries out and went on doggedly, following, according to his best -judgment, a course parallel to the railroad. It was characteristic of -him, a city-raised man, that he took no heed of distances nor of the -distinguishing marks of the timber. -</p> - -<p> -Behind a log at the edge of a small clearing in the woods he halted some -little time, watching and listening. The clearing had grown up in sumacs -and weeds and small saplings and it seemed deserted; certainly it was -still. Near the center of it rose the sagging roof of what had been a -shack or a shed of some sort. Stooping cautiously, to keep his bare head -below the tops of the sumacs, Mr. Trimm made for the ruined shanty and -gained it safely. In the midst of the rotted, punky logs that had once -formed the walls he began scraping with his feet. Presently he uncovered -something. It was a broken-off harrow tooth, scaled like a long, red -fish with the crusted rust of years. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm rested the lower rims of his handcuffs on the edge of an old, -broken watering trough, worked the pointed end of the rust-crusted -harrow tooth into the flat middle link of the chain as far as it would -go, and then with one hand on top of the other he pressed downward with -all his might. The pain in his wrists made him stop this at once. The -link had not sprung or given in the least, but the twisting pressure had -almost broken his wrist bones. He let the harrow tooth fall, knowing that -it would never serve as a lever to free him—which, indeed, he had -known all along—and sat on the side of the trough, rubbing his wrists -and thinking. -</p> - -<p> -He had another idea. It came into his mind as a vague suggestion that -fire had certain effects upon certain metals. He kindled a fire of bits -of the rotted wood, and when the flames ran together and rose slender -and straight in a single red thread he thrust the chain into it, holding -his hands as far apart as possible in the attitude of a player about to -catch a bounced ball. But immediately the pain of that grew unendurable -too, and he leaped back, jerking his hands away. He had succeeded only -in blackening the steel and putting a big water blister on one of his -wrists right where the shackle bolt would press upon it. -</p> - -<p> -Where he huddled down in the shelter of one of the fallen walls he -noticed, presently, a strand of rusted fence wire still held to -half-tottering posts by a pair of blackened staples; it was part of a -pen that had been used once for chickens or swine. Mr. Trimm tried the -wire with his fingers. It was firm and springy. Rocking and groaning -with the pain of it, he nevertheless began sliding the chain back and -forth along the strand of wire. -</p> - -<p> -Eventually, the wire, weakened by age, snapped in two. A tiny shined -spot, hardly deep enough to be called a nick, in its tarnished, smudged -surface was all the mark that the chain showed. -</p> - -<p> -Staggering a little and putting his feet down unsteadily, Mr. Trimm left -the clearing, heading as well as he could tell eastward, away from the -railroad. After a mile or two he came toil dusty wood road winding -downhill. -</p> - -<p> -To the north of the clearing where Mr. Trimm had halted were a farm and -a group of farm buildings. To the southward a mile or so was a cluster -of dwellings set in the midst of more farm lands, with a shop or two and -a small white church with a green spire in the center. Along a road that -ran northward from the hamlet to the solitary farm a ten-year-old boy -came, carrying a covered tin pail. A young gray squirrel flirted across -the wagon ruts ahead of him and darted up a chestnut sapling. The boy -put the pail down at the side of the road and began looking for a stone -to throw at the squirrel. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm slid out from behind a tree. A hemstitched handkerchief, -grimed and stained, was loosely twisted around his wrists, partly hiding -the handcuffs. He moved along with a queer, sidling gait, keeping as -much of his body as he could turned from the youngster. The ears of the -little chap caught the faint scuffle of feet and he spun around on his -bare heel. -</p> - -<p> -"My boy, would you——" Mr. Trimm began. -</p> - -<p> -The boy's round eyes widened at the apparition that was sidling toward -him in so strange a fashion, and then, taking fright, he dodged past Mr. -Trimm and ran back the way he had come, as fast as his slim brown legs -could take him. In half a minute he was out of sight round a bend. -</p> - -<p> -Had the boy looked back he would have seen a still more curious -spectacle than the one that had frightened him. He would have seen a man -worth four million dollars down on his knees in the yellow dust, pawing -with chained hands at the tight-fitting lid of the tin pail, and then, -when he had got the lid off, drinking the fresh, warm milk which the -pail held with great, choking gulps, uttering little mewing, animal -sounds as he drank, while the white, creamy milk ran over his chin and -splashed down his breast in little, spurting streams. -</p> - -<p> -But the boy didn't look back. He ran all the way home and told his -mother he had seen a wild man on the road to the village; and later, -when his father came in from the fields, he was soundly thrashed for -letting the sight of a tramp make him lose a good tin bucket and half a -gallon of milk worth nine cents a quart. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -The rich, fresh milk put life into Mr. Trimm. He rested the better for -it during the early part of that night in a haw thicket. Only the sharp, -darting pains in his wrists kept rousing him to temporary wakefulness. -In one of those intervals of waking the plan that had been sketchily -forming in his mind from the time he had quit the clearing in the woods -took on a definite, fixed shape. But how was he with safety to get the -sort of aid he needed, and where? -</p> - -<p> -Canvassing tentative plans in his head, he dozed off again. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -On a smooth patch of turf behind the blacksmith shop three yokels were -languidly pitching horseshoes—"quaits," they called them—at -a stake driven in the earth. Just beyond, the woods shredded out into a -long, yellow and green peninsula which stretched up almost to the back -door of the smithy, so that late of afternoons the slanting shadows of -the nearmost trees fell on its roof of warped shingles. At the extreme -end of this point of woods Mr. Trimm was squatted behind a big boulder, -squinting warily through a thick-fringed curtain of ripened goldenrod -tops and sumacs, heavy-headed with their dark-red tapers. He had been -there more than an hour, cautiously waiting his chance to hail the -blacksmith, whose figure he could make out in the smoky interior of his -shop, passing back and forth in front of a smudgy forge fire and -rattling metal against metal in intermittent fits of professional -activity. -</p> - -<p> -From where Mr. Trimm watched to where the horseshoe-pitching game went -on was not more than sixty feet. He could hear what the players said and -even see the little puffs of dust rise when one of them clapped his -hands together after a pitch. He judged by the signs of slackening -interest that they would be stopping soon and, he hoped, going clear -away. -</p> - -<p> -But the smith loafed out of his shop and, after an exchange of bucolic -banter with the three of them, he took a hand in their game himself. He -wore no coat or waistcoat and, as he poised a horseshoe for his first -cast at the stake, Mr. Trimm saw, pinned flat against the broad strap of -his suspenders, a shiny, silvery-looking disc. Having pitched the shoe, -the smith moved over into the shade, so that he almost touched the clump -of undergrowth that half buried Mr. Trimm's protecting boulder. The -near-sighted eyes of the fugitive banker could make out then what the -flat, silvery disc was, and Mr. Trimm cowered low in his covert behind -the rock, holding his hands down between his knees, fearful that a gleam -from his burnished wristlets might strike through the screen of weed -growth and catch the inquiring eye of the smith. So he stayed, not -daring to move, until a dinner horn sounded somewhere in the cluster of -cottages beyond, and the smith, closing the doors of his shop, went away -with the three yokels. -</p> - -<p> -Then Mr. Trimm, stooping low, stole back into the deep woods again. In -his extremity he was ready to risk making a bid for the hire of a -blacksmith's aid to rid himself of his bonds, but not a blacksmith who -wore a deputy sheriff's badge pinned to his suspenders. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -He caught himself scraping his wrists up and down again against the -rough, scrofulous trunk of a shellbark hickory. The irritation was -comforting to the swollen skin. The cuffs, which kept catching on the -bark and snagging small fragments of it loose, seemed to Mr. Trimm to -have been a part and parcel of him for a long time—almost as long a -time as he could remember. But the hands which they clasped so close -seemed like the hands of somebody else. There was a numbness about them -that made them feel as though they were a stranger's hands which never -had belonged to him. As he looked at them with a sort of vague curiosity -they seemed to swell and grow, these two strange hands, while the -fetters measured yards across, while the steel bands shrunk to the -thinness of piano wire, cutting deeper and deeper into the flesh. Then -the hands in turn began to shrink down and the cuffs to grow up into -great, thick things as cumbersome as the couplings of a freight car. A -voice that Mr. Trimm dimly recognized as his own was saying something -about four million dollars over and over again. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm roused up and shook his head angrily to clear it. He rubbed -his eyes free of the clouding delusion. It wouldn't do for him to be -getting light-headed. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -On a flat, shelving bluff, forty feet above a cut through which the -railroad ran at a point about five miles north of where the collision -had occurred, a tramp was busy, just before sundown, cooking something -in an old washboiler that perched precariously on a fire of wood coals. -This tramp was tall and spindle-legged, with reddish hair and a pale, -beardless, freckled face with no chin to it and not much forehead, so -that it ran out to a peak like the profile of some featherless, -unpleasant sort of fowl. The skirts of an old, ragged overcoat dangled -grotesquely about his spare shanks. -</p> - -<p> -Desperate as his plight had become, Mr. Trimm felt the old sick shame at -the prospect of exposing himself to this knavish-looking vagabond whose -help he meant to buy with a bribe. It was the sight of a dainty wisp of -smoke from the wood fire curling upward through the cloudy, damp air -that had brought him limping cautiously across the right-of-way, to -climb the rocky shelf along the cut; but now he hesitated, shielded in -the shadows twenty yards away. It was a whiff of something savory in the -washboiler, borne to him on the still air and almost making him cry out -with eagerness, that drew him forth finally. At the sound of the halting -footsteps the tramp stopped stirring the mess in the washboiler and -glanced up apprehensively. As he took in the figure of the newcomer his -eyes narrowed and his pasty, nasty face spread in a grin of -comprehension. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, well, well," he said, leering offensively, "welcome to our city, -little stranger." -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm came nearer, dragging his feet, for they were almost out of -the wrecks of his patent-leather shoes. His gaze shifted from the -tramp's face to the stuff on the fire, his nostrils wrinkling. Then -slowly, "I'm in trouble," he said, and held out his hands. -</p> - -<p> -"Wot I'd call a mild way o' puttin' it," said the tramp coolly. "That -purticular kind o' joolry ain't gen'lly wore for pleasure." -</p> - -<p> -His eyes took on a nervous squint and roved past Mr. Trimm's stooped -figure down the slope of the hillock. -</p> - -<p> -"Say, pal, how fur ahead are you of yore keeper?" he demanded, his -manner changing. -</p> - -<p> -"There is no one after me—no one that I know of," explained Mr. -Trimm. "I am quite alone—I am certain of it." -</p> - -<p> -"Sure there ain't nobody lookin' fur you?" the other persisted -suspiciously. -</p> - -<p> -"I tell you I am all alone," protested Mr. Trimm. "I want your help in -getting these—these things off and sending a message to a friend. -You'll be well paid, very well paid. I can pay you more money than you -ever had in your life, probably, for your help. I can -promise——-" -</p> - -<p> -He broke off, for the tramp, as if reassured by his words, had stooped -again to his cooking and was stirring the bubbling contents of the -washboiler with a peeled stick. The smell of the stew, rising strongly, -filled Mr. Trimm with such a sharp and an aching hunger that he could -not speak for a moment. He mastered himself, but the effort left him -shaking and gulping. -</p> - -<p> -"Go on, then, an' tell us somethin' about yourself," said the freckled -man. "Wot brings you roamin' round this here railroad cut with them -bracelets on?" -</p> - -<p> -"I was in the wreck," obeyed Mr. Trimm. "The man with me—the -officer—was killed. I wasn't hurt and I got away into these woods. -But they think I'm dead too—my name was among the list of dead." -</p> - -<p> -The other's peaky face lengthened in astonishment. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, say!" he began. "I read all about that there wreck—seen the -list myself—say, you can't be Trimm, the New York banker? Yes, you -are! Wot a streak of luck! Lemme look at you! Trimm, the swell -financier, sportin' 'round with the darbies on him all nice an' snug an' -reg'lar! Mister Trimm—well, if this ain't rich!" -</p> - -<p> -"My name is Trimm," said the starving banker miserably. "I've been -wandering about here a great many hours—several days, I think it must -be—and I need rest and food very much indeed. I don't—don't -feel very well," he added, his voice trailing off. -</p> - -<p> -At this his self-control gave way again and he began to quake violently -as if with an ague. The smell of the cooking overcame him. -</p> - -<p> -"You don't look so well an' that's a fact, Trimm," sneered the tramp, -resuming his malicious, mocking air. "But set down an' make yourself at -home, an' after a while, when this is done, we'll have a bite -together—you an' me. It'll be a reg'lar tea party fur jest us two." -</p> - -<p> -He broke off to chuckle. His mirth made him appear even more repulsive -than before. -</p> - -<p> -"But looky here, you wuz sayin' somethin' about money," he said -suddenly. "Le's take a look at all this here money." -</p> - -<p> -He came over to him and went through Mr. Trimm's pockets. Mr. Trimm said -nothing and stood quietly, making no resistance. The tramp finished a -workmanlike search of the banker's pockets. He looked at the result as -it lay in his grimy palm—a moist little wad of bills and some -chicken-feed change—and spat disgustedly with a nasty oath. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, Trimm," he said, "fur a Wall Street guy seems to me you travel -purty light. About how much did you think you'd get done fur all this -pile of wealth?" -</p> - -<p> -"You will be well paid," said Mr. Trimm, arguing hard; "my friend will -see to that. What I want you to do is to take the money you have there -in your hand and buy a cold chisel or a file—any tools that will cut -these things off me. And then you will send a telegram to a certain -gentleman in New York. And let me stay with you until we get an -answer—until he comes here. He will pay you well; I promise it." -</p> - -<p> -He halted, his eyes and his mind again on the bubbling stuff in the -rusted washboiler. The freckled vagrant studied him through his -red-lidded eyes, kicking some loose embers back into the fire with his -toe. -</p> - -<p> -"I've heard a lot about you one way an' another, Trimm," he said. -"'Tain't as if you wuz some pore down-an'-out devil tryin' to beat the -cops out of doin' his bit in stir. You're the way-up, high-an'-mighty -kind of crook. An' from wot I've read an' heard about you, you never -toted fair with nobody yet. There wuz that young feller, wot's his -name?—the cashier—him that wuz tried with you. He went along -with you in yore games an' done yore work fur you an' you let him go over -the road to the same place you're tryin' to dodge now. Besides," he added -cunningly, "you come here talkin' mighty big about money, yet I notice -you ain't carryin' much of it in yore clothes. All I've had to go by is -yore word. An' yore word ain't worth much, by all accounts." -</p> - -<p> -"I tell you, man, that you'll profit richly," burst out Mr. Trimm, the -words falling over each other in his new panic. "You must help me; I've -endured too much—I've gone through too much to give up now." He -pleaded fast, his hands shaking in a quiver of fear and eagerness as he -stretched them out in entreaty and his linked chain shaking with them. -Promises, pledges, commands, orders, arguments poured from him. His -tormentor checked him with a gesture. -</p> - -<p> -"You're wot I'd call a bird in the hand," he chuckled, hugging his slack -frame, "an' it ain't fur you to be givin' orders—it's fur me. An', -anyway, I guess we ain't a-goin' to be able to make a trade—leastwise -not on yore terms. But we'll do business all right, all right—anyhow, -I will." -</p> - -<p> -"What do you mean?" panted Mr. Trimm, full of terror. "You'll help me?" -</p> - -<p> -"I mean this," said the tramp slowly. He put his hands under his -loose-hanging overcoat and began to fumble at a leather strap about his -waist. "If I turn you over to the Government I know wot you'll be worth, -purty near, by guessin' at the reward; an' besides, it'll maybe help to -square me up fur one or two little matters. If I turn you loose I ain't -got nothin' only your word—an' I've got an idea how much faith I kin -put in that." -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm glanced about him wildly. There was no escape. He was fast in -a trap which he himself had sprung. The thought of being led to jail, -all foul of body and fettered as he was, by this filthy, smirking wretch -made him crazy. He stumbled backward with some insane idea of running -away. -</p> - -<p> -"No hurry, no hurry a-tall," gloated the tramp, enjoying the torture of -this helpless captive who had walked into his hands. "I ain't goin' to -hurt you none—only make sure that you don't wander off an' hurt -yourself while I'm gone. Won't do to let you be damagin' yoreself; -you're valuable property. Trimm, now, I'll tell you wot we'll do! We'll -just back you up agin one of these trees an' then we'll jest slip this -here belt through yore elbows an' buckle it around behind at the back; -an' I kinder guess you'll stay right there till I go down yonder to that -town that I passed comin' up here an' see wot kind of a bargain I kin -strike up with the marshal. Come on, now," he threatened with a show of -bluster, reading the resolution that was mounting in Mr. Trimm's face. -"Come on peaceable, if you don't want to git hurt." -</p> - -<p> -Of a sudden Mr. Trimm became the primitive man. He was filled with those -elemental emotions that make a man see in spatters of crimson. Gathering -strength from passion out of an exhausted frame, he sprang forward at -the tramp. He struck at him with his head, his shoulders, his knees, his -manacled wrists, all at once. Not really hurt by the puny assault, but -caught by surprise, the freckled man staggered bade, clawing at the air, -tripped on the washboiler in the fire, and with a yell vanished below -the smooth edge of the cut. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm stole forward and looked over the bluff. Half-way down the -cliff on an outcropping shelf of rock the man lay, face downward, -motionless. He seemed to have grown smaller and to have shrunk into his -clothes. One long, thin leg was bent up under the skirts of the overcoat -in a queer, twisted way, and the cloth of the trouser leg looked -flattened and empty. As Mr. Trimm peered down at him he saw a red stain -spreading on the rock under the still, silent figure's head. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Trimm turned to the washboiler. It lay on its side, empty, the last -of its recent contents sputtering out into the half-drowned fire. He -stared at this ruin a minute. Then without another look over the cliff -edge he stumbled slowly down the hill, muttering to himself as he went. -Just as he struck the level it began to rain, gently at first, then -hard, and despite the shelter of the full-leaved forest trees, he was -soon wet through to his skin and dripped water as he lurched along -without sense of direction and, indeed, without any active realization -of what he was doing. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -Late that night it was still raining—a cold, steady, autumnal -downpour. A huddled figure slowly climbed upon a low fence running about -the house-yard of the little farm where the boy lived who got thrashed -for losing a milk-pail. On the wet top rail, precariously perching, the -figure slipped and sprawled forward in the miry yard. It got up, -painfully swaying on its feet. It was Mr. Trimm, looking for food. He -moved slowly toward the house, tottering from weakness and because of -the slick mud underfoot; peering near-sightedly this way and that -through the murk; starting at every sound and stopping often to listen. -</p> - -<p> -The outlines of the lean-to kitchen at the back of the house were -looming dead ahead of him when from the corner of the cottage sprang a -small terrier. It made for Mr. Trimm, barking shrilly. He retreated -backward, kicking at the little dog and, to hold his balance, striking -out with short, dabby jerks of his fettered hands—they were such -motions as the terrier itself might make trying to walk on its hindlegs. -Still backing away, expecting every instant to feel the terrier's teeth -in his flesh, Mr. Trimm put one foot into a hotbed with a great clatter -of the breaking glass. He felt the sharp ends of shattered glass tearing -and cutting his shin as he jerked free. Recovering himself, he dealt the -terrier a lucky kick under the throat that sent it back, yowling, to -where it had come from, and then, as a door jerked open and a -half-dressed man jumped out into the darkness, Mr. Trimm half hobbled, -half fell out of sight behind the woodpile. -</p> - -<p> -Back and forth along the lower edge of his yard the farmer hunted, with -the whimpering, cowed terrier to guide him, poking in dark corners with -the muzzle of his shotgun for the unseen intruder whose coming had -aroused the household. In a brushpile just over the fence to the east -Mr. Trimm lay on his face upon the wet earth, with the rain beating down -on him, sobbing with choking gulps that wrenched him cruelly, biting at -the bonds on his wrists until the sound of breaking teeth gritted in the -air. Finally, in the hopeless, helpless frenzy of his agony he beat his -arms up and down until the bracelets struck squarely on a flat stone and -the force of the blow sent the cuffs home to the last notch so that they -pressed harder and faster than ever upon the tortured wrist bones. -</p> - -<p> -When he had wasted ten or fifteen minutes in a vain search the farmer -went shivering back indoors to dry put his wet shirt. But the groveling -figure in the brushpile lay for a long time where it was, only stirring -a little while the rain dripped steadily down on everything. -</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p> -The wreck was on a Tuesday evening. Early on the Saturday morning -following, the chief of police, who was likewise the whole of the day -police force in the town of Westfield, nine miles from the place where -the collision occurred, heard a peculiar, strangely weak knocking at the -front door of his cottage, where he also had his office. The door was a -Dutch door, sawed through the middle, so that the top half might be -opened independently, leaving the lower panel fast. He swung this top -half bade. -</p> - -<p> -A face was framed in the opening—an indescribably dirty, unutterably -weary face, with matted white hair and a rime of whitish beard stubble -on the jaws. It was fallen in and sunken and it drooped on the chest of -its owner. The mouth, swollen and pulpy, as if from repeated hard blows, -hung agape, and between the purplish parted lips showed the stumps of -broken teeth. The eyes blinked weakly at the chief from under lids as -colorless as the eyelids of a corpse. The bare white head was filthy -with plastered mud and twigs, and dripping wet. -</p> - -<p> -"Hello, there!" said the chief, startled at this apparition. "What do -you want?" -</p> - -<p> -With a movement that told of straining effort the lolled head came up -off the chest. The thin, corded neck stiffened back, rising from a -dirty, collarless neckband. The Adam's apple bulged out prominently, as -big as a pigeon's egg. -</p> - -<p> -"I have come," said the specter in a wheezing rasp of a voice which the -chief could hardly hear, "I have come to surrender myself. I am Hobart -W. Trimm." -</p> - -<p> -"I guess you got another think comin'," said the chief, who was by the -way of being a neighborhood wag. "When last seen Hobart W. Trimm was -only fifty-two years old. Besides which, he's dead and buried. I guess -maybe you'd better think ag'in, grandpap, and see if you ain't -Methus'lah or the Wanderin' Jew." -</p> - -<p> -"I am Hobart W. Trimm, the banker," whispered the stranger with a sort -of wan stubbornness. -</p> - -<p> -"Go on and prove it," suggested the chief, more than willing to prolong -the enjoyment of the sensation. It wasn't often in Westfield that -wandering lunatics came a-calling. -</p> - -<p> -"Got any way to prove it?" he repeated as the visitor stared at him. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," came the creaking, rusted hinge of a voice, "I have." -</p> - -<p> -Slowly, with struggling attempts, he raised his hands into the chief's -sight. They were horribly swollen hands, red with the dried blood where -they were not black with the dried dirt; the fingers puffed up out of -shape; the nails broken; they were like the skinned paws of a bear. And -at the wrists, almost buried in the bloated folds of flesh, blackened, -rusted, battered, yet still strong and whole, was a tightly locked pair -of Bean's Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs. -</p> - -<p> -"Great God!" cried the chief, transfixed at the sight. He drew the bolt -and jerked open the lower half of the door. -</p> - -<p> -"Come in," he said, "and lemme get them irons off of you—they must -hurt something terrible." "They can wait," said Mr. Trimm very humbly. -"I have worn them a long, long while, I think—I am used to them. -Wouldn't you please get me some food first?" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_1" id="Footnote_2_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_1"><span class="label">[2]</span></a><i>From Irvin Cobb's The Escape of Mr. Trimm, His Plight and -Other Plights, Copyright, 1913, by George H. Doran Company. By -permission of the publishers.</i></p></div> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/figure02.jpg" width="150" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/figure06.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -<div class="caption"> -<p class="center">PETER B. KYNE</p> -</div></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>FOREWORD</i></h4> - -<p> -<i>In the days of my youth I was happy. I had no money, hence no -responsibilities. All I had was a job with wages that never developed -into a position with salary. However, out of my stipend I managed to buy -a good shotgun and, each fall thereafter, a case of shells with my own -special load for quail—one ounce of No. 9 chilled shot with -twenty-four grains of Laflin & Rand powder. In "those old days of -the lost sunshine" I possessed also two additional treasures—the -most wonderful and lovable shooting crony a man ever had and the finest -little English setter any man ever killed a quail over. My pal presented -me with this dog because he loved me; moreover, he had a weakness for -pointers and owned a bitch named Lou.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Lee Clark and his good dog Lou! What memories they evoke! As I write -the years fall away and Lee and Lou and Dick and I are quail-hunting in -the hills of California. I see a little swale covered with stunted sage, -blackberry bushes and dried nettles, and the dogs are questing through -it. Lee Clark is on one side of this swale and I am on the other, and -for a moment the dogs are invisible to me. Then, borne to me on the -crisp October air, comes Lee's voice</i>: -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Point!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -<i>I move fifteen or twenty feet. I am in no hurry, for I know those -dogs. It is a matter of personal honor with them not to break point. -Presently I see them. Little lemon-and-white Lou has found the bird, and -Dicky thorough little gentleman that he was, is honoring her point! Lee -walks down to his dog; the quail lies close. "Good old Lou," Lee says, -and stoops to give her the caress she craves. Then he kicks out the -bird—for me! (Lee was like that. He would never kill a bird over -his own dog's point while his field companion stood by, nor could any -protest move him from this exhibition of his inherent graciousness and -courtesy.) So I fire—and miss—and then at forty yards Lee -gets the bird, and Lou trots sedately down and picks the little -feathered martyr up very gently, scarcely disturbing a feather, and -carries the trophy uphill to Lee. As I write, with twenty years behind -me, I tan see her yet, her tail and rear end swishing pridefully and her -beautiful eyes abeam with love; she is even trying to smile with the -bird in her mouth!</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Lee takes the bird from her and tucks it in his hunting-coat pocket. -Then he strokes Lou's head and says: "Good girl," and Lou licks his hand -and scurries away to find another bird. And this time she points so -close to me that Lee calls cheerily to me to kick the bird out and kill -it. I do—and again Lou retrieves the bird. But she does not bring it -to her master this time. Ah, no! Lou is wiser than that. She brings it to -me, for she knows it is my bird!</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Meanwhile Dick is frozen on another bird! And so it goes. At noon we -rest under an oak beside a creek, and over a barbecued steak and a -bottle of good wine, discuss the morning shoot and the prospects of as -good shooting in the afternoon. And late that night we drive home in the -moonlight in an old side-bar buggy, with Dick curled up in back and Lou -in her master's lap, with her muzzle in his hand . . .</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Well, there will never be another Dick or another Lou or another -gallant, kindly, unselfish, understanding friend and shooting crony like -Lee Clark. A fiend stole Dick from me and Lou died in puppy-birth; when -Lee told me about it he wept, and I honored him for his tears. And then -the pressure of life commenced to be felt. After twelve years of Lou, -Lee Clark could not accustom himself to other dogs—and the -hopelessness of finding another Lou was quite apparent, for Lou had been -one of those rare dogs that do not require training! And I could never -find another Dicky and had no place to keep him if I had. I became an -author and married, and a multitude of interests claimed us, and we gave -up quail-shooting, although every few years we meet and talk bravely -about the necessity for renewing our youth afield.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>A man who has trained field dogs for me has much of Lee Clark in him, -and that man's wife is a rare good sport. One day I went to his kennels, -and he showed me a five-year-old setter that had been the unbeautiful -runt of his litter. He called this dog Jeff, and Jeff was a failure. His -litter mates had made field trial history but Jeff was so little and -homely, nobody had ever wanted him, and he had never been trained. He -was a stud dog.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>He was the reincarnation of my lost Dick! I bought him for a hundred -and twenty-five dollars, and ignoring the theory that you cannot teach -an old dog new tricks, I had Jeff trained. He was such a bright, -cunning, fast little old man of a dog that the trainer, who names my -dogs after the heroes and heroines of my stories, renamed him Cappy -Ricks and registered him by that name. Cappy Ricks did not win in the -field trials that year, but he lost on a hair-line decision and after an -exhibition of bird work that made him great, even in defeat, and brought -me offers of far more than I had spent on him from men who knew a real -dog when they saw one. Well, I have bought many dogs, but I have never -sold one, and I never shall . . . too much like selling old Uncle Tom -down the river! So Cappy is rounding out his years questing through the -alfalfa field at my ranch for quail that aren't there. However, I gave -him his chance, for dead Dick's sake, and he made good, and I hope he -enjoyed it.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>So I wrote a story about Cappy and a fictitious trainer and his wife, -because field dog trainers and the field dog "fancy" are different from -all other sportsmen. And when my little story had been written and my -editor, Ray Long, asked me what I was going to call it, I had a swift -and poignant vision of a lovely October morning in the hills of -California. There was a little swale grown over with stunted sage, -blackberry vines and dried nettles, and in the cover Lou was standing at -point, with Dick honoring her; from across the swale I heard again the -voice of the best friend and the best field companion any man ever had. -And he was calling warningly</i>: -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Point!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -<i>Yes, this story is dedicated to Lee Clark and his good dog, Lou!</i> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap03"></a></h4> - -<h4>POINT<a name="FNanchor_3_1" id="FNanchor_3_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_1" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> -<br /><br /> -BY PETER B. KYNE</h4> - -<p> -Little Old Dan Pelly occupied a position in life analogous to that of a -tragedian who aspires to play comedy rĂ´les. By reason of early -environment, natural inclination and years of practice, he was a dog -trainer; now, in the sunset of his rather futile life, he was a cross -between a chicken raiser, farmer and dreamer of old dreams that had to -do mostly with dogs and good quail cover. In a word, old Dan was not -happy, and this morning as he sat on a fallen scrub oak tree on the -highest point on his alleged ranch and gazed off into Little Antelope -Valley, he almost wished that a merciful Providence would waft him out -of this cold world. -</p> - -<p> -"The Indians had the right idea of a hereafter," mused Dan Pelly. "To -them the next world was a happy hunting ground. This world is no longer -fit for a white man to live in. It's getting too civilized. Travel as -far as you will for good trout-fishing and upland hunting and you'll -find some scrub there ahead of you in a flivver. Get out on your own -ground at dawn on the day the shooting season opens—and you'll find -empty shotgun shells a week old. Tim, old pal, the more I see of some -men the more I love you." -</p> - -<p> -Tim—or, to accord him his registered name. Tiny Tim—ran his -cool muzzle into Dan Pelly's horny palm and rested it there. Just rested -it and spoke never a word, for Tiny Tim was one of those rare dogs who -know when their masters are troubled of soul and forbear to weary their -loved ones with unnecessary outbursts of affection or sympathy. He -leaned his shoulder against Dan's knee and rested his muzzle in Dan's -hand as who should say: "Well, man alone is vile. Here I am and I'll -stick, depend upon it." -</p> - -<p> -Tiny Tim was an English setter and the last surviving son of Keepsake, -the greatest bitch Dan Pelly had ever seen or owned. Dan had wept when -an envious scoundrel had poisoned her the night before a field trial up -Bakersfield way. All of her puppies out of Kenwood Boy had survived, and -all had made history in dogdom. Three of them had been placed—one, -two, three—in the Derby. The other two had been the runners-up, and -the least promising of these runners-up had been Tiny Tim. -</p> - -<p> -Tim had been the runt of the litter and as if his physical deficiency -had not been sufficient handicap, he had grown into a singularly -unbeautiful dog. He had a butterfly nose, one black ear, a solid white -coat with the exception of a black spot as big as a man's hand just over -the root of his tail; and his tail was his crowning misfortune. Dog -fanciers like a setter with a merry tail, but Tiny Tim carried his very -low when he ran that Derby, and he had never carried it very high since. -As if to offset the tragedy of his tail, however, Tiny Tim ran with a -high head, for he had, tucked away in that butterfly nose, a pair of -olfactory nerves that carried him unerringly to birdy ground. He could -always manage to locate a bird lying close in cover that had been -thoroughly prospected by other dogs. -</p> - -<p> -Dan Pelly had sold Tiny Tim's litter mates at a fancy figure after that -memorable Derby, but for homely Tiny Tim there were no bidders; so Dan -Pelly expressed him back to the kennels. He was homely and lacked style -and dash in his bird work; he appeared a bit nervous and uncertain and -inclined to limit his range, and it seemed to Dan that as a field trial -prospect he was so much inferior to other dogs that it was scarcely -worth while spending any time or money on his education. However, he did -have a grand nose; when he grew older Dan hoped he might outgrow his -nervousness and be steadier to shot and wing; in view of his undoubted -instinct for birds, it seemed the part of wisdom to make a "plug" -shooting dog of him. Every dog trainer keeps such an animal, if not for -his own use then for the use of stout old bank presidents and of retired -brewers whose idea of the sport of hunting is to come home with "the -limit." A grand hunting dog means little in the lives of such -"sportsmen"; they want a dog that will work close to the gun, thus -enabling them to proceed leisurely, as becomes a fat man. It is no -pleasure to them to be forced to walk down a steep hill, clamber across -a deep gully and climb the opposite hill to kill a bird their dog has -been pointing for fifteen or twenty minutes. It is reserved for -idealists like old Dan Pelly to thrill to the work of a dog like that. -The dead bird is a secondary consideration. -</p> - -<p> -So Tiny Tim had been sent back to the kennel, and now, in his fifth -year, he was still on Dan Pelly's hands. But that was no fault of Tiny -Tim's. And he had never again been entered in a field trial. That was no -fault of his, either. Dan Pelly had merely gone out of the dog business, -and Tiny Tim, his last dog and best beloved, was neither a field trial -dog nor yet a potterer for fat bankers and retired brewers who came down -to Dan Pelly's place for a week-end shoot in the season. No, Tiny Tim -had never achieved that disgrace. Dan Pelly had given up dog training -and dog boarding and dog raising and dog trading after his return from -that field trial where old Keepsake's litter had brought him more money -than he had ever seen at any one time before. Consequently, Tiny Tim was -Dan's own shooting dog and Dan had trained him not for filthy lucre but -for that love and companionship for a good dog which idealists of the -Dan Pelly type can never repress. -</p> - -<p> -Tiny Tim had known but one master, and but one code of sportsmanship; he -responded to but one set of signals; he had never been curbed in his -range or speed; he had never been scolded or shouted at or beaten, but -he had received much of love and caressing and praise. He had been fed -properly, housed properly, wormed regularly every three months, bathed -every Saturday afternoon and brushed and combed almost every day, and as -a result he was an extremely healthy dog, albeit a small dog, even among -small, field type English setters. Dan Pelly loved him just a little bit -more because he was a runt and because, though royally bred, his bearing -was a bit ignoble. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll have none of your bench type setters," Dan was wont to remark when -speaking of setters. "I could weep from just lookin' at them—the poor -boobs, with their domed foreheads and their sad, bloodshot eyes and -dribbling chops. Too heavy and slow for anybody but a fat man. An hour's -hard going of a warm day and they're done. I'll have a light, neat -little setter for a long, hard, drivin' day of it." -</p> - -<p> -Dan Pelly's choice of dog was an index to his character. He, too, was a -light, compact little man, with something of a lost dog's wistfulness -about him. Dan didn't like pointers. They were too aggressive, too -headstrong, too noisy for him. The sight of a bulldog or a bull terrier -or an Airedale made him angry, for such dogs could always be depended -upon to pounce upon a shooting dog and worry him. Toy dogs depressed -him. They seemed so unworthy of human attention and moreover they had no -brains. -</p> - -<p> -This morning Dan Pelly was more than ordinarily unhappy. He needed five -hundred dollars worse than he needed salvation . . . -</p> - -<p> -And only the day before while he and Tim had been working a patch of low -cover just off the county road, a man in a very expensive automobile -driven by a liveried chauffeur had paused in the road to watch them. -Presently Tim had made one of those spectacular points which always give -a real dog lover a thrill. In mid-air, while leaping over a small bush, -he had caught the scent of a quail crouching close under that bush. He -had landed with his body half turned toward the bush, his head had swung -around and there he had stood, "frozen." Dan had walked up, kicked the -bird out, waited until the quail was forty yards away and fired. -Meanwhile Tim had broken point and, head up, was following the flushed -bird with anxious eyes. -</p> - -<p> -As the gun barked the bird flinched slightly but did not reduce its -speed. Wings spread stiffly, it sailed away out of sight and Dan Pelly, -seeing himself watched by the man in the motor car, grinned -deprecatingly. -</p> - -<p> -"Missed him a mile," he called. -</p> - -<p> -"You let him get too far away before you fired," the stranger replied -with that hearty camaraderie which always obtains between lovers of -upland shooting. -</p> - -<p> -"My gun is a full choke; I can kill nicely with it at fifty yards, but I -like to give the birds a chance for their white alley so I never shoot -under forty yards." -</p> - -<p> -"Grand point your little setter made then. Steady to flush and shot, -too. Homely little rascal, but man, he's a dog! I must have a look at -him, if you don't mind, my friend." And he got out of the car. -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly, sir. Come, Timmy, lad. Shake hands with the gentleman." -</p> - -<p> -But Tiny Tim had other and more important matters to attend to. He was -racing at full speed after that departing bird. Dan whistled him to -halt, but Tim paid no attention. He crossed a gentle rise of ground and -disappeared on the other side. He was out of sight for about five -minutes; then he appeared again on the crest and came jogging sedately -back to Dan Pelly. In his mouth he held tenderly a wounded quail. -Straight to Dan Pelly he came, and as he advanced he twisted his little -body sinuously and arched and lowered his shoulders and flipped his tail -from side to side and smiled with his eyes. In effect he said: "Dan, you -didn't think you hit that bird, but I saw him flinch ever so little. -I've had a lot of experience in such matters and experience has taught -me that a bird hit like that will fly a couple of hundred yards and then -drop. So I kept my eye on this one and sure enough just as he reached -the top of that little rise I saw him settle rather abruptly. So I went -over and nosed around and picked up his trail. He had an injured -wing—numbed, probably—and he was down and running to beat the -band. It's sporty to chase a runner, because if we don't get him, Dan, a -weasel will." -</p> - -<p> -The stranger looked at the bird in Tim's mouth and then he looked at Dan -Pelly. "Well, I'll be swindled!" he declared. "If I live to be a million -years old I'll never see a prettier piece of bird work than that. The -dog's human." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, he's a right nice little feller," Dan declared pridefully. "Timmy, -boy, take the bird to the gentleman and then shake hands with him." -</p> - -<p> -Timmy looked at the stranger, who smiled at him, so he walked sedately -to the latter and gently dropped the frightened bird into his hand. Not -a feather had been disturbed; not a tooth had marred the tender flesh. -</p> - -<p> -The stranger reached down and twigged Tiny Tim's nose; then he tugged -his ear a little, said "Good dog" and stroked Tim's head. Tim extended a -paw to be shaken. They were friends. -</p> - -<p> -"Want to sell this dog, my friend?" the newcomer demanded. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, no! Timmy's the only dog I have left. He's just my little shooting -dog and I'm right fond of him. He has a disposition that sweet, sir, -you've never seen the beat of it. If I sold Timmy I'd never dare come -home. My wife would take the rolling pin to me." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll give you two hundred and fifty dollars for him." -</p> - -<p> -"Timmy isn't for sale, sir." -</p> - -<p> -"Not enough money, eh? Well, I don't blame you. If Timmy was my dog five -thousand dollars wouldn't touch him. It was worth that to me to see him -perform. Let me see him work this cover, if you please." To Tiny Tim: -"All right, boy. Root 'em out. Lots of birds in here yet." -</p> - -<p> -The dog was off like a streak. Suddenly he paused, sniffing up-wind, -swung slowly left and slowly right, trotted forward a few paces and -halted, head up, tail swinging excitedly, every muscle aquiver. -</p> - -<p> -"It's dry as tinder and the birds don't lay close. He's on to some -running birds now, sir. Watch him road 'em to heavier cover and then -point." -</p> - -<p> -Instead, they flushed. Tim watched them interestedly, marked where they -had settled, moved gingerly forward—and froze on a single that had -failed to flush. Dan Pelly handed the stranger his gun. "Perhaps, sir," -he said with his wistful smile, "you might enjoy killing a bird over -Timmy's point." -</p> - -<p> -This was the apotheosis of field courtesy. The stranger took the gun, -smiling his thanks, walked over to Tiny Tim, kicked out the bird and -missed him. Tim glanced once at the bird and promptly dismissed him from -consideration. He made a wide cast to come up on the spot where he had -seen the flushed covey settle. -</p> - -<p> -"Point!" called Dan Pelly. This time the stranger killed his bird, which -Tim retrieved in handsome style. -</p> - -<p> -"He brought the dead bird to me!" the stranger shouted. "Did you notice -that? He brought it to me!" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course. It's your bird. You killed it. Timmy knows that. It wouldn't -be mannerly of him to bring it to me. I see you appreciate a good -shooting dog, sir. I suppose, living in the city and a busy man, you -don't get much afield. There's a lot of birds scattered in this cover. -Have a little shoot over Timmy. I have four birds and that's enough for -our supper. I'll sit down under this oak tree and have a smoke." -</p> - -<p> -"That's devilish sporting of you, my friend. Thank you very much." And -the stranger hurried away after Tiny Tim. He was an incongruous figure -in that patch of cover, what with his derby hat and overcoat, and he -seemed to realize this, for he shed both, stuffed a dozen cartridges -into his pockets—he was far too big a man to wear Dan Pelly's -disreputable old hunting jacket—and hurried away after Tiny Tim. From -the far corner of the field Dan presently heard a merry fusillade, and -in about fifteen minutes his guest returned with half a dozen quail and -Tiny Tim trotting at his heels. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll give you a thousand dollars for Timmy, my friend," was his first -announcement. "Why, he works for me as if I were his master." -</p> - -<p> -"You're the first man except his master who has ever shot over him," -Pelly replied proudly. "Sorry, but Timmy is not for sale." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll bet nobody has ever offered you a thousand dollars for him. Here's -my card, Mr.— er—er——" -</p> - -<p> -"Dan Pelly's my name, sir." -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Pelly, and if you change your mind, wire me collect and I'll send a -man down with the cash and you can send the dog back by him." -</p> - -<p> -Dan took the card. The stranger thanked him and departed with his quail -in his expensive car. -</p> - -<p> -And this morning Dan Pelly sat at the highest point on his so-called -ranch and looked down into Little Antelope Valley and was unhappy. He -needed five hundred dollars to meet a mortgage; he could get a thousand -dollars within twenty-four hours by sending a telegram collect to the man -who had admired Tiny Tim—and he didn't have the courage to send the -telegram. In fact, he hadn't had sufficient courage to tell Martha, his -wife, of the stranger's offer. Martha was made of sterner stuff than her -husband and a terrible panic of fear had seized Dan at the mere thought -of telling her. What if she should accept the thousand dollars? -</p> - -<p> -Dan loaded his pipe and smoked ruminatively. He thought of his wasted -and futile life. Twenty-five years wasted as a professional dog trainer. -Faugh! And all he had to show for it was a host of memories, sweet and -bitter; sweet as he remembered the dear days afield with good dogs and -good fellows, the thrill of many a hard-fought field trial; bitter as he -thought of dogs he had loved and which had been sold or poisoned or died -of old age or disease; bitterer still as he reflected that he and Martha -had come to a childless old age with naught between them and the county -poor farm save a thousand acres of rough sage-covered land which, with -the exception of about twenty-five acres of rich, sub-irrigated bottom -land, was worthless save as a training ground for dogs. It had numerous -springs on it, good cover and just enough scrub oaks to form safe -roosting places for quail. It was a rather decent little game preserve -and occasionally Dan made a few dollars by granting old customers the -privilege of a shoot on it. He ran about a hundred head of goats on it, -while in the bottom land he and Martha eked out a precarious existence -with a few chickens and turkeys, a few hogs, a few stands of bees, three -cows, a couple of horses and Tiny Tim. For Tim was known to a few dog -fanciers as the last of the old Keepsake-Kenwood Boy strain in the state -and not infrequently they sent their bitches to Tiny Tim's court. -</p> - -<p> -Poor Martha! Hers had not been a very happy life with Dan Pelly. A dog -trainer is—a dog trainer. He can't very well be anything else because -God has made him so. And in his heart of hearts he doesn't want to be. -He trains dogs ostensibly for money but in reality because he loves them -and the job affords him a legitimate excuse to be afield with them, to -enjoy their society and that of the jovial devotees of upland -game-shooting. Dan Pelly wasn't an ambitious man. He had no desire to -dip coupons or wear fine raiment; his taste in automobiles went no -further than an old ruin he had picked up for two hundred dollars for -the purpose of carting his dogs around in the days before Martha took -over the handling of the Pelly fortunes, when Dan had had dogs to cart -around. -</p> - -<p> -The crux of the situation was this. Dog trainers are so busy with their -dogs that they neglect to send out bills for board and training, and the -men who can afford to buy expensive dogs and have them boarded and -trained seldom think of their dogs until fall. Then they pay the bill -and sometimes wonder why it is so large. In a word, the income of a dog -trainer is never what one might term staggering, and it is more or less -uncertain. -</p> - -<p> -Martha had grown weary of this uncertainty and when distemper for the -second time had cleaned out Dan Pelly's kennels, taking all of his own -dogs with the exception of Tiny Tim and either killing or ruining the -dogs of his customers, Mrs. Pelly felt that it was time to act. She knew -it would be years before Dan's old customers would send dogs to him -again. Friendship and a reputation as a great trainer are undoubtedly -first aids to a dog trainer's success, but men who love their dogs -hesitate to send them to a kennel where the germs of virulent distemper -are known to exist. It was up to Dan Pelly to burn his old kennels and -build new ones far removed from the location of the old. He could not -afford to do this and since Martha was desirous of seeing him engage in -something more constructive, Dan Pelly had gone out of business and -become a farmer in the trifling manner heretofore described. -</p> - -<p> -Martha told him she was weary of dogs. She had shed too many tears over -dead favorites; she had assisted at too many operations for the cure of -canker of the ear, fistula, tumor and cancer, broken legs, smashed toes -and cuts from barbed wire. She was already too learned in the gentle art -of healing mange and exorcising tapeworms. She loved dogs, but to have -thirty pointers and setters set up a furious barking whenever a stranger -appeared at the Pelly farm had finally "gotten on her nerves." She -understood Dan better than he understood himself and she knew how bitter -was the sacrifice she demanded; yet she realized that she must be firm -and lead Daniel in the way he must go, else would they come to want and -misery in a day when Dan would be too old to tramp over hill and dale -training dogs. Dan had readily consented to her -direction—particularly after she had wept a little. Poor Martha! -</p> - -<p> -From where he sat Dan Pelly could this morning see great activity on the -floor of Little Antelope Valley, just below him. Half a dozen men on -horseback were riding backward and forward and at least a dozen white -specks that Dan Pelly knew for hunting dogs were ranging here and there -among the low sage cover. -</p> - -<p> -"The first arrivals for the Pacific Coast Field Trials, and they're out -on the grounds, looking them over and seeing how their dogs behave. -Three days from now they'll be running the Derby, and after that the All -Age Stake. Ah, Timmy lad, if we two could only go to a field trial -again! How like old times it would be, Timmy! We'd be down at the -station to greet all the gentlemen coming in for the trials, and then -we'd be crowding around the baggage car watching the dogs in their -crates bein' lifted out. And we'd be peekin' through the air-holes in -the crates to see whether they'd be setters or pointers, and if setters, -whether they'd be English or Irish. And then the banquet up at the hotel -the night before the Derby and the toastmaster rappin' for order and -sayin': 'Gentlemen, we have with us tonight one of the Old Guard, Dan -Pelly. Dan is going to tell us something about the field trials of other -days—other days and other dogs. Gentlemen—old Dan Pelly.' -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, Tim my lad, we're out of it. Think, Timmy, if we two were driving -out to Antelope Valley in the morning, with you in my lap, and the -entrance fee up and me wild with excitement, if you were paired say with -a dog like Manitoba Rap or Fischel's Frank or Mary Montrose or Ringing -Bells or Robert the Devil—any one of the big ones, eh, Timmy? No, -Timmy, I wouldn't be excited. They're all great dogs. Didn't Mary -Montrose win the All America three times—the only dog in the world -that ever proved her championship caliber three times? -</p> - -<p> -"But Timmy lad, you'd run circles around her. You might run with a low -head and a dead tail—though your head is high and your tail is -none so low as it was in the Derby, when you were a wee puppy and -nervous and frightened—but you'd make the judges notice you, -Timmy. You'd show them dash and range and speed and style and brains; -steady to flush, steady to shot, steady to command, no false pointing, -no roading birds to a flush if you could help it, picking up singles on -ground the other dog thought he had covered, marking where the flushed -coveys settle and picking them up again. Ah, Timmy dog, it's breaking my -heart to hide your light under a bushel basket. I owe it to you to let -men that know and can appreciate a good dog see you work. Of the -hundreds of dogs I've owned, of the thousand I've trained since boyhood, -you are the king of them all. God help me, Timmy, I gave Martha my word -I'd never attend another field trial or handle another dog in one, -either for myself or another. We're whipped, Timmy. Whipped to a -frazzle." -</p> - -<p> -Tiny Tim leaned a little closer and licked the palm of Dan's hand. He -was an understanding little dog. Even when Dan finally heaved slowly to -his feet and started down the hillside toward home, Tiny Tim followed at -his heels, forbearing to follow his natural instinct, which was to frisk -ahead of Dan far and wide and attend to the business for which he really -had been created. -</p> - -<p> -Arrived at the house Dan encountered with a sheepish glance the -searching one of his wife. -</p> - -<p> -"Where have you been, Dan?" she queried. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, takin' a little walk," he replied. -</p> - -<p> -She sat down beside him on the porch and put her arm around his neck. -"Hard to be out of it, isn't it, dear?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's hard to think that a dog like Timmy shouldn't have his chance, -Martha. Why not make an exception to our agreement in this one case? I'm -sure I could win the All Age Stake with him. The entrance fee is -twenty-five dollars and there'll be upwards of forty dogs entered. -That'll be a thousand-dollar purse, divided five hundred, three-fifty -and a hundred and fifty. Might win first prize and be able to pay the -mortgage. Somehow I got a notion the bank won't renew the loan." -</p> - -<p> -Martha's eyes were as wistful as her husband's but hers was a far more -resolute nature. She kept her bargains and expected others to keep -theirs; she knew the weakness of Dan Pelly. If he should go down to the -field trials and enter Tiny Tim, he would meet old friends and old -customers. It was four years since he had quit the game—long enough -for men to forget those distemper germs and take another chance on Dan, for -Dan's fame as a trainer was almost national. Somebody would be certain -to ask him to train a Derby or Futurity prospect for next fall, or to -handle a string of dogs in the Manitoba chicken trials. -</p> - -<p> -And Dan was weak. He was one of those men who could never quite say no -as if he meant it. Let him go down to dogdom and he would be back in the -game again as deep as ever within a year. Decidedly (thought Martha) -they couldn't afford to go over that ground again. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Dan sighed, "it's a pity Timmy can't have his chance. He never -was a kennel-raised dog. He's been allowed to rove and roam and he's -hunted so much on his own I don't really understand why he hasn't been -spoiled. But the exercise and experience he's had in one year exceed -that of most dogs in a lifetime. He's little, but he's well muscled and -tough and can hold his speed long after other dogs have slowed up. I -wish he could have his chance, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -Martha felt herself slipping, so, to avoid that catastrophe, she left -Dan and entered the house. -</p> - -<p> -All day long Dan sat on the porch, glooming and grieving. Having the -field trials held practically at his own door was a sore temptation. Dan -dwelt in Gethsemane. All day he suffered until finally, being human, he -was tempted beyond his strength and fell. About four o'clock, while -Martha was busy feeding the chickens, locking them up and gathering -eggs, Dan Pelly sneaked into the house, donned his Sunday suit, -abstracted the sum of fifty dollars from Martha's cache in the tomato -can back of the jars of preserves on the back porch, cranked his -prehistoric automobile and with Tiny Tim on the seat behind him fled to -the fleshpots. He left a note on the dining-room table for Martha. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -Dear Martha: -</p> - -<p> -Can't stand it any longer. Timmy <i>must</i> have his chance. It's for his -sake, dear. I've robbed you of your egg money, but I <i>know</i> you'll -have it back tomorrow. -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 50%;">Your loving</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">DAN.</p> -</blockquote> - -<p> -Dan Pelly felt like a criminal as he rattled down the dusty country -lane. But if he could only have seen Martha's face as she read his note! -She laughed at first and then her eyes grew moist. "Poor old Dan!" she -murmured to the cat. "I'm so glad he defied me. It proves he's a human -being. I'm so grateful to him for his weakness. He didn't force me to a -decision." -</p> - -<p> -Arrived in town Dan Pelly parked his car at the village square, went to -the local hotel and engaged a room. He registered, "Dan Pelly and his -dog, Tiny Tim." Before he could go up to the room he was seen and -recognized by the secretary of the field trial club, Major Christensen. -</p> - -<p> -"Hello, Dan, you old fossil. When did they dig you up?" the Major -saluted him affably. "Back in the game again?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, no," Dan replied. "Just blew in to look 'em over. Got a son of old -Keepsake and Kenwood Boy here. Thought I'd start him in fast company and -see if he has any class. He's just a plug shooting dog." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," the Major answered, looking Tim over with a critical and -disapproving glance, "it'll cost you twenty-five dollars to glean that -information, Dan." He took out an entry blank; Dan filled it out and -returned it together with the entrance fee. Next he visited the hotel -kitchen, where he did business with the chef and procured for Tiny Tim a -hearty ration of lamb, stew with vegetables, after which he took the -little dog up to his room. Tim sprang into bed immediately, curled up -and went to sleep. -</p> - -<p> -That night Dan attended the banquet. Old friends were there, fellow -trainers, trainers he had never met before, with dogs from Canada to the -Gulf, from Maine to California. It was an exceedingly doggy party and -poor old starved Dan reveled in it. He was living again, and under the -stimulus of the unusual excitement and a couple of nips of contraband -Scotch whisky he made the speech of his career, ripped the Fish and Game -Commission up the back and ended by going upstairs and bringing Tiny Tim -down in his arms to exhibit him to those around the festal board as the -only real dog he had ever owned. -</p> - -<p> -"He'll win every heat in which he's entered," Dan bragged, "and he'll -win in the finals. He looks like a mutt, but oh, boy, watch his smoke!" -</p> - -<p> -When the drawing for the next day's events took place, Dan discovered -that Tiny Tim had been paired with a famous old pointer from Nevada, -known as Colonel Dorsey. Dan knew there were better dogs than Colonel -Dorsey, but they weren't very plentiful, and under the able handling of -a veteran trainer, Alf Wilkes, Dan knew Tiny Tim would have to extend -himself to center the attention of the judges on his performance. To -have Tim paired with Colonel Dorsey pleased Dan greatly, however, for if -Tim merely succeeded in running a dead heat with the Colonel, that meant -that Tim and the Colonel would fight it out together in the finals; for -Colonel Dorsey was, in the opinion of all present, the class of the -entries; he was in excellent form and condition and as full of ginger -and go as a runaway horse. -</p> - -<p> -A gentleman who had arrived too late for the banquet came shouldering -his way through the crowd in the hotel lobby just after the drawing. Dan -recognized in him the gentleman who had offered him a thousand dollars -for Tiny Tim that day in the patch of cover by the side of the road. He -came smiling up to Dan Pelly and shook his hand heartily. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm the owner of Colonel Dorsey," he announced. "It'll be a barrel of -fun to run my dog against Tiny Tim. A sporting dog owned and handled by -a sportsman. Mr. Pelly, we're going to have a race." -</p> - -<p> -"I hope so, sir," said Dan simply. "I want Timmy to have a foeman worthy -of his steel, as the feller says." -</p> - -<p> -"He will," the other promised. -</p> - -<p> -He did. They were put down in a wide flat with a little watercourse -running through the center of it. The cover was low, stunted sage, -affording excellent cover for the birds and opportunities for them to -sneak away from a dog without being seen, for there was not much open -space between the sage bushes. They were away together, headed for the -watercourse, Colonel Dorsey in the lead. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly Tiny Tim stopped dead and commenced to road at right angles, -coming up into the wind. The Colonel pressed eagerly on and flushed, but -was steady to flush. So was Tiny Tim. A moment later the Colonel pointed -and Tiny Tim, standing in the open, honored the Colonel's point -beautifully, but broke point after a minute of waiting and scouted off -on a wide cast. The Colonel held his point and his handler, coming up, -attempted to flush. The point was barren. Undoubtedly the bird had been -there but had run out. -</p> - -<p> -The Colonel's owner, who had been following the judges in a buckboard -with Dan Pelly in the seat beside him, looked at his guest. "I own a -colonel, but you own a general, Mr. Pelly. Your dog is handling his -birds better than mine." -</p> - -<p> -"Point!" came a hoarse shout from the direction in which Tim had gone. -He had come back on his cast and was down in the watercourse on point. -Dan Pelly got out of the buckboard and flushed a double, at the same -time firing over the birds. Tim was absolutely stanch to shot and flush. -He looked disappointed because no dead bird rewarded his efforts, but -immediately pressed on up the gully. Dan Pelly thrilled. He knew the -birds would lie close in this cover and that Tim would run up a heavy -score. He did. Point after point he scored and always a single was -flushed. When he had made nineteen points on single birds the whistle -blew and the dogs were taken up. -</p> - -<p> -Colonel Dorsey, ranging wide, had shown speed, style and dash but had -found no birds. Tim had made but one cast but it was sufficient to show -that he, too, had speed and range, albeit his style was nothing to brag -about. But he had performed the function for which bird dogs are bred. -He had found game and handled it in a masterly manner. The dogs were -down forty minutes and both were fresh when taken up. The judges awarded -the heat to Tiny Tim. -</p> - -<p> -Colonel Dorsey's owner slapped old Dan Pelly on the back. "I came a long -way for a splendid thrashing," he admitted gallantly. "However, the -Colonel was out of luck. He got off into barren territory and rather -wasted his time. We'll meet again in the finals." -</p> - -<p> -And it was even so. Three days later Tiny Tim again faced the Colonel, -who in the succeeding heats had given marvelous performances and -disposed of his antagonists in a most decisive manner. But likewise so -had Tiny Tim. -</p> - -<p> -It was a battle from start to finish. Both dogs got on birdy ground at -once and worked it thoroughly, and at the finish there was little to -choose between them. Tim had two more points to his credit and no -flushes; the Colonel had one flush, due to eagerness at the start, and -he had failed to honor one of Tim's points. These errors appeared to -offset Tim's lack of style, but the latter's marvelous bird work could -not be gainsaid; and remembering the decisive manner in which the little -setter had disposed of the Colonel in the initial heat, the judges -awarded the All Age Stake, which carried with it the Pacific Coast -championship, to Tiny Tim and Dan Pelly retired to the hotel richer by -five hundred dollars and a silver loving cup. That afternoon he paid two -hundred and fifty dollars on the mortgage and had it renewed for another -year. Then he wrote a letter to Martha, bought a neat crate for Tiny Tim -and—started down the field trial circuit. -</p> - -<p> -In some ways—notably dog ways—Dan Pelly was a weak vessel. -He lacked the moral courage to come home and be good forever after. -Timmy was so much better in big company than he had anticipated that -should it mean death to both of them, Dan Pelly simply had to try him -out in Oregon on pheasant. Poor Timmy had never seen a pheasant, and it -was such a shame to deny him this great adventure. -</p> - -<p> -So the next Martha heard of Dan was a wire to the effect that Timmy had -taken second place in the trials on pheasant at Lebanon, Oregon. A week -later came another telegram, informing her that Timmy had taken first -money in the Washington field trials, handling Hungarian partridge for -the first time. A letter followed and Martha read: -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -Dear Wife: -</p> - -<p> -I don't suppose you will ever believe me again now that I have broke my -word to you and run away. I don't seem to be able to help myself. Timmy -is wonderful. I've got to go on to try him on chicken in Manitoba and -then the International and the All America. I enclose $500. -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 30%;">With love from Timmy and</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 40%;">Your devoted husband,</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">DAN PELLY.</p> -</blockquote> - -<p> -Timmy was third on prairie chicken. Everybody said his performance was -marvelous in view of his total ignorance of this splendid game, so Dan -Pelly did not think it worth while to advertise the fact that he had -introduced Timmy to two crippled chickens the day before in order that -he might know their scent when he ran on to it. The International in -Montana was won by Timmy, and Dan's cup of happiness overflowed when the -judges handed him his trophies and a check for a thousand dollars. -Colonel Dorsey gave him a stiff run but the best the Colonel could do -was second place. -</p> - -<p> -And then came the never to be forgotten day down in Kentucky when Timmy -went in on bobwhite quail for the All America, the field trial classic -of the Western Hemisphere. Timmy was at home again on quail. He had some -bad luck before he learned about bobwhite's peculiarities, but he had -enough wins to put him in the finals, and at the finish he was cast off -with a little Llewellyn bitch whose performance made Dan Pelly's heart -skip a beat or two. Nothing except Timmy's age and years of experience -enabled him to win over her; up to the last moments of the race -predictions were freely made that it would be a dead heat. -</p> - -<p> -But just before the whistle blew, Timmy roaded a small cover to a stanch -point—the sole find made during the heat—and Dan Pelly went -home with Timmy and more money than he had ever seen before in his life -except in a bank; although better to wistful little Dan was the -knowledge that he had bred, raised, trained and handled the most -consistent winner and the most spectacularly outstanding bird dog -champion in North America. Old Keepsake and her wonderful consort, -Kenwood Boy, had transmitted their great qualities to their son, and Dan -knew, in view of Tiny Tim's great record over the field trial circuit, -how much in demand would be the puppies from that strain. Please God, -Timmy might live long enough to perpetuate his great qualities in his -offspring. -</p> - -<p> -Dan's return was not a triumphal one. He felt like anything except a -conquering hero. Indeed, he felt mean and low and untrustworthy; he had -to call on a reserve store of courage in order to face Martha and -explain his dastardly conduct in appropriating her fifty dollars, -breaking his promise and running away with Timmy. -</p> - -<p> -Martha was sitting on the porch in her rocking-chair as Dan and his dog -came up the lane. Tiny Tim romped ahead and sprang up in Martha's lap -and kissed her and whimpered his joy at the homecoming—so Martha had -ample opportunity to brace herself to meet the culprit. -</p> - -<p> -"Hello, Martha, old girl," Dan cried with a cheerfulness he was far from -feeling. "Timmy and I are home again. Are you going to forgive me, -Martha?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha looked so glum and serious that Dan's heart sank. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha!" he quavered and came slowly up the steps and tossed into -her lap a huge roll of banknotes. "I know I done wrong, Martha," he -declaimed. "I've been gamblin' on the side—you know, -honey—side bets on Timmy. I'm afraid we're never going to be real -poor again. We've got the mortgage paid off and three thousand in -reserve, and I'm going to sell Timmy for seven thousand five hundred -dollars, with a half interest in his sire fees for three -years——" -</p> - -<p> -Martha stood up, her eyes ablaze with scorn and anger. -</p> - -<p> -"Dan Pelly," she flared at him, "how dare you?" -</p> - -<p> -Dan hung his head. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha," he pleaded, "can't you realize how terrible it is to keep -a good dog down?" -</p> - -<p> -"Who offered to buy Timmy?" -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Fletcher, the owner of Colonel Dorsey." -</p> - -<p> -"Tell him to go chase himself," Martha suggested slangily. "If you -expect to make your peace with me, Dan Pelly, you'll give up all idea of -selling Timmy." -</p> - -<p> -"But Martha—seven thousand five hundred dollars! Think what it means -to you. No more worry about our old age, everything settled fine and dandy -at last after twenty-five years of hard luck." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you really want to sell Timmy, Dan?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, Martha, I don't. It'd break my heart. Bu-bu-but—I'll do it for -your sake." -</p> - -<p> -"Dan, come here." -</p> - -<p> -Dan came and flopped awkwardly on his old knees while Martha's arms went -around him. -</p> - -<p> -"Sweet old Dan," she whispered. "What a glorious holiday you two have -had! I've been so happy just realizing how happy you have been. Dan!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps we can get back into the dog business again. Don't you think -you'd like to buy about half a dozen really fine brood bitches? Timmy's -puppies would be spoken for before they were born. The least we could -get would be a hundred dollars each for them." She stroked his old head. -"I'm afraid, Dan, it's too late to reform you. Once a dog man, always a -dog man——" -</p> - -<p> -What else she intended to say remained forever unsaid, for little, weak, -foolish, sentimental old Dan commenced to sniffle, as he had the night -old Keepsake was poisoned. He wasn't a worldly man or a very ambitious -man; he craved but little here below, but one of the things he craved -was clean sportsmanship and love and understanding and a small, neat, -field type English setter that would be just a little bit better than -the other fellow's. And tonight he was so filled with happiness he just -naturally overflowed. Tiny Tim, observing that something was wrong, came -and leaned his shoulder against Martha's knee and laid his muzzle in her -hand and rested it there. It was a big moment! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_1" id="Footnote_3_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_1"><span class="label">[3]</span></a><i>Copyright, 1922, by International Magazine Co. -(Cosmopolitan Magazine)</i></p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/figure07.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -<div class="caption"> -<p class="center">JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD</p> -</div></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>FOREWORD</i></h4> - -<p> -<i>There must be some sentiment attached to an author's choice of what he -considers his "best story" if he can reach any such decision at all. -Frankly, I cannot, and so I have chosen the story which has always lived -closest to my heart. It is really not a short story complete in itself -but is one of ten stories, or instalments, which make up my novel -"Kazan.</i>" -</p> - -<p> -<i>This individual story I like best because in it I bid good-by to Kazan -and Gray Wolf, two dogs whose memories will live with me long after the -memories of many of my two-legged friends have faded away. Kazan died up -near Fort MacPherson, a little this side of the Arctic Circle; Gray Wolf -near Norway House. Gray Wolf was a dog with an undoubted strain of wolf -in her, and was blinded when very young. She did not belong to me, but -was owned by a man who claimed to be a relative of the Bishop of the -Yukon. Kazan was mine. He was a one-man dog. It was his friendship for -blind Gray Wolf, when we were on one of our adventures near Norway -House, that led to the writing of my novel "Kazan.</i>" -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/figure04.jpg" width="150" height="70" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap04"></a></h4> - -<h4>KAZAN<a name="FNanchor_4_1" id="FNanchor_4_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_1" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> -<br /><br /> -BY JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD</h4> - -<p> -Kazan, the quarter-strain wolf-dog, lay at the end of a fine steel -chain, watching little Professor McGill mixing a pail of tallow and -bran. A dozen yards from him lay a big Dane, his huge jaws drooling in -anticipation of the unusual feast which McGill was preparing. The Dane -showed signs of pleasure when McGill approached him with a quart of the -mixture, and as he gulped it down the little man with the cold blue eyes -and the gray-blond hair stroked his back without fear. But his attitude -was different when he turned to Kazan. His movements were filled with -caution, and yet his eyes and his lips were smiling, and he gave the -wolf-dog no evidence of his fear, if it could be called fear. -</p> - -<p> -The little professor was up in the north country for the Smithsonian -Institution and had spent a third of his life among dogs. He loved them, -and understood them. He had written a number of magazine articles on dog -intellect which had attracted wide attention among naturalists. It was -largely because he loved dogs, and understood them more than most men, -that he had bought Kazan and the big Dane on a night when Sandy -McTrigger and his partner had tried to get them to fight to the death in -a Red Gold City saloon. The refusal of the two splendid beasts to kill -each other for the pleasure of the three hundred men who had assembled -to witness the fight delighted the professor. He had already planned a -paper on the incident. -</p> - -<p> -Sandy had told McGill the story of Kazan's capture, and of his wild -mate, Gray Wolf, and the professor had asked him a thousand questions. -But each day Kazan puzzled him more. No amount of kindness on his part -could bring a responsive gleam in Kazan's eyes. Not once did Kazan -signify a willingness to become friends. And yet he did not snarl at -McGill, or snap at his hands when they came within reach. Quite -frequently Sandy McTrigger came over to the little cabin where McGill -was staying, and three times Kazan leaped at the end of his chain to get -at him, and the wolf-dog's white fangs gleamed as long as Sandy was in -sight. Alone with McGill he became quiet. -</p> - -<p> -Something told Kazan that McGill had come as a friend that night when he -and the big Dane stood shoulder to shoulder in the cage that had been -built for a slaughter pen. Away down in his brute heart he held McGill -apart from other men. He had no desire to harm him. He tolerated him, -but showed none of the growing affection of the huge Dane. It was this -fact that puzzled McGill. He had never before known a dog that he could -not make love him. -</p> - -<p> -Today he placed the tallow and bran before Kazan, and the smile in his -face gave way to a look of perplexity. Kazan's lips had drawn suddenly -back. A fierce snarl rolled deep in his throat. The hair along his spine -stood up. His muscles twitched. Instinctively the professor turned. -Sandy McTrigger had come up quietly behind him. His brutal face wore a -grin as he looked at Kazan. -</p> - -<p> -"It's a fool job—tryin' to make friends with him," he said. Then he -added, with a sudden interested gleam in his eyes, "When you startin'?" -</p> - -<p> -"With the first frost," replied McGill. "It ought to come soon. I'm -going to join Sergeant Conroy and his party at Fond du Lac by the first -of October." -</p> - -<p> -"And you're going up to Fond du Lac—alone?" queried Sandy. "Why don't -you take a man?" -</p> - -<p> -The little professor laughed softly. -</p> - -<p> -"Why?" he asked. "I've been through the Athabasca waterways a dozen -times, and know the trail as well as I know Broadway. Besides, I like to -be alone. And the work isn't too hard, with the currents all flowing to -the north and east." -</p> - -<p> -Sandy was looking at the Dane, with his back to McGill. An exultant -gleam shot for an instant into his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"You're taking the dogs?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." -</p> - -<p> -Sandy lighted his pipe, and spoke like one strangely curious. -</p> - -<p> -"Must cost a heap to take these trips o' yourn, don't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"My last cost about seven thousand dollars. This will cost five," said -McGill. -</p> - -<p> -"Gawd!" breathed Sandy. "An' you carry all that along with you! Ain't -you afraid—something might happen——" -</p> - -<p> -The little professor was looking the other way now. The carelessness in -his face and manner changed. His blue eyes grew a shade darker. A hard -smile which Sandy did not see hovered about his lips for an instant. -Then he turned, laughing. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm a very light sleeper," he said. "A footstep at night rouses me. -Even a man's breathing awakens me, when I make up my mind that I must be -on guard. And, besides,"—he drew from his pocket a blue-steel -automatic pistol,—"I know how to use <i>this.</i>" He pointed to a -knot in the wall of the cabin. "Observe," he said. Five times he fired, -at twenty paces, and when Sandy went up to look at the knot he gave a -gasp. There was one jagged hole where the knot had been. -</p> - -<p> -"Pretty good," he grinned; "most men couldn't do better'n that with a -rifle." -</p> - -<p> -When Sandy left, McGill followed him with a suspicious gleam in his -eyes, and a curious smile on his lips. Then he turned to Kazan. -</p> - -<p> -"Guess you've got him figgered out about right, old man," he laughed -softly. "I don't blame you very much for wanting to get him by the -throat. Perhaps——" -</p> - -<p> -He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and went into the cabin. Kazan -dropped his head between his paws, and lay still, with wide-open eyes. -It was early in September, and each night brought now the first chill -breaths of autumn. Kazan watched the last glow of the sun as it faded -out of the southern skies. Darkness always followed swiftly after that, -and with darkness came more fiercely his wild longing for freedom. For -Kazan was remembering. -</p> - -<p> -Ever since that terrible day when the brute prospector, Sandy McTrigger, -had first beaten him sick and then chained him in the wake of his canoe -till every splendid muscle in his bruised body seemed bursting with pain -and he was choked with water, Kazan had never for one minute ceased to -remember and hate and mourn. He hated Sandy McTrigger with all the -hatred of a dog and a wolf, and he mourned for his blind mate, Gray -Wolf, with as much intensity as he hated. But with all the longing and -sorrow in him he could not know how much more awful their separation was -for his faithful mate. -</p> - -<p> -Never had the terror and loneliness of blindness fallen upon Gray Wolf -as in the days that followed Kazan's capture. For hours after the shot, -she had crouched in the bush back from the river, waiting for him to -come to her. She had faith that he would come, as he had come a thousand -times before, and she lay close on her belly, sniffing the air, and -whining when it brought no scent of her mate. Day and night were alike -an endless chaos of darkness to her now, but she knew when the sun went -down. She sensed the first deepening shadows of evening, and she knew -that the stars were out, and that the river lay in moonlight. It was a -night to roam, and after a time she had moved restlessly about in a -small circle on the plain, and sent out her first inquiring call for -Kazan. -</p> - -<p> -Up from the river came the pungent odor of smoke, and instinctively she -knew that it was this smoke, and the nearness of men, that was keeping -Kazan from her. But she went no nearer than that, first circle made by -her padded feet. Blindness had taught her to wait. Since the day of the -battle on the Sun Rock, when the lynx had destroyed her eyes, Kazan had -never failed her. Three times she called for him in the early night. -Then she made herself a nest under a Banksian shrub, and waited until -dawn. -</p> - -<p> -Just as she knew when night blotted out the last glow of the sun, so -without seeing she knew when day came. Not until she felt the warmth of -the sun on her back did her anxiety overcome her caution. Slowly she -moved toward the river, sniffing the air, and whining. There was no -longer the smell of smoke in the air, and she could not catch the scent -of man. She followed her own trail back to the sand bar, and in the -fringe of thick bush overhanging the white shore of the stream she -stopped and listened. -</p> - -<p> -After a little she scrambled down and went straight to the spot where -she and Kazan were drinking when Sandy's shot came. And there her nose -struck the sand still wet and thick with Kazan's blood. She sniffed the -trail of his body to the edge of the stream, where Sandy had dragged him -to the canoe. And then she came upon one of the two clubs that Sandy had -used to beat wounded Kazan into submission. It was covered with blood -and hair, and all at once Gray Wolf lay back on her haunches and turned -her blind face to the sky, and there rose from her throat a cry for -Kazan that drifted for miles on the wings of the south wind. Never had -Gray Wolf given quite that cry before. It was not the "call" that comes -with moonlit nights, and neither was it the hunt cry, nor the she-wolf's -yearning for matehood. It carried with it the lament of death. And after -that one cry Gray Wolf slunk back to the fringe of bush over the river, -and lay with her face turned to the stream. -</p> - -<p> -A strange terror fell upon her. She had grown accustomed to darkness, -but never before had she been <i>alone</i> in that darkness. Always -there had been the guardianship of Kazan's presence. She heard the -clucking sound of a spruce hen in the bush a few yards away, and now -that sound came to her as if from out of another world. A ground-mouse -rustled through the grass close to her forepaws, and she snapped at -it—and closed her teeth on a rock. The muscles of her shoulders -twitched tremulously, and she shivered as if stricken by intense cold. -She was terrified by the darkness that shut out the world from her, and -she pawed at her closed eyes, as if she might open them to light. -</p> - -<p> -Early in the afternoon, she wandered back on the plain. It was -different. It frightened her, and soon she returned to the beach, and -snuggled down under the tree where Kazan had lain. She was not so -frightened here. The smell of Kazan was strong about her. For an hour -she lay motionless, with her head resting on the club clotted with his -hair and blood. Night found her still there. And when the moon and stars -came out she crawled back into the pit in the white sand that Kazan's -body had made under the tree. -</p> - -<p> -With dawn she went down to the edge of the stream to drink. She could -not see that the day was almost as dark as night, and that the -gray-black sky was a chaos of slumbering storm. But she could smell the -presence of it in the thick air, and could <i>feel</i> the forked flashes -of lightning that rolled up with the dense pall from the south and west. -The distant rumbling of thunder grew louder, and she huddled herself -again under the tree. For hours the storm crashed over her, and the rain -fell in a deluge. When it had finished, she slunk out from her shelter, -like a thing beaten. Vainly she sought for one last scent of Kazan. The -club was washed clean. Again the sand was white where Kazan's blood had -reddened it. Even under the tree there was no sign of him left. -</p> - -<p> -Until now only the terror of being alone in the pit of darkness that -enveloped her had oppressed Gray Wolf. With afternoon came hunger. It -was this hunger that drew her from the sandbar, and she wandered back -into the plain. A dozen times she scented game, and each time it evaded -her. Even a ground-mouse that she cornered under a root escaped her -fangs. -</p> - -<p> -That night she slept again where Kazan had lain, and three times she -called for him without answer. But still through the day that followed, -and the day that followed that, blind Gray Wolf clung to the narrow rim -of white sand. On the fourth day her hunger reached a point where she -gnawed the bark from willow bushes. It was on this day that she made a -discovery. She was drinking, when her sensitive nose touched something -in the water's edge that was smooth, and bore a faint fleshy odor. It -was one of the big northern river clams. She pawed it ashore, sniffing -at the hard shell. Then she crunched it between her teeth. She had never -tasted sweeter meat than that which she found inside, and she began -hunting for other clams. She found many of them, and ate until she was -no longer hungry. -</p> - -<p> -For three days more Gray Wolf remained on the bar. And then, one night -the Call came to her. It set her quivering with a strange, new -excitement—something that may have been a new hope—and in -the moonlight she trotted nervously up and down the shining strip of -sand, facing now the north, and now the south, and then the east and the -west—her head flung up, listening, as if in the soft wind of the -night she was trying to locate the whispering lure of a wonderful voice. -And whatever it was that came to her, came from out of the south and -east. Off there—across the barren, far beyond the outer edge of -the northern timber line—was home. And off there, in her brute -way, she reasoned that she must find Kazan. -</p> - -<p> -The Call did not come from their old windfall home in the swamp. It came -from beyond that, and in a flashing vision there rose through her -blindness a picture of the towering Sun Rock, of the winding trail that -led to it, and the cabin on the plain where the man and the woman and -the baby lived. It was there that blindness had come to her. It was -there that day had ended, and eternal night had begun. And it was there -that she had given birth to her first-born. Nature had registered these -things so that they could never be wiped out of her memory. -</p> - -<p> -And to that Call she responded, leaving the river and its food behind -her—straight out into the face of darkness and starvation, no longer -fearing death or the emptiness of the world she could not see; for ahead -of her, two hundred miles away, she could see the Sun Rock, the winding -trail, the nest of her first-born between the two big rocks—<i>and -Kazan!</i> -</p> - -<p> -And sixty miles farther north Kazan, night after night, gnawed at his -steel chain. Night after night he had watched the stars, and the moon, -and had listened for Gray Wolf's call, while the big Dane lay sleeping. -Tonight it was colder than usual, and the keen tang of the wind that -came fresh from the west stirred him strangely. It set his blood afire -with what the Indians call the Frost Hunger. Lethargic summer was gone -and the sharp-winded days and nights of hunting were at hand. He wanted -to leap out into freedom and run until he was exhausted, with Gray Wolf -at his side. He knew that Gray Wolf was off there—where the stars -hung low in the clear sky—and that she was waiting. -</p> - -<p> -All that night he was restless—more restless than he had been at any -time before. Once, in the far distance, he heard a cry that he thought -was the cry of Gray Wolf, and his answer roused McGill from deep sleep. -It was dawn, and the little professor dressed himself and came out of -the cabin. With satisfaction he noted the exhilarating snap in the air. -He wet his fingers and held them above his head, chuckling when he found -the wind had swung into the north. He went to Kazan, and talked to him. -Among other things he said: "This'll put the black flies to sleep, -Kazan. A day or two more of it and we'll start." -</p> - -<p> -Five days later McGill led first the Dane, and then Kazan, to a packed -canoe. Sandy McTrigger saw them off, and Kazan watched for a chance to -leap at him. Sandy kept his distance, and McGill watched the two with a -thought that set the blood running swiftly behind the mask of his -careless smile. They had slipped a mile downstream when he leaned over -and laid a fearless hand on Kazan's head. Something in the touch of that -hand, and in the professor's voice, kept Kazan from a desire to snap at -him. He tolerated the friendship with expressionless eyes and a -motionless body. -</p> - -<p> -"I was beginning to fear I wouldn't have much sleep, old boy," chuckled -McGill ambiguously, "but I guess I can take a nap now and then with you -along!" -</p> - -<p> -For three days the journey continued without mishap along the shore of -Lake Athabasca. On the fourth night McGill pitched his tent in a clump -of Banksian pine a hundred yards back from the water. All that day the -wind had come steadily from behind them, and for at least a half of the -day the professor had been watching Kazan closely. From the west there -had now and then come a scent that stirred Kazan uneasily. Since noon he -had sniffed that wind. Twice McGill had heard him growling deep in his -throat, and once, when the scent had come stronger than usual, he had -bared his fangs, and the bristles stood up along his spine. -</p> - -<p> -For an hour after striking camp the professor did not build a lire, but -sat looking up the shore of the lake through his hunting glass. It was -dusk when he returned to where he had put up his tent and chained the -dogs. For a few moments he stood unobserved, looking at the wolf-dog. -Kazan was still uneasy. He lay <i>facing</i> the west. McGill made note of -this, for the big Dane lay behind Kazan—to the east. -</p> - -<p> -Behind a rock McGill built a very small fire, and prepared supper. After -this he went into the tent, and when he came out he carried a blanket -under his arm. He chuckled as he stood for a moment over Kazan. -</p> - -<p> -"We're not going to sleep in there tonight, old boy," he said. "I don't -like what you've found in the west wind." He laughed and buried himself -in a clump of stunted Banksians thirty paces from the tent. Here he -rolled himself in his blanket, and went to sleep. -</p> - -<p> -It was a quiet, starlit night, and hours afterward Kazan dropped his -nose between his forepaws and drowsed. It was the snap of a twig that -roused him. The sound did not awaken the sluggish Dane, but instantly -Kazan's head was alert, his keen nostrils sniffing the air. What he had -smelled all day was heavy about him now. -</p> - -<p> -Slowly, from out of the Banksians behind the tent, there came a figure. -It was not that of the professor. It approached cautiously, with lowered -head and hunched shoulders, and the starlight revealed the murderous -face of Sandy McTrigger. Kazan crouched low. He laid his head flat -between his forepaws. His long fangs gleamed. But he made no sound that -betrayed his concealment under a thick Banksian shrub. Step by step -Sandy approached, and at last he reached the flap of the tent. He did -not carry a club or a whip in his hand now. In the place of either of -those was the glitter of steel. At the door to the tent he paused, and -peered in, his back to Kazan. -</p> - -<p> -Silently, swiftly—the wolf now, in every movement—Kazan came -to his feet. He forgot the chain that held him. Ten feet away stood the -enemy he hated above all others he had ever known. Every ounce of -strength in his splendid body gathered itself for the spring. And then -he leaped. This time the chain did not pull him back, almost -neck-broken. Age and the elements had weakened the leather collar he had -worn since the days of his slavery in the traces, and it gave way with a -snap. Sandy turned, and in a second leap Kazan's fangs sank into the -flesh of his arm. With a startled cry the man fell, and as they rolled -over on the ground the big Dane's deep voice rolled out in thunderous -alarm. -</p> - -<p> -In the fall Kazan's hold was broken. In an instant he was on his feet, -ready for another attack. And then the change came. He was <i>free.</i> The -collar was gone from his neck. The forest, the stars, the whispering -wind were all about him. <i>Here</i> were men, and off there was—Gray -Wolf! His ears dropped, and he turned swiftly, and slipped like a shadow -back into the glorious freedom of his world. -</p> - -<p> -A hundred yards away something stopped him for an instant. It was not -the big Dane's voice, but the sharp <i>crack—crack—crack</i> of -the little professor's automatic. And above that sound there rose the voice -of Sandy McTrigger in a weird and terrible cry. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -Mile after mile Kazan went on. For a time he was oppressed by the -shivering note of death that had come to him in Sandy McTrigger's cry, -and he slipped through the Banksians like a shadow, his ears flattened, -his tail trailing, his hind quarters betraying that curious slinking -quality of the wolf and dog stealing away from danger. Then he came out -upon a plain, and the stillness, the billion stars in the clear vault of -the sky, and the keen air that carried with it a breath of the Arctic -barrens brought him alert and questing. He faced in the direction of the -wind. Somewhere off there, far to the south and west, was Gray Wolf. For -the first time in many weeks he sat back on his haunches and gave the -deep and vibrant call that echoed weirdly for miles about him. Back in -the Banksians the big Dane heard it, and whined. From over the still -body of Sandy McTrigger the little professor looked up with a white, -tense face, and listened for a second cry. -</p> - -<p> -But to that first call instinct told Kazan that there would be no -answer, and now he struck out swiftly, galloping mile after mile, as a -dog follows the trail of its master home. He did not turn back to the -lake, nor was his direction toward Red Gold City. As straight as he -might have followed a road blazed by the hand of man, he cut across the -forty miles of plain and swamp and forest and rocky ridge that lay -between him and the McFarlane. All that night he did not call again for -Gray Wolf. With him, reasoning was a process brought about by -habit—by precedent, and as Gray Wolf had waited for him many times -before, he believed that she would be waiting for him now somewhere near -the sandbar. -</p> - -<p> -By dawn he had reached the river, within three miles of the sandbar. -Scarcely was the sun up when he stood on the white strip of sand where -he and Gray Wolf had come down to drink. Expectantly and confidently he -looked about him for Gray Wolf, whining softly and wagging his tail. He -began to search for her scent, but rains had washed even her footprints -from the clean sand. All that day he searched for her along the river -and out on the plain. Again and again he sat back on his haunches and -sent out his mating cry to her. -</p> - -<p> -And slowly, as he did these things, nature was working in him that -miracle of the wild which the Crees have named the "spirit call." As it -had worked in Gray Wolf, so now it stirred the blood of Kazan. With the -going of the sun, and the sweeping about him of shadowy night, he turned -more and more to the south and east. His whole world was made up of the -trails over which he had hunted. That world, in his comprehension of it, -ran from the McFarlane in a narrow trail through the forest and over the -plains to the little valley from which the beavers had driven them. If -Gray Wolf was not here—she was there, and tirelessly he resumed his -quest of her. -</p> - -<p> -Not until the stars were fading out of the sky again, and gray day was -giving place to night, did exhaustion and hunger stop him. He killed a -rabbit, and for hours after he had feasted, he lay dose to his kill, and -slept. Then he went on. -</p> - -<p> -The fourth night he came to the little valley between the two ridges, -and under the stars, more brilliant now in the chill clearness of the -early autumn nights, he followed the creek down into their old swamp -home. It was broad day when he reached the edge of the great beaver pond -that now completely surrounded the windfall under which Gray Wolf's -second-born had come into the world. Broken Tooth and the other beavers -had wrought a big change in what had once been his home and Gray Wolf's, -and for many minutes Kazan stood silent and motionless at the edge of -the pond, sniffing the air heavy with the unpleasant odor of the -usurpers. -</p> - -<p> -Until now his spirit had remained unbroken. Footsore, with thinned sides -and gaunt head, he circled slowly through the swamp. All that day he -searched. And his crest lay flat now, and there was a hunted look in the -droop of his shoulders and in the shifting look in his eyes. Gray Wolf -was gone. Slowly nature was impinging that fact upon him. She had passed -out of his world and out of his life, and he was filled with a -loneliness and a grief so great that the forest seemed strange, and the -stillness of the wild a thing that now oppressed and frightened him. -</p> - -<p> -Once more the dog in him was mastering the wolf. With Gray Wolf he had -possessed the world of freedom. Without her, that world was so big and -strange and empty that it appalled him. -</p> - -<p> -That night he slunk under a log. Deep in the night he grieved in his -slumber, like a child. And day after day, and night after night, Kazan -remained a slinking creature of the big swamp, mourning for the one -creature that had brought him out of chaos into light, who had filled -his world for him, and who, in going from him, had taken from this world -even the things that Gray Wolf had lost in her blindness. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -In the golden glow of the autumn sun there one day came up the stream -overlooked by the Sun Rock a man, a woman, and a child. Almost two years -had passed since Joan, the girl-wife, had left these regions with her -trapper husband for a taste of that distant world which is known as -Civilization. All her life, except the years she had passed at a Mission -school over at Fort Churchill, she had lived in the forests—a wild -flower of nature as truly as the velvety <i>bakneesh</i> flowers among the -rocks. And civilization had done for her what it had done for many -another wild flower transplanted from the depths of the wilderness. She -did not look as she did in the days when she was Kazan's mistress, and -when the wolf-dog's loyalty was divided between Gray Wolf, on the Sun -Rock, and Joan, in the cabin half a mile away. Her cheeks were thin. Her -blue eyes had lost their luster. She coughed, and when she coughed the -man looked at her with love and fear in his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -But now, slowly, the man had begun to see the transformation, and on the -day their canoe pointed up the stream and into the wonderful valley that -had been their home before the call of the distant city came to them, he -noted the flush gathering once more in her cheeks, the fuller redness of -her lips, and the gathering glow of happiness and content in her eyes. -He laughed softly as he saw these things, and he blessed the forests. -</p> - -<p> -"You are happy again, Joan," he said joyously. "The doctors were right. -You are a part of the forests." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I am happy," she whispered, and suddenly there came a little -thrill into her voice, and she pointed to a white finger of sand running -out into the stream. "Do you remember—years and years ago, it -seems—that Kazan left us here? She was on the sand over there, -calling to him. Do you remember?" There came a little tremble to her -mouth. "I wonder—where they—have gone." -</p> - -<p> -The cabin was as they had left it. Only the crimson <i>bakneesh</i> had -grown up about it, and shrubs and tall grass had sprung up near its walls. -Once more it took on life, and day by day the color came deeper into -Joan's cheeks, and her voice was filled with its old wild sweetness of -song. Joan's husband cleared the trails over his old trap-lines, and -Joan and the little Joan, who romped and talked now, transformed the -cabin into <i>home.</i> One night the man returned to the cabin late, and -when he came in there was a glow of excitement in Joan's blue eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"Did you hear it?" she asked. "Did you hear—<i>the call?</i>" -</p> - -<p> -He nodded, stroking her soft hair. -</p> - -<p> -"I was a mile back in the creek swamp," he said. "I heard it!" -</p> - -<p> -Joan's hands clutched his arms. -</p> - -<p> -"It wasn't Kazan," she said. "I would recognize his voice. But it seemed -to me it was like the other—the call that came that morning from the -sandbar, his mate's." -</p> - -<p> -The man was thinking. Joan's fingers tightened. She was breathing a -little quickly. -</p> - -<p> -"Will you promise me this?" she asked. "Will you promise me that you -will never hunt or trap for wolves?" -</p> - -<p> -"I had thought of that," he replied. "I thought of it—after I heard -the call. Yes, I will promise." -</p> - -<p> -Joan's arms stole up about his neck. -</p> - -<p> -"We loved Kazan," she whispered. "And you might kill him—or her." -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly she stopped. Both listened. The door was a little ajar, and to -them there came again the wailing mate-call of the wolf. Joan ran to the -door. Her husband followed. Together they stood silent, and with tense -breath Joan pointed over the starlit plain. -</p> - -<p> -"Listen! Listen!" she commanded. "It's her cry, <i>and it came from the -Sun Rock!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -She ran out into the night, forgetting that the man was close behind her -now, forgetting that little Joan was alone in her bed. And to them, from -miles and miles across the plain, there came a wailing cry in -answer—a cry that seemed a part of the wind, and that thrilled -Joan until her breath broke in a strange sob. -</p> - -<p> -Farther out on the plain she went, and then stopped, with the golden -glow of the autumn moon and the stars shimmering in her hair and eyes. -It was many minutes before the cry came again, and then it was so near -that Joan put her hands to her mouth, and her cry rang out over the -plain as of old: -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Kazan! Kazan! Kazan!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -At the top of the Sun Rock, Gray Wolf—gaunt and thinned by -starvation—heard the woman's cry, and the call that was in her throat -died away in a whine. And to the north a swiftly moving shadow stopped -for a moment, and stood like a thing of rock under the starlight. It was -Kazan. A strange fire leaped through his body. Every fiber of his brute -understanding was afire with the knowledge that here was home. It was -here, long ago, that he had lived, and loved, and fought—and all at -once the dreams that had grown faded and indistinct in his memory came -back to him as real, living things. For, coming to him faintly over the -plain, <i>he heard Joan's voice!</i> -</p> - -<p> -In the starlight Joan stood, tense and white, when from out of the pale -mists of the moon-glow he came to her, cringing on his belly, panting -and wind-run, and with a strange whining note in his throat. To Joan, -Kazan was more than mere dog. Next to her husband and baby she loved -him. There passed through her mind a day when he had saved her and the baby -from the wolves—and again the scene of that other day when he had -leaped upon the giant husky that was at the throat of little Joan. . . . -As her arms hugged Kazan's great shaggy head up to her, the man heard -the whining, gasping joy of the beast. -</p> - -<p> -And then there came once more across the plain Gray Wolf's mate-seeking -cry of grief and of loneliness. Swiftly, as though struck by a lash, -Kazan was on his feet. In another instant he was gone. -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Now</i> do you believe?" cried Joan pantingly. "<i>Now</i> do you -believe in the God of my world—the God I have lived with, the God -that gives souls to the wild things, the God that—that has -brought—us all—together—once more—<i>home!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -His arms closed gently about her. -</p> - -<p> -"I believe, my Joan," he whispered. Afterward they sat in the starlight -in front of the cabin. But they did not hear again that lonely cry from -the Sun Rock. Joan and her husband understood. "He'll visit us again -tomorrow," the man said at last. "Come, Joan, let us go to bed." -Together they entered the cabin. And that night, side by side, Kazan and -Gray Wolf hunted again on the moonlit plain. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_1" id="Footnote_4_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_1"><span class="label">[4]</span></a><i>From James Other Curwood's Kazan. Copyright 1914, by -Cosmopolitan Book Corporation. By permission of the publishers.</i></p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/figure08.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -<div class="caption"> -<p class="center">MEREDITH NICHOLSON</p> -</div></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>FOREWORD</i></h4> - -<p> -<i>I ALWAYS find myself uncomfortable in the company of those who delight -in literary shop-talk. Nothing I have ever heard or read on the subject -of writing has seemed to me of any value to a practitioner of the art in -so far as methods, hours of work and such matters are concerned. One -writes or one doesn't, and that seems to me the end on't. In the domain -of style there is, of course, a valuable and fascinating literature, but -the ability to write English prose of beauty and power pertains to the -higher branches of the craft.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>The choice and use of a subject is a thing apart. Here we enter a -no-man's land "where all is possible and all unknown." Pretending to no -special knowledge of this matter, I will, however, acknowledge myself a -firm believer in the operation of subconscious processes that assist in -the development of ideas. Once an idea takes root in the mind and has a -fertile germ in it, it immediately begins to grow. And as the plant -matures it thrusts its way through the crust teasingly from time to -time, until finally it stands up in full bloom in the conscious mind. It -is obviously difficult for anyone engaged in the creative arts to take -himself as a subject for psychological analysis. For the mind's -operation is a mystery. The origin of ideas belongs in the realm of the -unfathomable. If it were not for arousing the ire of trained -psychologists, there are a good many things that I could suggest from my -own experience that hint of forces at work in all of us that lure us to -a twilight borderland beyond which nothing is quite real but all is -touched with mystery.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Nothing is more interesting than the manner in which the inevitable -form in which a thing should be written is instantly evident when the -idea itself—the device—becomes clear and definite. When I was a -newspaper reporter and had got my facts on some assignment, I found -myself visualizing the story as it would appear in print, even to the -first sentence and the arrangement of paragraphs, on my way back to the -office. There is, beyond question, a journalistic sense that enables one -instantaneously to appraise material and determine its treatment. I have -written almost everything from five-line news items, newspaper -editorial, verse, history, essays and short stories to novels of various -kinds, and I have always found that first instinctive sense of value and -form a pretty safe guide.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>When a short-story idea strikes me I draw a line like the flight of a -rocket across a piece of paper and write across it a few words -indicating the chief incidents of the story. The back of an envelope -suffices for this; I never make elaborate notes even for a novel, -trusting to the merry little imps in the subconscious cellar to keep me -supplied with material. And they are wilful little devils, who are -likely to go on a strike at times; but as nothing can be done to -stimulate their efforts, it's the wiser plan to try to forget what it is -you want to fashion and mold until, some day when you are watching a -ball game or hearing a symphony or doing something else utterly -unrelated to the particular idea that has tormented you, the whole thing -stands there before your eyes quite as unexpectedly as though a magician -had waved his wand and wrought a miracle you can't explain—and need -not.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>"The Third Man" struck me one day in a hotel room where, beside the -telephone, was a tablet on which some scribbling of the last guest -remained—a curious geometric cal figure roughly outlined all over -the sheet. I had often noticed the habit men have—women seem less -addicted to it—of marking with a pencil while the mind is engaged -with something wholly alien. As I reflected upon this I found not only -that I myself drew symbols or scrawled words when preoccupied, but that -I constantly repeated the same signs and words. It occurred to me that a -man might leave incriminating testimony by such idle pencilings. The -idea having interested me for an hour, I forgot all about it until one -day the whole story of "The Third Man" rose out of the subcellar and -demanded to be written.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>I employed in this story a character I have used frequently in short -stories—a banker with an adventurous, quixotic strain and a sincere -interest in helping the underdog. The idea of giving a dinner and -placing at every plate a tablet and pencil and (no one being in the -secret) waiting to see whether a certain man, never suspected of a -murder, would not from habit draw a certain figure which the host had -found on a scrap of paper at the scene of the crime, gives an -opportunity for that suspensive interest which is essential to a mystery -tale.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>I may add that I never have found a device for a story, long or short, -when I was consciously seeking it. Others no doubt have a very different -experience, and they are luckier than those of us who are obliged to -wait for the subconscious imps to throw up the trapdoor and disclose -something. There are well-known instances of writers dreaming a plot, -but only once have I been so favored. The thing looked quite splendid -while I slept, but it dissolved so quickly at the moment of waking that -I was unable to piece it together.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>It may be of interest to the student of such matters that practically -every idea that I have ever developed came to me at some place which I -always identify with it. And further, when this has happened on the -street or in some room of a house, I never revisit the place without an -odd feeling—a curious, disturbing uneasiness. There is a street -corner in my home town that I avoid, for there, I remember distinctly, the -device for a story occurred to me. The story was, I may say, one of the -most successful I ever wrote, and yet by some freakish and inexplicable -association of ideas I don't like to pass that corner! I should add that -neither the corner nor anything pertaining to it figured in the story or -was in any way related to it.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>So it will readily be seen that I am unlikely to be of service to -students or beginners, for in very plain terms I must admit that I do -not know how I do things. It is because the whole business is so -enveloped in mystery that I enjoy writing and try to keep myself in a -receptive state for those happy surprises, without which I should -quickly find myself without material and seeking other occupation.</i> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/figure04.jpg" width="150" height="70" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap05"></a></h4> - -<h4><i>The</i> THIRD MAN<a name="FNanchor_5_1" id="FNanchor_5_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_1" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> -<br /><br /> -BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON</h4> - -<p> -When Webster G. Burgess asked ten of his cronies to dine with him at the -University Club on a night in January they assumed that the president of -the White River National had been indulging in another adventure which -he wished to tell them about. -</p> - -<p> -In spite of their constant predictions that if he didn't stop hiding -crooks in his house and playing tricks on the Police Department he would -ultimately find himself in jail, Mr. Burgess continued to find amusement -in frequent dallyings with gentlemen of the underworld. In a town of -approximately three hundred thousand people a banker is expected to go -to church on Sundays and otherwise conduct himself as a decent, orderly, -and law-abiding citizen, but the president of the White River National -did not see things in that light. As a member of the Board of Directors -of the Released Prisoners' Aid Society he was always ready with the -excuse that his heart was deeply moved by the misfortunes of those who -keep to the dark side of the street, and that sincere philanthropy -covered all his sins in their behalf. -</p> - -<p> -When his friends met at the club and found Governor Eastman one of the -dinner party, they resented the presence of that dignitary as likely to -impose restraints upon Burgess, who, for all his jauntiness, was not -wholly without discretion. But the governor was a good fellow, as they -all knew, and a story-teller of wide reputation. Moreover, he was taking -his job seriously, and, being practical men, they liked this about him. -It was said that no governor since Civil War times had spent so many -hours at his desk or had shown the same zeal and capacity for gathering -information at first hand touching all departments of the State -government. Eastman, as the country knows, is an independent character, -and it was this quality, which he had shown first as a prosecuting -attorney, that had attracted attention and landed him in the seat of the -Hoosier governors. -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose," remarked Kemp as they sat down, "that these tablets are -scattered around the table so we can make notes of the clever things -that will be said here tonight. It's a good idea and gives me a chance -to steal some of your stories, governor." -</p> - -<p> -A scratch pad with pencil attached had been placed at each plate, and -the diners spent several minutes in chaffing Burgess as to the purpose -of this unusual table decoration. -</p> - -<p> -"I guess," said Goring, "that Web is going to ask us to write limericks -for a prize and that the governor is here to judge the contest. Indoor -winter sports don't appeal to me; I pass." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to write notes to the House Committee on mine," said Fanning; -"the food in this club is not what it used to be, and it's about time -somebody kicked." -</p> - -<p> -"As I've frequently told you," remarked Burgess, smiling upon them from -the head of the table, "you fellows have no imagination. You'd never -guess what those tablets are for, and maybe I'll never tell you." -</p> - -<p> -"Nothing is so innocent as a piece of white paper," said the governor, -eyeing his tablet. "We'd better be careful not to jot down anything that -might fly up and hit us afterward. For all we know, it may be a scheme -to get our signatures for Burgess to stick on notes without relief from -valuation or appraisement laws. It's about time for another Bohemian -oats swindle, and our friend Burgess may expect to work us for the price -of the dinner." -</p> - -<p> -"Web's bound to go to jail some day," remarked Ramsay, the surgeon, "and -he'd better do it while you're in office, governor. You may not know -that he's hand in glove with all the criminals in the country: he quit -poker so he could give all his time to playing with crooks." -</p> - -<p> -"The warden of the penitentiary has warned me against him," replied the -governor easily. "Burgess has a man at the gate to meet convicts as they -emerge, and all the really bad ones are sent down here for Burgess to -put up at this club." -</p> - -<p> -"I never did that but once," Burgess protested, "and that was only -because my mother-in-law was visiting me and I was afraid she wouldn't -stand for a burglar as a fellow guest. My wife's got used to 'em. But -the joke of putting that chap up here at the club isn't on me, but on -Ramsay and Colton. They had luncheon with him one day and thanked me -afterward for introducing them to so interesting a man. I told them he -was a manufacturer from St. Louis, and they swallowed it whole. Pettit -was the name, but he has string of aliases as long as this table, and -there's not a rogues' gallery in the country where he isn't indexed. You -remember, Colton, he talked a good deal of his travels, and he could do -so honestly, as he'd cracked safes all the way from Boston to Seattle." -</p> - -<p> -Ramsay and Colton protested that this could not be so; that the man they -had luncheon with was a shoe manufacturer and had talked of his business -as only an expert could. -</p> - -<p> -The governor and Burgess exchanged glances, and both laughed. -</p> - -<p> -"He knew the shoe business all right enough," said Burgess, "for he -learned it in the penitentiary and proved so efficient that they made -him foreman of the shop!" -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose," said Kemp, "that you've got another crook coming to take -that vacant chair. You'd better tell us about him so we won't commit any -social errors." -</p> - -<p> -At the governor's right there was an empty place, and Burgess remarked -carelessly that they were shy a man, but that he would turn up later. -</p> - -<p> -"I've asked Tate, a banker at Lorinsburg, to join us and he'll be along -after a while. Any of you know Tate? One of our scouts recently -persuaded him to transfer his account to us, and as this is the first -time he's been in town since the change I thought it only decent to show -him some attention. We're both directors in a company that's trying to -develop a tile factory in his town, so you needn't be afraid I'm going -to put anything over on you. Tate's attending a meeting tonight from -which I am regrettably absent! He promised to be here before we got down -to the coffee." -</p> - -<p> -As the dinner progressed the governor was encouraged to tell stories, -and acceded good-naturedly by recounting some amusing things that had -happened in the course of his official duties. -</p> - -<p> -"But it isn't all so funny," he said gravely after keeping them in a -roar for half an hour. "In a State as big as this a good many -disagreeable things happen, and people come to me every day with -heartbreaking stories. There's nothing that causes me more anxiety than -the appeals for pardon; if the pardoning power were taken away from me, -I'd be a much happier man. The Board of Pardons winnows out the cases, -but even at that there's enough to keep me uncomfortable. It isn't the -pleasantest feeling in the world that as you go to bed at night somebody -may be suffering punishment unjustly, and that it's up to you to find it -out. When a woman comes in backed by a child or two and cries all over -your office about her husband who's doing time and tells you he wasn't -guilty, it doesn't cheer you much; not by a jugful! Wives, mothers, and -sisters: the wives shed more tears, the sisters put up the best -argument, but the mothers give you more sleepless nights." -</p> - -<p> -"If it were up to me," commented Burgess, "I'm afraid I'd turn 'em all -out!" -</p> - -<p> -"You would," chorused the table derisively, "and when you'd emptied the -penitentiaries you'd burn 'em down!" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course there's bound to be cases of flagrant injustice," suggested -Kemp. "And the feelings of a man who is locked up for a crime he never -committed must be horrible. We hear now and then of such cases and it -always shakes my faith in the law." -</p> - -<p> -"The law does the best it can," replied the governor a little -defensively, "but, as you say, mistakes do occur. The old saying that -murder will out is no good; we can all remember cases where the truth -was never known. Mistakes occur constantly, and it's the fear of not -rectifying them that's making a nervous wreck of me. I have in my pocket -now a blank pardon that I meant to sign before I left my office, but I -couldn't quite bring myself to the point. The Pardon Board has made the -recommendation, not on the grounds of injustice—more, I'm afraid, out -of sympathy than anything else—and we have to be careful of our -sympathies in these matters. And here again there's a wife to reckon -with. She's been at my office nearly every day for a year, and she's -gone to my wife repeatedly to enlist her support. And it's largely -through Mrs. Eastman's insistence that I've spent many weeks studying -the case. It's a murder: what appeared to be a heartless, cold-blooded -assassination. And some of you may recall it—the Avery case, seven -years ago, in Salem County." -</p> - -<p> -Half the men had never heard of it and the others recalled it only -vaguely. -</p> - -<p> -"It was an interesting case," Burgess remarked, wishing to draw the -governor out. "George Avery was a man of some importance down there and -stood high in the community. He owned a quarry almost eleven miles from -Torrenceville and maintained a bungalow on the quarry land where he used -to entertain his friends with quail-hunting and perhaps now and then -with a poker party. He killed a man named Reynolds who was his guest. As -I remember, there seemed to be no great mystery about it, and Avery's -defense was a mere disavowal and a brilliant flourish of character -witnesses." -</p> - -<p> -"For all anybody ever knew, it was a plain case, as Burgess says," the -governor began. "Avery and Reynolds were business acquaintances and -Avery had invited Reynolds down there to discuss the merging of their -quarry interests. Reynolds was found dead a little way from the bungalow -by some of the quarry laborers. He had been beaten on the head with a -club in the most barbarous fashion. Reynolds's overcoat was torn off and -the buttons ripped from his waistcoat, pointing to a fierce struggle -before his assailant got him down and pounded the life out of him. The -purpose was clearly not robbery, as Reynolds had a considerable sum of -money on his person that was left untouched. When the men who found the -body went to rouse Avery he collapsed when told that Reynolds was dead. -In fact, he lay in a stupor for a week, and they could get nothing out -of him. Tracks? No; it was a cold December night and the ground was -frozen. -</p> - -<p> -"Reynolds had meant to take a midnight train for Chicago, and Avery had -wired for special orders to stop at the quarry station, to save Reynolds -the trouble of driving into Torrenceville. One might have supposed that -Avery would accompany his visitor to the station, particularly as it was -not a regular stop for night trains and the way across the fields was a -little rough. I've personally been over all the ground. There are many -difficult and inexplicable things about the case, the absence of motive -being one of them. The State asserted business jealousy and -substantiated it to a certain extent, and the fact that Avery had taken -the initiative in the matter of combining their quarry interests and -might have used undue pressure on Reynolds to force him to the deal to -be considered." -</p> - -<p> -The governor lapsed into silence, seemingly lost in reverie. With his -right hand he was scribbling idly on the tablet that lay by his plate. -The others, having settled themselves comfortably in their chairs, -hoping to hear more of the murder, were disappointed when he ceased -speaking. Burgess's usual calm, assured air deserted him. He seemed -unwontedly restless, and they saw him glance furtively at his watch. -</p> - -<p> -"Please, governor, won't you go on with the story?" pleaded Colton. "You -know that nothing that's said at one of Web's parties ever goes out of -the room." -</p> - -<p> -"That," laughed the governor, "is probably unfortunate, as most of his -stories ought to go to the grand jury. But if I may talk here into the -private ear of you gentlemen I will go on a little further. I've got to -make up my mind, in the next hour or two about this case, and it may -help me to reach a conclusion to think aloud about it." -</p> - -<p> -"You needn't be afraid of us," said Burgess encouragingly. "We've been -meeting here—about the same crowd—once a month for five years, -and nobody has ever blabbed anything." -</p> - -<p> -"All right; we'll go a bit further. Avery's stubborn silence was a -contributing factor in his prompt conviction. A college graduate, a -high-strung, nervous man, hard-working and tremendously ambitious; -successful, reasonably prosperous, happy in his marriage, and with every -reason for living straight: there you have George Avery as I make him -out to have been when this calamity befell him. There was just one -lapse, one error, in his life, but that didn't figure in the case, and I -won't speak of it now. His conduct from the moment of his arrest, a week -following the murder, and only after every other possible clue had been -exhausted by the local authorities, was that of a man mutely resigned to -his fate. I find from the records that he remained at the bungalow in -care of a physician, utterly dazed, it seemed, by the thing he had done, -until a warrant was issued and he was put in jail. He's been a prisoner -ever since, and his silence has been unbroken to this day. His wife -assures me that he never, not even to her, said one word about the case -more than to declare his innocence. I've seen him at the penitentiary on -two occasions, but could get nothing out of him. In fact, I exhausted -any ingenuity I may have in attempting to surprise him into some -admission that would give me ground for pardoning him, but without -learning anything that was not in the State's case. They're using him as -a bookkeeper, and he's made a fine record: a model convict. The long -confinement has told seriously on his health, which is the burden of his -wife's plea for his release, but he wouldn't even discuss that. -</p> - -<p> -"There was no one else at the bungalow on the night of the murder," the -governor continued. "It was Avery's habit to get his meals at the house -of the quarry superintendent, about five hundred yards away, and the -superintendent's wife cared for the bungalow, but the men I've had at -work couldn't find anything in that to hang a clue on. You see, -gentlemen, after seven years it's not easy to work up a case, but two -expert detectives that I employed privately to make some investigations -along lines I suggested have been of great assistance. Failing to catch -the scent where the trail started, I set them to work backward from a -point utterly remote from the scene. It was a guess, and ordinarily it -would have failed, but in this case it has brought results that are all -but convincing." -</p> - -<p> -The tablets and pencils that had been distributed along the table had -not been neglected. The guests, without exception, had been drawing or -scribbling; Colton had amused himself by sketching the governor's -profile. Burgess seemed not to be giving his undivided attention to the -governor's review of the case. He continued to fidget, and his eyes -swept the table with veiled amusement. Then he tapped a bell and a -waiter appeared. -</p> - -<p> -"Pardon me a moment, governor, till the cigars are passed again." -</p> - -<p> -In his round with the cigar tray the Jap, evidently by prearrangement, -collected the tablets and laid them in front of Burgess. -</p> - -<p> -"Changed your mind about the limerick contest, Web?" asked someone. -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all," said Burgess carelessly; "the tablets have fulfilled their -purpose. It was only a silly idea of mine anyhow." They noticed, -however, that a tablet was left at the still vacant place that awaited -the belated guest, and they wondered at this, surmising that Burgess had -planned the dinner carefully and that the governor's discussion of the -Avery case was by connivance with their host. With a quickening of -interest they drew their chairs closer to the table. -</p> - -<p> -"The prosecuting attorney who represented the State in the trial is now -a judge of the Circuit Court," the governor resumed when the door closed -upon the waiter. "I have had many talks with him about this case. He -confesses that there are things about it that still puzzle him. The -evidence was purely circumstantial, as I have already indicated; but -circumstantial evidence, as Thoreau once remarked, may be very -convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk! But when two men have -spent a day together in the house of one of them, and the other is found -dead in a lonely place not far away, and suspicion attaches to no one -but the survivor—not even the tramp who usually figures in such -speculations—a jury of twelve farmers may be pardoned for taking the -State's view of the matter." -</p> - -<p> -"The motive you spoke of, business jealousy, doesn't seem quite adequate -unless it could be established that they had quarreled and that there -was a clear showing of enmity," suggested Fullerton, the lawyer. -</p> - -<p> -"You are quite right, and the man who prosecuted Avery admits it," the -governor answered. -</p> - -<p> -"There may have been a third man in the affair," suggested Ramsay, "and -I suppose the cynical must have suggested the usual woman in the case." -</p> - -<p> -"I dare say those possibilities were thrashed out at the time," the -governor replied; "but the only woman in this case is Avery's wife, and -she and Reynolds had never met. I have found nothing to sustain any -suspicion that there was a woman in the case. Avery's ostensible purpose -in asking Reynolds to visit him at that out-of-the-way place was merely -that they could discuss the combination of their quarry interests -privately, and close to Avery's plant. It seems that Avery had -undertaken the organization of a big company to take over a number of -quarries whose product was similar, and that he wished to confer -secretly with Reynolds to secure his sanction to a selling agreement -before the others he wanted to get into the combination heard of it. -That, of course, is perfectly plausible; I could make a good argument -justifying that. Reynolds, like many small capitalists in country towns, -had a number of irons in the fire and had done some promoting on his own -hook. All the financial genius and all the financial crookedness aren't -confined to Wall Street, though I forget that sometimes when I'm on the -stump! I'm disposed to think from what I've learned of both of them that -Avery wasn't likely to put anything over on Reynolds, who was no child -in business matters. And there was nothing to show that Avery had got -him down there for any other purpose than to effect a merger of quarry -interests for their mutual benefit." -</p> - -<p> -"There probably were papers to substantiate that," suggested Fullerton; -"correspondence and that sort of thing." -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly; I have gone into that," the governor replied. "All the -papers remain in the office of the prosecuting attorney, and I have -examined them carefully. Now, if Avery had been able to throw suspicion -on some one else you'd think he'd have done so. And if there had been a -third person at the bungalow that night you'd imagine that Avery would -have said so; it's not in human nature for one man to take the blame for -another's crime, and yet we do hear of such things, and I have read -novels and seen plays built upon that idea. But here is Avery with -fifteen years more to serve, and, if he's been bearing the burden and -suffering the penalty of another's, sin, I must say that he's taking it -all in an amazing spirit of self-sacrifice." -</p> - -<p> -"Of course," said Fullerton, "Reynolds may have had an enemy who -followed him there and lay in wait for him. Or Avery may have connived -at the crime without being really the assailant. That is conceivable." -</p> - -<p> -"We'll change the subject for a moment," said the governor, "and return -to our muttons later." -</p> - -<p> -He spoke in a low tone to Burgess, who looked at his watch and answered -audibly: -</p> - -<p> -"We have half an hour more." -</p> - -<p> -The governor nodded and, with a whimsical smile, began turning over the -tablets. -</p> - -<p> -"These pads were placed before you for a purpose which I will now -explain. I apologize, for taking advantage of you, but you will pardon -me, I'm sure, when I tell you my reason. I've dipped into psychology -lately with a view to learning something of the mind's eccentricities. -We all do things constantly without conscious effort, as you know; we -perform acts automatically without the slightest idea that we are doing -them. At meetings of our State boards I've noticed that nobody ever uses -the pads that are always provided except to scribble on. Many people -have that habit of scribbling on anything that's handy. Hotel keepers, -knowing this, provide pads of paper ostensibly for memoranda that guests -may want to make while at the telephone, but really to keep them from -defacing the wall. Left alone with pencil and paper, most of us will -scribble something or draw meaningless figures. -</p> - -<p> -"Sometimes it's indicative of a deliberate turn of mind; again it's -sheer nervousness. After I had discussed this with a well-known -psychologist I began watching myself and found that I made a succession -of figure eights looped together in a certain way—I've been doing it -here! -</p> - -<p> -"And now," he went on with a chuckle, "you gentlemen have been indulging -this same propensity as you listened to me. I find on one pad the word -Napoleon written twenty times with a lot of flourishes; another has -traced a dozen profiles of a man with a bulbous nose: it is the same -gentleman, I find, who honored me by drawing me with a triple -chin—for which I thank him. And here's what looks like a dog -kennel repeated down the sheet. Still another has sketched the American -flag all over the page. If the patriotic gentleman who drew the flag -will make himself known, I should like to ask him whether he's conscious -of having done that before?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm guilty, governor," Fullerton responded. "I believe it is a habit of -mine. I've caught myself doing it scores of times." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm responsible for the man with the fat nose," confessed Colton; "I've -been drawing him for years without ever improving my draftsmanship." -</p> - -<p> -"That will do," said the governor, glancing at the door. "We won't take -time to speak of the others, though you may be relieved to know that I -haven't got any evidence against you. Burgess, please get these works of -art out of the room. We'll go back to the Avery case. In going over the -papers I found that the prosecuting attorney in his search of the -bungalow the morning after the murder found a number of pieces of paper -that bore an odd, irregular sort of sketch. I'm going to pass one of -them round, but please send it back to me immediately." -</p> - -<p> -He produced a sheet of letter paper that bore traces of hasty crumpling -but had been smoothed out again, and held it up. It bore the -lithographed name of the Avery Quarry Company. On it was drawn this -device: -</p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50px;"> -<img src="images/figure09.jpg" width="50" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p> -"Please note," said the governor as the paper passed from hand to hand, -"that same device is traced there five times, sometimes more irregularly -than others, but the general form is the same. Now, in the fireplace of -the bungalow living-room they found this and three other sheets of the -same stationery that bore this same figure. It seems a fair assumption -that someone sitting at a table had amused himself by sketching these -outlines and then, when he had filled the sheet, tore it off and threw -it into the fireplace, wholly unconscious of what he was doing. The -prosecutor attached no importance to these sheets, and it was only by -chance that they were stuck away in the file box with the other -documents in the case." -</p> - -<p> -"Then you suspect that there was a third man in the bungalow that -night?" Ramsay asked. -</p> - -<p> -The governor nodded gravely. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes; I have some little proof of it, quite a bit of proof, in fact. I -have even had the wastebasket of the suspect examined for a considerable -period. Knowing Burgess's interest in such matters, I have been using -him to get me certain information I very much wanted. And our friend is -a very successful person! I wanted to see the man I have in mind and -study him a little when he was off-guard, and Burgess has arranged that -for me, though he had to go into the tile business to do it! As you can -readily see, I could hardly drag him to my office, so this little party -was gotten up to give me a chance to look him over at leisure." -</p> - -<p> -"Tate!" exclaimed several of the men. -</p> - -<p> -"You can see that this is a very delicate matter," said the governor -slowly. "Burgess thought it better not to have a smaller party, as Tate, -whom I never saw, might think it a frame-up. So you see we are using you -as stool-pigeons, so to speak. Burgess vouches for you as men of -discretion and tact; and it will be your business to keep Tate amused -and his attention away from me while I observe him a little." -</p> - -<p> -"And when I give the signal you're to go into the library and look at -picture books," Burgess added. -</p> - -<p> -"That's not fair!" said Fullerton. "We want to see the end of it!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm so nervous," said Colton, "I'm likely to scream at any minute!" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't do it!" Burgess admonished. "The new House Committee is very -touchy about noise in the private dining-rooms, and besides I've got a -lot of scenery set for the rest of the evening, and I don't want you -fellows to spoil it." -</p> - -<p> -"It begins to look," remarked the governor, glancing at his watch, "as -though some of our scenery might have got lost." -</p> - -<p> -"He'd hardly bolt," Burgess replied; "he knows of no reason why he -should! I told the doorman to send him right up. When he comes there -will be no more references to the Avery case: you all understand?" -</p> - -<p> -They murmured their acquiescence, and a solemn hush fell upon them as -they turned involuntarily toward the vacant chair. -</p> - -<p> -"This will never do!" exclaimed the governor, who seemed to be the one -tranquil person in the room. "We must be telling stories and giving an -imitation of weary business men having a jolly time. But I'm tired of -talking; some of the good story-tellers ought to be stirred up." -</p> - -<p> -With a little prodding Fullerton took the lead, but was able to win only -grudging laughter. Colton was trying his hand at diverting them when -they were startled by a knock. Burgess was at the door instantly and -flung it open. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -"Ah, Tate! Come right in; the party hasn't started yet!" -</p> - -<p> -The newcomer was a short, thick-set man, clean-shaven, with coarse dark -hair streaked with gray. The hand he gave the men in succession as they -gathered about him for Burgess's introduction was broad and heavy. He -offered it limply, with an air of embarrassment. -</p> - -<p> -"Governor Eastman, Mr. Tate; that's your seat by the governor, Tate," -said Burgess. "We were just listening to some old stories from some of -these fellows, so you haven't missed anything. I hope they didn't need -me at that tile meeting; I never attend night meetings: they spoil my -sleep, which my doctor says I've got to have." -</p> - -<p> -"Night meetings," said the Governor, "always give me a grouch the next -morning. A party like this doesn't, of course!" -</p> - -<p> -"Up in the country where I live we still stick to lodge meeting as an -excuse when we want a night off," Tate remarked. -</p> - -<p> -They laughed more loudly than was necessary to put him at ease. He -refused Burgess's offer of food and drink and when someone started a -political discussion they conspired to draw him into it. He was County -Chairman of the party not then in power and complained good-naturedly to -the governor of the big plurality Eastman had rolled up in the last -election. He talked slowly, with a kind of dogged emphasis, and it was -evident that politics was a subject to his taste. His brown eyes, they -were noting, were curiously large and full, with a bilious tinge in the -white. He met a glance steadily, with, indeed, an almost disconcerting -directness. -</p> - -<p> -Where the governor sat became, by imperceptible degrees, the head of the -table as he began seriously and frankly discussing the points of -difference between the existing parties, accompanied by clean-cut -characterizations of the great leaders. -</p> - -<p> -There was nothing to indicate that anything lay behind his talk; to all -appearances his auditors were absorbed in what he was saying. Tate had -accepted a cigar, which he did not light but kept twisting slowly in his -thick fingers. -</p> - -<p> -"We Democrats have had to change our minds about a good many things," -the governor was saying. "Of course we're not going back to Jefferson" -(he smiled broadly and waited for them to praise his magnanimity in -approaching so near to an impious admission), "but the world has spun -around a good many times since Jefferson's day. What I think we -Democrats do and do splendidly is to keep dose to the changing current -of public opinion; sometimes it seems likely to wash us down, as in the -free-silver days; but we give, probably without always realizing it, a -chance for the people to express themselves on new questions, and if -we've stood for some foolish policies at times the country's the better -for having passed on them. These great contests dear the air like a -storm, and we all go peacefully about our business afterward." -</p> - -<p> -As he continued they were all covertly watching Tate, who dropped his -cigar and began playing with the pencil before him, absently winding and -unwinding it upon the string that held it to the tablet. They were -feigning an absorption in the governor's recital which their quick, -nervous glances at Tate's hand belied. Burgess had pushed back his chair -to face the governor more comfortably and was tying knots in his napkin. -</p> - -<p> -Now and then Tate nodded solemnly in affirmation of something the -governor said, but without lifting his eyes from the pencil. His broad -shoulders were bent over the table, and the men about him were -reflecting that this was probably an attitude into which his heavy body -often relaxed when he was pondering deeply. -</p> - -<p> -Wearying of the pencil—a trifle of the dance-card variety—he -dropped it and drew his own from his waistcoat pocket. Then, after -looking up to join in a laugh at some indictment of Republicanism -expressed in droll terms by the governor, he drew the tablet closer and, -turning his head slightly to one side, drew a straight line. Burgess -frowned as several men changed position the better to watch him. The -silence deepened, and the governor's voice rose with a slight oratorical -ring. Through a half-open window floated the click of billiard balls in -the room below. The governor having come down to the Wilson -Administration, went back to Cleveland, whom he praised as a great -leader and a great president. In normal circumstances there would have -been interruptions and questions and an occasional gibe; and ordinarily -the governor, who was not noted for loquacity, would not have talked -twenty minutes at a stretch without giving an opportunity to his -companions to break in upon him. He was talking, as they all knew, to -give Tate time to draw the odd device which it was his habit to sketch -when deeply engrossed. -</p> - -<p> -The pencil continued to move over the paper; and from time to time Tate -turned the pad and scrutinized his work critically. The men immediately -about him watched his hand, wide-eyed, fascinated. There was something -uncanny and unreal in the situation: it was like watching a wild animal -approaching a trap and wholly unmindful of its danger. The square box -which formed the base of the device was traced clearly; the arcs which -were its familiar embellishment were carefully added. The governor, -having exhausted Cleveland, went back to Jackson, and Tate finished a -second drawing, absorbed in his work and rarely lifting his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Seeing that Tate had tired of this pastime, the governor brought his -lecture to an end, exclaiming: -</p> - -<p> -"Great Scott, Burgess! Why haven't you stopped me! I've said enough here -to ruin me with my party, and you hadn't the grace to shut me off." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm glad for one," said Tate, pushing back the pad, "that I got in time -to hear you; I've never known before that any Democrat could be so -broad-minded!" -</p> - -<p> -"The governor loosens up a good deal between campaigns," said Burgess, -rising. "And now, let's go into the library where the chairs are -easier." -</p> - -<p> -The governor rose with the others, but remained by his chair, talking to -Tate, until the room cleared, and then resumed his seat. -</p> - -<p> -"This is perfectly comfortable; let's stay here, Mr. Tate. Burgess, -close the door, will you." -</p> - -<p> -Tate, hesitated, looked at his watch, and glanced at Burgess, who sat -down as though wishing to humor the governor, and lighted a cigar. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Tate," said the governor unhurriedly, "if I'm not mistaken, you are -George Avery's brother-in-law." -</p> - -<p> -Tate turned quickly, and his eyes widened in surprise. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he answered in slow, even tones; "Avery married my sister." -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Tate, I have in my pocket a pardon all ready to sign, giving Avery -his liberty. His case has troubled me a good deal; I don't want to sign -this pardon unless I'm reasonably sure of Avery's innocence. If you were -in my place, Mr. Tate, would you sign it?" -</p> - -<p> -The color went out of the man's face and his jaw fell; but he recovered -himself quickly. -</p> - -<p> -"Of course, governor, it would be a relief to me, to my sister, all of -us, if you could see your way to pardoning George. As you know, I've -been doing what I could to bring pressure to bear on the Board of -Pardons: everything that seemed proper. Of course," he went on -ingratiatingly, "we've all felt the disgrace of the thing." -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Tate," the governor interrupted, "I have reason to believe that -there was a third man at Avery's bungalow the night Reynolds was killed. -I've been at some pains to satisfy myself of that. Did that ever occur -to you as a possibility?" -</p> - -<p> -"I suspected that all along," Tate answered, drawing his handkerchief -slowly across his face. "I never could believe George Avery guilty; he -wasn't that kind of man!" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't think he was myself," the governor replied. "Now, Mr. Tate, on -the night of the murder you were not at home, nor on the next day when -your sister called you on the long-distance telephone. You were in -Louisville, were you not?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, certainly; I was in Louisville." -</p> - -<p> -"As a matter of fact, Mr. Tate, you were not in Louisville! You were at -Avery's bungalow that night, and you left the quarry station on a -freight train that was sidetracked on the quarry switch to allow the -Chicago train to pass. You rode to Davos, which you reached at two -o'clock in the morning. There you registered under a false name at the -Gerber House, and went home the next evening pretending to have been at -Louisville. You are a bachelor, and live in rooms over your bank, and -there was no one to keep tab on your absences but your clerks, who -naturally thought nothing of your going to Louisville, where business -often takes you. You were there two days ago, I believe. But that has -nothing to do with this matter. When you heard that Reynolds was dead -and Avery under suspicion you answered your sister's summons and hurried -to Torrenceville." -</p> - -<p> -"I was in Louisville; I was in Louisville, I tell you!" Tate uttered the -words in convulsive gasps. He brushed the perspiration from his forehead -impatiently and half rose. -</p> - -<p> -"Please sit down, Mr. Tate. You had had trouble a little while before -that with Reynolds about some stock in a creamery concern in your county -that he promoted. You thought he had tricked you, and very possibly he -had. The creamery business had resulted in a bitter hostility between -you: it had gone to such an extent that he had refused to see you again -to discuss the matter. You brooded over that until you were not quite -sane where Reynolds was concerned: I'll give you the benefit of that. -You asked your brother-in-law to tell you when Reynolds was going to see -him, and he obligingly consented. We will assume that Avery, a good -fellow and anxious to aid you, made a meeting possible. Reynolds wasn't -to know that you were to be at the bungalow—he wouldn't have gone -if he had known it—and Avery risked the success of his own -negotiations by introducing you into his house, out of sheer good will -and friendship. You sat at a table in the bungalow living-room and -discussed the matter. Some of these things only I have guessed at; the -rest of it——" -</p> - -<p> -"It's a lie; it's all a damned lie! This was a scheme to get me here: -you and Burgess have set this up on me! I tell you I wasn't at the -quarry; I never saw Reynolds there that night or any other time. My God, -if I had been there,—if Avery could have put it on me, would he be -doing time for it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not necessarily, Mr. Tate. Let us go back a little. It had been in your -power once to do Avery a great favor, a very great favor. That's true, -isn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -Tate stared, clearly surprised, but his quivering lips framed no answer. -</p> - -<p> -"You had known him from boyhood, and shortly after his marriage to your -sister it had been in your power to do him a great favor; you had helped -him out of a hole and saved the quarry for him. It cost me considerable -money to find that out, Mr. Tate, and not a word of help have I had from -Avery: be sure of that! He had been guilty of something just a little -irregular—in fact, the forging of your name to a note—and you -had dealt generously with him, out of your old-time friendship, we will -say, or to spare your sister humiliation." -</p> - -<p> -"George was in a corner," said Tate weakly but with manifest relief at -the turn of the talk. "He squared it all long ago." -</p> - -<p> -"It's natural, in fact, instinctive, for a man to protect himself, to -exhaust all the possibilities of defense when the law lays its hand upon -him. Avery did not do so, and his meek submission counted heavily -against him. But let us consider that a little. You and Reynolds left -the bungalow together, probably after the interview had added to your -wrath against him, but you wished to renew the talk out of Avery's -hearing and volunteered to guide Reynolds to the station where the -Chicago train was to stop for him. You didn't go back, Mr. -Tate——" -</p> - -<p> -"Good God, I tell you I wasn't there! I can prove that I was in -Louisville; I tell you——" -</p> - -<p> -"We're coming bade to your alibi in a moment," said the governor -patiently. "We will assume—merely assume for the moment—that -you said you would take the train with Reynolds and ride as far as -Ashton, where the Midland crosses and you would get an early morning -train home. Avery went to sleep at the bungalow wholly ignorant of what -had happened; he was awakened in the morning with news that Reynolds had -been killed by blows on the head inflicted near the big derrick where -you and Reynolds—I am assuming again—had stopped to argue -your grievances. Avery—shocked, dazed, not comprehending his -danger and lying there in the bungalow prostrated and half-crazed by the -horror of the thing—waited: waited for the prompt help he expected -from the only living person who knew that he had not left the bungalow. -He knew you only as a kind, helpful friend, and I dare say at first he -never suspected you! It was the last thing in the world he would have -attributed to you, and the possibility of it was slow to enter his -anxious, perturbed mind. He had every reason for sitting tight in those -first hideous hours, confident that the third man at that bungalow -gathering would come forward and establish his innocence with a word. As -is the way in such cases, efforts were made to fix guilt upon others; -but Avery, your friend, the man you had saved once, in a fine spirit of -magnanimity, waited for you to say the word that would dear him. But you -never said that word, Mr. Tate. You took advantage of his silence; a -silence due, we will say, to shock and horror at the catastrophe and to -his reluctance to believe you guilty of so monstrous a crime or capable -of allowing him, an innocent man, to suffer the penalty for it." -</p> - -<p> -Tate's big eyes were bent dully upon the governor. He averted his gaze -slowly and reached for a glass of water, but his hand shook so that he -could not lift it, and he glared at it as though it were a hateful -thing. -</p> - -<p> -"I wasn't there! Why——" he began with an effort at bravado; -but the words choked him and he sat swinging his head from side to side -and breathing heavily. -</p> - -<p> -The governor went on in the same low, even tone he had used from the -beginning: -</p> - -<p> -"When Avery came to himself and you still were silent, he doubtless saw -that, having arranged for you to meet Reynolds at the -bungalow—Reynolds, who had been avoiding you—he had put -himself in the position of an accessory before the fact and that even if -he told the truth about your being there he would only be drawing you -into the net without wholly freeing himself. At best it was an ugly -business, and being an intelligent man he knew it. I gather that you are -a secretive man by nature; the people who know you well in your own town -say that of you. No one knew that you had gone there and the burden of -the whole thing was upon Avery. And your tracks were so completely -hidden: you had been at such pains to sneak down there to take advantage -of the chance Avery made for you to see Reynolds and have it out with -him about the creamery business, that suspicion never attached to you. -You knew Avery as a good fellow, a little weak, perhaps, as you learned -from that forgery of your name ten years earlier; and it would have been -his word against yours. I'll say to you, Mr. Tate, that I've lain awake -nights thinking about this case, and I know of nothing more pitiful, my -imagination can conjure nothing more horrible, than the silent suffering -of George Avery as he waited for you to go to his rescue, knowing that -you alone could save him." -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't do it, I didn't do it!" Tate reiterated in a hoarse whisper -that died away with a queer guttural sound in his throat. -</p> - -<p> -"And now about your alibi, Mr. Tate: the alibi that you were never even -called on to establish." The governor reached for the tablet and held it -before the man's eyes, which focused upon it slowly, uncomprehendingly. -"Now," said the governor, "you can hardly deny that you drew that -sketch, for I saw you do it with my own eyes. I'm going to ask you, Mr. -Tate, whether this drawing isn't also your work?" -</p> - -<p> -He drew out the sheet of paper he had shown the others earlier in the -evening and placed it beside the tablet. Tate jumped to his feet, -staring wild-eyed, and a groan escaped him. The governor caught his arm -and pushed him bade into his chair. -</p> - -<p> -"You will see that is Avery's letterhead that was used in the quarry -office. As you talked there with Reynolds that night you played with a -pencil as you did here a little while ago and without realizing it you -were creating evidence against yourself that was all I needed to -convince me absolutely of your guilt. I have three other sheets of -Avery's paper bearing the same figure that you drew that night at the -quarry office; and I have others collected in your own office within a -week! As you may be aware, the power of habit is very strong. For years, -no doubt, your subconsciousness has carried that device, and in moments -of deep abstraction with wholly unrelated things your hand has traced -it. Even the irregularities in the outline are identical, and the size -and shading are precisely the same. I ask you again, Mr. Tate, shall I -sign the pardon I brought here in my pocket and free George Avery?" -</p> - -<p> -The sweat dripped from Tate's forehead and trickled down his cheeks in -little streams that shone in the light. His collar had wilted at the -fold, and he ran his finger round his neck to loosen it. Once, twice, he -lifted his head defiantly, but, meeting the governor's eyes fixed upon -him relentlessly, his gaze wavered. He thrust his hand under his coat -and drew out his pencil and then, finding it in his fingers, flung it -away, and his shoulders drooped lower. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Burgess stood by the window with his back to them. The governor spoke to -him, and he nodded and left the room. In a moment he returned with two -men and dosed the door quickly. -</p> - -<p> -"Hello, warden; sit down a moment, will you?" -</p> - -<p> -The governor turned to a tall, slender man whose intense pallor was -heightened by the brightness of his oddly staring blue eyes. He advanced -slowly. His manner was that of a blind man moving cautiously in an -unfamiliar room. The governor smiled reassuringly into his white, -impassive face. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Avery," he said. He rose and took Avery -by the hand. -</p> - -<p> -At the name Tate's head went up with a jerk. His chair creaked -discordantly as he turned, looked up into the masklike face behind him, -and then the breath went out of him with a sharp, whistling sound as -when a man dies, and he lunged forward with his arms flung out upon the -table. -</p> - -<p> -The governor's grip tightened upon Avery's hand; there was something of -awe in his tone when he spoke. -</p> - -<p> -"You needn't be afraid, Avery," he said. "My way of doing this is a -little hard, I know, but it seemed the only way. I want you to tell me," -he went on slowly, "whether Tate was at the bungalow the night Reynolds -was killed. He <i>was</i> there, wasn't he?" -</p> - -<p> -Avery wavered, steadied himself with an effort, and slowly shook his -head. The governor repeated his question in a tone so low that Burgess -and the warden, waiting at the window, barely heard. A third time he -asked the question. Avery's mouth opened, but he only wet his lips with -a quick, nervous movement of the tongue, and his eyes met the governor's -unseeingly. -</p> - -<p> -The governor turned from him slowly, and his left hand fell upon Tate's -shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -"If you are not guilty, Tate, now is the time for you to speak. I want -you to say so before Avery; that's what I've brought him here for. I -don't want to make a mistake. If you say you believe Avery to be guilty, -I will not sign his pardon." -</p> - -<p> -He waited, watching Tate's hands as they opened and shut weakly; they -seemed, as they lay inert upon the table, to be utterly dissociated from -him, the hands of an automaton whose mechanism worked imperfectly. A -sob, deep, hoarse, pitiful, shook his burly form. -</p> - -<p> -The governor sat down, took a bundle of papers from his pocket, slipped -one from under the rubber band which snapped back sharply into place. He -drew out a pen, tested the point carefully, then, steadying it with his -left hand, wrote his name. -</p> - -<p> -"Warden," he said, waving the paper to dry the ink, "thank you for your -trouble. You will have to go home alone. Avery is free." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -When Burgess appeared at the bank at ten o'clock the next morning he -found his friends of the night before established in the directors' room -waiting for him. They greeted him without their usual chaff, and he -merely nodded to all comprehendingly and seated himself on the table. -</p> - -<p> -"We don't want to bother you, Web," said Colton, "but I guess we'd all -feel better if we knew what happened after we left you last night. I -hope you don't mind." -</p> - -<p> -Burgess frowned and shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -"You ought to thank God you didn't have to see the rest of it! I've got -a reservation on the Limited tonight: going down to the big city in the -hope of getting it out of my mind." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, we know only what the papers printed this morning," said Ramsay; -"a very brief paragraph saying that Avery had been pardoned. The papers -don't tell the story of his crime as they usually do, and we noticed -that they refrained from saying that the pardon was signed at one of -your dinner parties." -</p> - -<p> -"I fixed the newspapers at the governor's request. He didn't want any -row made about it, and neither did I, for that matter. Avery is at my -house. His wife was there waiting for him when I took him home." -</p> - -<p> -"We rather expected that," said Colton, "as we were planted at the -library windows when you left the club. But about the other man: that's -what's troubling us." -</p> - -<p> -"Um," said Burgess, crossing his legs and clasping his knees. "<i>That</i> -was the particular hell of it." -</p> - -<p> -"Tate was guilty; we assume that of course," suggested Fullerton. "We -all saw him signing his death warrant right there at the table." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Burgess replied gravely, "and he virtually admitted it; but if -God lets me live I hope never to see anything like that again!" -</p> - -<p> -He jumped down and took a turn across the room. -</p> - -<p> -"And now—— After that, Web?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, it won't take long to tell it. After the governor signed the -pardon I told the warden to take Avery downstairs and get him a drink: -the poor devil was all in. And then Tate came to, blubbering like the -vile coward he is, and began pleading for mercy: on his knees, mind you; -on his <i>knees!</i> God! It was horrible—horrible beyond anything -I ever dreamed of—to see him groveling there. I supposed, of -course, the governor would turn him over to the police. I was all primed -for that, and Tate expected it and bawled like a sick calf. But what he -said was—what the governor said was, and he said it the way they -say 'dust to dust' over a grave—'You poor fool, for such beasts as -you the commonwealth has no punishment that wouldn't lighten the load -you've got to carry around with you till you die!' That's all there was -of it! That's exactly what he said, and can you beat it? I got a room -for Tate at the club, and told one of the Japs to put him to bed." "But -the governor had no right," began Ramsay eagerly; "he had no -<i>right</i>——" "The king can do no wrong! And, if you -fellows don't mind, the incident is dosed, and we'll never speak of it -again." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_5_1" id="Footnote_5_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_1"><span class="label">[5]</span></a><i>From Best Laid Schemes, Copyright, 1919, 1922, by -Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publisher.</i></p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/figure10.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -<div class="caption"> -<p class="center">H. C. WITWER</p> -</div></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>FOREWORD</i></h4> - -<p> -<i>I have selected "Money to Burns" as my best effort because the -situations and characters in that story appealed to me more than any -others I've created in some three hundred odd yarns. The "gold-digging" -young lady of the chorus, the super-sophisticated bellboy with his -hard-boiled philosophy, and the beautiful, cynical Goddess of the -Switchboard, are all familiars of mine. Intimate with their habits, -characteristics, mannerisms and vocabulary, I had only to create a -central plot and push them bodily into it. After that, writing the story -was merely a case of conscientious reporting—it almost wrote -itself!</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>The genesis of "Money to Burns" was some envious remarks of a bellboy -in discussing the sensational escapades of a certain young millionaire. -The boy, bringing ice water to my room in a hotel, pointed to the -glaring headlines in a newspaper that told of the gilded youth's latest -adventure, and bitterly bemoaned the fate that made him a bellboy and -the other a millionaire. He discoursed on what he would do were he the -possessor of wealth, etc. I encouraged his conversation, with a story -forming itself before my eyes. When he left the room I put his -counterpart on paper, gave him wealth, added the other characters and -necessary embellishments, carved out the title which I hoped would -attract the reader's interest and—there you are!</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>As to how I work—one word pretty well covers that question. The -word is "HARD!" I try to get interesting characters and titles first of -all; after that, plots. The characters are always people I know well. -The plots may come from any source—things that have happened to -me, a chance remark of some individual, a newspaper headline, an -adventure I would relish having myself, etc.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>To a beginner I would advise a thorough reading of the popular -magazines, a shot at the newspaper game if possible, plenty of clean -white paper and a resolution to take lots of punishment. Thais all I -would presume to advise—and I may have given an overdose -already!</i> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/figure04.jpg" width="150" height="70" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap06"></a></h4> - -<h4>MONEY TO BURNS<a name="FNanchor_6_1" id="FNanchor_6_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_1" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> -<br /><br /> -By H. C. WITWER</h4> - -<p> -"<i>When fortune favors a man too much, she makes him a fool!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -Neither Napoleon, Nero, Alexander, Jack Johnson, Mark Antony nor Bill -Hohenzollern was the composer of that remark, though, honest, I bet they -all <i>thought</i> it about the time the world was giving them the air. -However, the boy who originally pulled the above wise crack was Mr. -Publius Syrus, a master mind current in dear old Syria during the fiscal -year of 77 B.C. Two thousand annums after Publius gave up the struggle, -Jimmy Burns, a professional bellhop—age, twenty; color, white; -nationality, Broadway-American—decided to find out for himself -whether or not Pubby's statement was true. It is! Loll back in the old -easy chair for about approximately a half-hour and I'll do my stuff. -Perhaps you don't know me, as Eve coyly remarked to Adam, so taking -advantage of your good nature I'll introduce myself. I'm Gladys -Murgatroyd, a switchboard operator at the Hotel St. Moe. I was slipped -into the cradle under the name of Mary Ellen Johnson, but as that smacks -more of the kitchen than the drawing-room, I changed that label some -time ago to the Gladys Murgatroyd thing, which I admit sounds -phony—still, I'm a phone girl, so what could be sweeter? -</p> - -<p> -However, one morning during a slight lull in the daily hostilities -between me and the number-seeking guests, I am reading my favorite -book—the <i>Morning Squawk</i>, the newspaper that made the -expression "It is alleged" famous, or maybe it was the other way around. -Spattered all over the front page is a highly sensational account of the -latest adventures of one of these modern prodigal sons—in round -numbers, Carlton Van Ryker, whose father celebrated his ninety-fifth -birthday by entering a tomb in a horizontal position and leaving his -only progeny two paltry $500,000 bank notes. The young millionaire with -the name like a Pullman car and a soft collar had been stepping high, -wide and fast with his pennies and at the time of going to press was the -plot of an "alienation of my wife's affections" suit, a badly mismanaged -shooting affair, and various other things that would keep his mind off -the weather for quite a spell. While I'm drinking all this in with my -lustrous orbs, along comes Mons. James Joseph Aloysius Burns, who was -either the hero of this episode in my exciting career, or else he -wasn't. -</p> - -<p> -Although I've known Jimmy Burns for the worst part of two years, we're -still good friends, both of us being refugees from the land of Utah. My -home town was the metropolis of Bountiful, where I once won a beauty -contest single-handed, and James fled from Salt Lake City, where smoking -cigarettes is the same as throwing rocks at the President, in the eyes -of the genial authorities. -</p> - -<p> -But to get to the business of the meeting—Jimmy sported a sarcastical -sneer as he approached my switchboard on this particular morning. -</p> - -<p> -"Kin you feature a cuckoo like this dizzy Van Ryker havin' all that -sugar," he snorts, nodding angrily at the newspaper, "whilst us regular -white folks is got to slave like Uncle Tom or we don't eat? Is that -fair?" -</p> - -<p> -"Cheer up, Jimmy," I says with a smile. "We don't get much money, that's -a fact, but then we can laugh out loud. That's more than Van Ryker can -do! Look at the pushing around he's getting because he hauled oil and -inherited a million, poor fellow; he——" -</p> - -<p> -"That mug was ru'ned by too much jack!" butts in Jimmy. "He's what you -call a weak sister. He wasn't <i>built</i> to handle important -money—you got to be <i>born</i> that way! Knowin' how to spend -money is a gift. <i>I</i> got the gift, but I ain't got the money!" -</p> - -<p> -"And you never <i>will</i> have the money, frittering away your life -hopping bells in a hotel, Jamesy—not to give you a short answer," -I says. "When they assembled you they left out the -motor—<i>ambition!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -"Blah!" says Jimmy courteously. "That's what <i>you</i> think. I got plenty -ambition. My ambition is to wake up every morning for the rest of my -life with a twenty-dollar bill in my kick! Believe me, Cutey, I often -wish I was a Wall Street bond messenger, a bootlegger or even a -professional reformer—but I ain't never had a shot at no <i>big</i> -dough like that. Why, if it was rainin' tomato bouillon, I'd be there with -a knife instead of a spoon!" -</p> - -<p> -"As if <i>that</i> would stop you!" I remark sweetly. I once saw James eat. -"It seems to me you're always craving excitement," I went on, dealing -out some wrong numbers. "Only last week you told me you had a massage." -</p> - -<p> -"Go ahead and kid me," says Jimmy. "<i>You</i> should bite your -nails—you're a woman, a good looker with more curves than a scenic -railway, and they ain't no way <i>you</i> kin lose! But it's different -<i>here.</i> It seems to me I beep workin' for a livin' since the doc -says 'It's a boy!' and the chances is I'll be workin' for a livin' till -the doc says 'Get the embalmer'!" -</p> - -<p> -Don't you love that? -</p> - -<p> -"Why don't you check out of the bell-hopping game and try your luck at -something with a future in it?" I ask him, though, really, I'm about as -interested in Jimmy's biography as I am in the election returns at -Tokyo. "If <i>I</i> was a man, this town wouldn't have <i>me</i> licked!" -</p> - -<p> -"Apple sauce!" sneers Jimmy politely. "A guy without money has got the -same chance in New York as a ferryboat salesman would have on the Sara -Desert. It takes jack to make jack. With a bank roll I could make -<i>my</i> name as well known as Jonah's, and I'd spot him his whale!" -</p> - -<p> -"What do you <i>do</i> with your nickels?" I ask him. "I don't doubt -that Chaplin and Fairbanks get more <i>wages</i> than you bellboys, but -I thought your <i>tips</i> ran into better figures than they have in the -Follies." -</p> - -<p> -"Say, cutey, be yourself!" says James scornfully. "Most of the eggs in -this trap is as tight as the skin on a grape—they wouldn't give a -thin dime to see Tut-ankh-Amen walk up Fifth Avenoo on his hands! I -could be railroaded to Sing Sing for what I think of <i>them</i> babies. -Why should <i>I</i> have to carry suitcases and hustle ice water for a -lot of monkeys like that?" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't put on dog, Jimmy," I smile. "The guests of the St. Moe are every -bit as good as you are, even if you <i>are</i> a haughty bellhop and -they are lowly millionaires. Suppose <i>you</i> had a million, what -would you do with it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well," says Jimmy thoughtfully, "the first thing I'd do wouldst be to -get me a education—not that I'm no dumb Isaac by no means, but -they's a few lessons like algeometry, matriculation, mock geography and -the like which I could use. <i>I</i> wouldn't get all tangled up with no -wild women or pull none of the raw stuff which this Van Ryker jobbie -done, that's a cinch! They'd be no horseplay what the so ever, as far as -<i>I</i> was concerned. What <i>I'd</i> do wouldst be to crash into some -business, make my pile and my name and not do no playin' around till I -was about fifty and independent for life. Ain't it a crime when I got -them kind of intentions to make good and no nonsense about it, that -somebody don't slip me a million?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's an outrage, Jimmy," I agree, allowing a giggle to break jail. -"Still, all men are born equal and if it's actually possible that you -<i>haven't</i> got a million, why, you must have thrown your chances away. -When Eddie Windsor was your age, for instance, he had made himself -Prince of Wales!" -</p> - -<p> -"Me and him begin life in a different type of cradle!" says Jimmy. "And -that stuff about everybody bein' equal when they're born is the oyster's -ice skates. The only way me and them wealthy millionaires was even at -birth is that we was all babies!" -</p> - -<p> -This debate between me and Jimmy was about like Adam and a monkey -arguing over which of 'em was our first ancestor—we could have found -plenty of people to side with both of us. Then again, the customers was -beginning to snap into it for the day and craved the voice with the -smile. I got as busy at the switchboard as a custard pie salesman on a -movie comedy lot, so I gave the money-mad James the air for the time -being. -</p> - -<p> -A couple of weeks later, or maybe it was a jolly old fortnight, Hon. Guy -Austin Tower returns from a voyage to Europe, and then the fun began! -Maybe you all haven't had the unusual pleasure of meeting my boy friend, -so with your kind permission I'll introduce him. -</p> - -<p> -This handsome young metropolitan sheik is a millionaire of the first -water, a full-blooded playwright, one of my wildest admirers, and a -guest at the Hotel St. Moe. Guy would be a face card in any deck—he's -a real fellow, no fooling. Even the parboiled Jimmy Burns, who thinks -everybody guilty till proved innocent, is one of Guy's fans. Guy just -sprays Jimmy and the rest of the hired help with princely tips and -doesn't dime them to death, as most of the other inmates do. -</p> - -<p> -Like Carlton Van Ryker, Guy was left about everything but Lake Michigan -when his male parent entered the obituary column, but <i>unlike</i> Van -Ryker, Guy didn't let his millions make him a clown. He wanted to carve -his own way on our popular planet, so he simply forgot about his -warehouse full of doubloons and took up the trade of writing plays. As -he's got two frolics running on Broadway now, you could hardly call him -a bust. -</p> - -<p> -Well, when Guy came back from overseas he got a welcome from the St. Moe -staff that would have tickled a political boss. Honestly, he brought -something back for everybody! What he brought back for me was some -perfectly gorgeous Venetian lace and his sixty-fifth request that I -renounce the frivolous pleasures of the telephone switchboard and enter -matrimony. -</p> - -<p> -I accepted the lace, which drove my girl friend, Hazel Killian, wild -with envy, but on the wedding bells I claimed exemption. I like Guy, but -I'm by no means in love with him—or with anyone else! From what I've -been able to observe on my perch at the St. Moe switchboard, there's a -bit too much "moan" in matrimony, and, really, I get no more thrill out -of contemplating marriage than Noah would get out of contemplating -Niagara Falls. I've seen too much of it! I do get a kick, though, out of -my daily struggle to remain a campfire girl and still keep from dying of -too little fun. The swarming lobby of any costly Gotham hotel is the -favorite hunting grounds of snips that pass in the night, always looking -for the best of it—lounge lizards, synthetic sheiks of all ages and -others too humorous to mention. Any young, well dressed member of my -much advertised sex who doesn't resemble a gorilla is their legitimate -prey, and trying to discourage 'em is like trying to discourage the -anti-drys. But I got their number—being a phone girl, that's my job, -isn't it? I meet five hundred representatives of the sillier sex every -day, and it's a hobby of mine to treat 'em all with equal chilly -politeness till they get out of line. Then I turn off the politeness, just -giving 'em the chill, and honest, when I want to be cold—which is -generally—I'd turn a four-alarm fire into an iceberg with a glance! -</p> - -<p> -However, there are a lot of yawns connected with plugging a telephone -switchboard day by day in every way, and now and then a male will come -along sufficiently interesting for little Gladys to accept temporarily -as an accomplice in the assassination of time. -</p> - -<p> -Dinners, dances, theaters, this and that—nothing my mother and I -couldn't laugh over, so don't curl your lip! -</p> - -<p> -Well, Guy Tower hadn't been back in the St. Moe a week when he began -showering attentions on me from the point where he left off before he -sailed away. Honestly, he dinnered and theatered me silly! Hazel Killian -watched me carelessly toy with this good-looking young gold mine with -unconcealed feelings of covetousness. She simply couldn't understand why -I didn't grab this boon from Heaven and marry him while he was stupefied -with my charms. Hazel, who is an artists' model and no eyesore herself, -is suffering from a lifelong ambition to become a bird in a gilded cage. -She craves a millionaire, and in desperation she offered to match coins -with me for Guy, but I indignantly refused. I <i>know</i> Hazel—she's -a dear, but she'd have Rockefeller penniless in a month and every shop on -Fifth Avenue sporting a "Closed to Restock" sign. She's just a pretty -baby who loves to go buy and she makes 'em give till it hurts, don't -think she doesn't! -</p> - -<p> -Another person who got upset over Guy's inability to keep away from me -was Jerry Murphy, house sleuth at the St. Moe. Jerry's so big that if he -had numbers on him he'd look like a box car, and he's just another male -I can get all dizzied up with a properly manipulated eye and smile. -Really, he's not a bad fellow, but as a detective he's a blank -cartridge. He couldn't catch pneumonia if it was against the law not to -have it. Jerry don't know what it's all about and never will, because -he's too thick between the ears to ask and nobody will tell him. He -hangs around my switchboard like a hungry collie around a kitchen and -he's just as eager; but I'm not collecting losers, so Jerry's -meaningless to <i>me.</i> My bounding around with Guy fills Jerry with pain -and alarm and he keeps me supplied with laughs by constantly warning me -of the pitfalls and temptations that surround a little telephone girl -who steps out with a millionaire. "If 'at big mock orange makes one -out-of-the-way crack to you, cutey, just tip me off and I'll <i>ruin</i> -him!" says Jerry with a menacing growl. "I can't cuddle up to the idea -of you goin' out with him all the time. Don't let him go to work and -lure you somewheres away from easy callin' distance of help!" -</p> - -<p> -"Cut yourself a piece of cake!" I says. "Mister Tower is a perfect -gentleman, Jerry, and it would be impossible for him to act like -anything else if he and I were alone on an island in the middle of the -Pacific." -</p> - -<p> -"Say, listen, cutey,'" says Jerry, wincing, "don't mention 'at -alone-on-a-island stuff in my presence! 'At's what I been dreamin' about -me and you for a year. If we ever get on a ship together, I'll wreck it -as sure as you're born!" -</p> - -<p> -Now, isn't he a scream? -</p> - -<p> -Well, at one of our dinner dates about a month after his return, Guy -shows up haggard and wan and apparently all in. Generally a fellow who -couldn't do enough for his stomach, he ordered this night with the -enthusiasm of a steak fiend week-ending at a vegetarian friend's. When -the nourishment arrived, Guy just dallied and toyed with it. Afterwards -we favored the dance floor with a visit, and instead of tripping his -usual wicked ballroom he acted like he had an anvil in each of his -pumps. A dozen times during the evening he had to tap back a yawn, and -really I began to get steamed up. I'm not used to seeing my boy friends -pass out on me! -</p> - -<p> -"I hope I'm not keeping you awake, Mr. Tower," I remarked frigidly as we -returned to our table and the nineteenth yawn slipped right through his -fingers, in spite of his well meant attempt to push it back. -</p> - -<p> -"Forgive me!" says Guy quickly, and a flush brings some color to his -face for the first time that night. "I—the fact is, Gladys, I don't -believe I've had a dozen hours' sleep in the past week!" -</p> - -<p> -"Then you've been cheating," I smile, "for you've always left me around -midnight. Is she a blonde or a brunette, or have you noticed?" -</p> - -<p> -Guy laughs and, leaning over, pats my hand. -</p> - -<p> -"As if I would ever notice <i>any</i> girl but you!" he says, getting -daringly original. "Oh, it isn't a girl, Gladys—though there -<i>is</i> a woman at the bottom of the thing, at that. I'll explain that -paradoxical statement. Rosenblum wants my next play to open his new -Thalia Theater, which will be completed within two months—and I -haven't the ghost of an idea, not the semblance of a plot! I've paced -the floor like a caged animal, smoking countless cigarettes and drinking -oceans of black coffee. I've written steadily for hours at a stretch and -then torn the whole business up in disgust. That's what's kept me awake -at night—that and my daily battles with this infernal Rosenblum!" -</p> - -<p> -"How come?" I ask him in surprise. "I don't see the percentage in -battling with the man who puts your plays on Broadway, Guy." -</p> - -<p> -"He wants me to write a risquĂ© farce, one of those -loathsome—er—pardon me—bedroom things for Yvette D'Lys," -says Guy angrily, "and I ab-so-lute-ly will not do it! I refuse to -prostitute my art for the sordid box office! I——" -</p> - -<p> -"Hold everything!" I butt in. "Shakespeare wasn't below writing bedroom -farces, and I think even <i>you'll</i> admit that he got some favorable -mention as a playwright." -</p> - -<p> -"Shakespeare write a bedroom farce!" gasps Guy. "Why, my dear girl, -you—which of his marvelous plays could you <i>possibly</i> twist -into that?" -</p> - -<p> -"Othello," I says promptly. "In act five they clown all over the -boudoir! You should go to the theater oftener." -</p> - -<p> -For a second Guy looks puzzled, then he grins and the lines around his -navy-blue eyes relax. -</p> - -<p> -"You are delightful," he says. "If I cannot get mental stimulus from -<i>you</i>, then I am indeed uninspired! Nevertheless, I am not going to do -as Rosenblum requests. I have never written anything salacious or even -suggestive, and I never will! Furthermore, I don't believe Miss D'Lys or -<i>any</i> actress likes to play that kind of a part. It is managers of the -Rosenblum type that force those rĂ´les on them—callous, -dollar-grabbing, cynical pessimists, who take it for granted that all -women are bad!" -</p> - -<p> -"Any man who takes it for granted that all women are bad is no -pessimist, Guy," I says thoughtfully. "He's an optimist!" -</p> - -<p> -"Great!" says Guy, slapping the table with his hand. "May I use that -epigram in my play?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll loan it to you," I tell him. "If I break out with the writing rash -myself some day, I'll want it back. And now let me hear some of the -ideas you tore up in disgust—maybe one of them is the real McCoy. -Trot 'em out and I'll give you my honest opinion." -</p> - -<p> -Well, he did and I did. Guy rattled off a half-dozen plots, which failed -to thicken and merely sickened. Honestly, they had everything in 'em but -the Battle of Gettysburg, and really they were fearful—about as new -and exciting as a beef stew, which is just what I told him, being a -truthful girl. -</p> - -<p> -Guy sighs and looks desperate. -</p> - -<p> -"Gladys," he says, "I simply <i>must</i> have a play ready to open the -Thalia in less than eight weeks! You know that my interest in -playwriting is anything but mercenary—good heavens, I have more -money than I know what to do with. What I want is to see my name on -another Broadway success, and I'm absolutely barren of ideas! I've -simply struck a dry spell, such as all writers do, occasionally. At this -moment I'd give twenty-five thousand dollars for an original plot!" -</p> - -<p> -I drew a deep breath and stared at him. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't kid about that kind of money, Guy," I says solemnly. -"And—don't tempt me!" -</p> - -<p> -"I never was more serious in my life!" he quickly assures me. "Why, have -<i>you</i> an idea? By Jove, Gladys, if you if <i>have</i>—you are -the goddess from the machine——" -</p> - -<p> -"Be of good cheer," I interrupt. "I'll go home and sleep over matters, -which is what you better do, too—you look like you fell out of a well -or something, really! I'll see you tomorrow. I don't think I'll have a -plot for you by then, but——" -</p> - -<p> -"Naturally—still, if you even have a suggestion that I might use," -says Guy eagerly, "I——" -</p> - -<p> -"I say I don't <i>think</i> I'll have a plot by then, I know I'll have -one!" I finish. -</p> - -<p> -And I did, really! -</p> - -<p> -When I got home that night I went right to bed, but somehow Mr. Slumber -and me couldn't seem to come to terms. My brain just refused to call it -a union day but kept mulling over Guy and his magnanimous offer of -twenty-five thousand lire for a plot. Good heavens, he could buy a plot -with a house and barn on it for that! Then my half-sleepy mind turns to -Jimmy Burns, the gloomy bellhop, whose deathless ambition is to corral a -fortune and dumfound Europe with his progress from then on! Suddenly -these two trains of thought collide with a crash and out of the wreck -comes an idea that I think will make Jimmy Burns famous and give Guy -Tower his play! That trifling matter being all settled, I turned over -and slept the sleep of the just. -</p> - -<p> -The very next evening I propositioned Guy, who listened with flattering -attention. After telling him I had his play all set, I furnished him -with a short but interesting description of the life, habits and desires -of James Joseph Aloysius Burns. I then proposed that Guy place his -twenty-five thousand to the bellboy's credit for one month, James to be -allowed free rein with the jack. If Burns has increased the amount at -the end of thirty days, he is to return the original twenty-five -thousand to Guy. If not, he must give back whatever amount he has left. -All the principals are to be sworn to secrecy and that's all there is to -my scheme—it's as simple as the recipe for hot chocolate! -</p> - -<p> -"If Jimmy Burns is really miscast in life and has a brain and business -ability far above hopping bells," I explain, "why, the use of -twenty-five thousand for thirty days might make him one of the world's -most famous men! It's a sporting chance, Guy—will you gamble?" -</p> - -<p> -Guy looks somewhat perplexed. He stares into my excited face and clears -his throat nervously. -</p> - -<p> -"Well—I—of course, I am interested in <i>anything</i> you -suggest, Gladys," he says. "I—eh—suppose I am unusually -stupid this evening, but I cannot see how my dowering this bellboy will -assist me in writing my play." -</p> - -<p> -"Listen," I says. "You claimed you'd put out twenty-five thousand for a -plot, didn't you? Well, believe me, the movements of Jimmy Burns with -twenty-five thousand dollars to do what he wants with will supply all -the ideas you can handle—if you don't think so, you're crazy!" -</p> - -<p> -"But——" begins Guy. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't butt!" I cut him off, impatiently. "You're not the goat yet and -you won't be if you listen to teacher. All you have to do is give Jimmy -the sugar, watch his stuff for the next thirty days, and you'll get a -true-to-life masterpiece for your drama—probably a play that will -show the making of a financial, scientific or artistic Napoleon! If you -can't get a play out of the effect of sudden wealth on a lowly bellhop, -then you got no business In the same room with a typewriter!" -</p> - -<p> -Guy rubs his chin, smooths back his wavy hair and gazes out of the -window at New York City. -</p> - -<p> -"By Jove!" he busts out suddenly, slapping his hands together. "The -thing is fantastic—grotesque—but I'll do it!" -</p> - -<p> -So it came to pass that the next day Guy, Jimmy Burns, and myself met by -appointment in the cashier's office of the Plumbers & Physicians -National Bank. As I was on my lunch hour and minutes were at a premium, -there was little time squandered on preliminaries, Guy making his -proposition to the thunderstruck James in simple words of one syllable. -At first M. Burns refused to believe he wasn't being kidded, then he got -hysterical with delight. When the startled cashier solemnly asked for -his signature and handed him a bank book showing there was $25,000 to -his credit in the vaults, Jimmy broke down and cried like a baby! -</p> - -<p> -"Now listen to me, young man," I tell the panting Burns when he has hid -the bank book in his shoe to the open amusement of Guy and the wondering -cashier. "You want to get an immediate rush of brains to the head and make -that twenty-five thousand <i>mean</i> something, because that's the last -you get if you cry your eyes out! That's all there is, there isn't any -more, get me? You been going around squawking about what a world-beater -you'd be if you had money. Well, now you got plenty of it and we look -for big things from you. No clowning, remember, you <i>must</i> make good! -Is all that clear?" -</p> - -<p> -Still in a happy trance, Jimmy Burns removes his cap with a start. -</p> - -<p> -"Ye-ye-yes, ma'am!" he gulps, the first time he was ever polite to -anyone, before or since. -</p> - -<p> -Well, really, the effect of that $25,000 suddenly showered on Jamesy was -every bit as startling as I expected—only in a slightly different way -than I fondly hoped! Those pennies went right to his shapely head, and -instead of stimulating his brain, why, they just <i>removed</i> it -altogether. First of all, Jimmy got a wild and uncontrollable desire to -leave the art of bell-hopping flat on its back. Not satisfied to resign -his portfolio in a dignified way, he kidded the guests, insulted the -manager, rode Jerry Murphy till Jerry wanted his heart, and wound up by -punching Pete Kift, the bell captain, right on the nose. By an odd -coincidence, these untoward actions got Jimmy the gate. -</p> - -<p> -The plutocrat bellhop's next imitation was to apply for the most -expensive suite in the hotel. They just laughed Hon. Burns off, telling -him there was nothing but standing room left in the inn and try to get -<i>that!</i> But Guy Tower came to the rescue and got Jimmy the suite, as -Guy wanted to keep his experiment under as close observation as possible -while making notes for his play. Once settled in his gorgeous apartment, -Jimmy swelled up like a mump and run his former colleagues ragged -getting him ice water, stationery, telegram blanks and drug-store gin. -He staggered around in the most fashionable lobby in New York making -cracks like "Hey, d'ye think Prohibition will ever come back?" to -astounded millionaires and their ladies. Honestly, he was a wow I When -one of the fellows he used to work with called him "Jimmy," the nee -bellboy angrily insists that the manager fire him for undue familiarity, -remarking, "A guy has got to keep them servants in their proper places!" -</p> - -<p> -He sent a wire to the Standard Oil Company asking if they couldn't use a -younger man in Rockefeller's place, paid the dinge elevator pilots a -dollar twenty times a day to stop the car and tie his shoe laces, -panicked the highest priced tailor in Manhattan by ordering seven suits -of "mufti," having read that the King of England occasionally dresses in -that, and generally misplayed his hand till everybody was squawking and -in no time at all Jimmy Burns was about as popular as a mad deg in the -St. Moe hotel. He failed to go through college like he promised he -would, but he certainly went through everything else, and only for Guy, -Jimmy would have been streeted fifty times a day! -</p> - -<p> -The next desire that attacks James is the ambition to see his name in -the newspapers, so he advertises for a press agent. The first publicity -purveyor who showed up made James think he was good by using nothing but -adjectives in his conversation and asking for a honorarium of $250 the -week. Mr. Burns thought the salary was more than reasonable, but as he's -the type that would ask President Coolidge for a reference, he demanded -one from the candidate for the job. "You have asked the man who owns -one—just a minute!" says the press agent cheerily, and not at all -abashed he dashes out of the room. I heard all this when he stopped at -my switchboard with Jimmy and asked me where the writing room was. In -five minutes he's back, waving a paper in Jimmy's face. "Look <i>that</i> -over!" he says. -</p> - -<p> -James read it out loud for my entertainment. According to this -testimonial, the bearer had did about everything in the publicity line -but act as press representative for a school where middle-aged eagles -are taught how to fly. James seems to get quite a kick out of it. -</p> - -<p> -"I think I'll take this guy," he remarks, as he looks up from the -reference. -</p> - -<p> -"Fine!" says the delighted applicant. "That's a good thought. I'll snap -right into it and——" -</p> - -<p> -"Tomato sauce!" butts in James sneeringly. "I don't wish no part of -<i>you</i>, the baby <i>I</i> want to hire is the bozo which wrote this -recommendation of you. He's good, what I mean, a letter-writin' idiot!" -</p> - -<p> -"A bit odd that we should both be thinking the same thing," says Mr. -Press Agent coolly. "As a matter of fact, I wrote that recommendation -myself. So now that I'm engaged as your publicity expert, let me have a -few of your photos and——" -</p> - -<p> -The following morning nearly every front page in town displayed a -picture of James Burns and this glaring headline: -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="center"> -BELL BOY LEFT MILLION BY GUEST<br /> -HE ONCE LOANED DIME!</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -That was the press agent's first effort and, as far as I was ever able -to see, his last. But it got ample results, as with your permission I'll -be glad to show you. -</p> - -<p> -Within a week, Jimmy Burns had discovered what millions have discovered -before <i>his</i> little day—that the mere possession of lucre does -not mean happiness, and for some it means positive misery! Not only did -James become the prey of the charity solicitors, confidence workers, stock -swindlers, "yes men," phony promoters and other parasites that infest -the hotel, but he was constantly in boiling water through his cuckoo -escapades growing out of sudden wealth that sent his brains on location. -After purchasing a diamond as big as Boston, only brighter, he bought -the highest priced horseless carriage he could find in the market and -the same identical day it slipped out of his hands and tried to climb -the steps of the Fifth Avenue library. The gendarmes pinched him for -reckless driving, though Jimmy protested that it wasn't really -"wreckless" as he had plenty wreck, and his worship tossed the trembling -James into the hoosegow for three days, remarking, "I'll teach you rich -men a lesson!" Then the income-tax beagles read that newspaper headline -and came down on Burns like a cracked ceiling. So all in all, Jimmy was -finding few chuckles connected with his pieces of eight. -</p> - -<p> -When the rich but unhappy James got out of the Bastille, he decided to -throw a party in his costly suite at the St. Moe for his former -associates of the bellhops' bench. As Jimmy confided to me, apparently -his only friend, he felt the immediate need of mixing with people who -spoke his language. He wanted to forget his troubles and get back on a -friendly footing with the boys, who had severed diplomatic relations -with him on account of his acting like he was Sultan of Goitre or -something when he became a thousandaire overnight. Jimmy felt that a -first-class soiree would do the trick. -</p> - -<p> -The party came off as advertised, but all it meant to the poor little -rich man was more grief! It was really a respectable enough affair, no -hats being broken or that sort of thing, and a pleasant time was had by -all with the slight exception of the charming host. Our hero made two -fatal mistakes. The first was not inviting Jerry Murphy and the second -was laying in a stock of canny Scotch for medicinal purposes, in case -any of his guests should get stricken with the dread disease of thirst. -The result was that an epidemic of parched throats broke out early in -the evening and pretty soon the other habitues of the St. Moe began -complaining bitterly about the unusually boisterous race riot that was -being staged with a top-heavy cast on the sixth floor. Mr. Williams, the -manager, who liked Jimmy Burns and arsenic the same way, called upon -Jerry Murphy to quell the disturbance and Jerry licked his lips with -delight. The man-mountain house detective run all the way upstairs, -figuring the elevators too slow to whisk him to a job as tasty to him as -cream is to puss. Jerry pounded on the door of Jimmy's salon and -demanded admittance. Recognizing his voice, James climbed unsteadily on -a chair, opened the transom and peered with a rolling eye at Jerry. -</p> - -<p> -"Go roll yer hoop—hic—you big shtiff, thish is -gen'lemen's—hic—gen'lemen's blowout!" says Jimmy, carelessly -pouring a pitcher of water, cracked ice and all, on Jerry's noble head. -"Hic—shee kin you <i>laugh off!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -Foaming at the mouth and uttering strange cries, the infuriated Jerry -broke through the door and the panic was on! The beauty and chivalry -present fled before the charging sleuth like they'd flee before a -charging hippo, but the unfortunate Jimmy got left at the post. After -cuffing him around the room till the sport palled on him, Jerry dragged -James off to durance vile and once again Jamesy is put under glass, this -time credited with illegally possessing spirits frumenti. They held him -under lock and key all night and it took all of Guy Tower's influence -and quite a few of his quarters to get Jerry to withdraw the charge and -free Jimmy the next morning. -</p> - -<p> -Well, honestly, I felt sorry for Jimmy Burns, who was certainly taking -cruel and unusual punishment and being made to like it. I thought -perhaps if I injected a lady into the situation it might make things a -bit more pleasant for him, so I introduced Hazel Killian to the -"millionaire bellboy," as the newspapers were still calling James. <i>O -sole mia!</i> as they say in Iowa, what an off day my brain was having -when it cooked up <i>that</i> idea! With visions clouding her usually -painstaking taste, of the Riviera, Paris, Monte Carlo, gems, yachts, -Boles-Joyce limousines or what have you, Hazel took to Jimmy like a -goldfish takes to a bowl and our evening expeditions now consisted of -your correspondent and Guy, assisted by Hazel and Jimmy. We went -everywhere together, with James insisting upon paying most of the bills. -But while Jimmy was civil enough to the easy-to-look-at Hazel, he simply -showered his attentions on your little friend Gladys, grabbing every -chance to make the most violent love to me. This greatly annoyed Guy and -Hazel and equally greatly amused <i>me</i>—Jimmy was just a giggle -to me, not a gasp! -</p> - -<p> -In the meanwhile, Mr. Williams and Jerry Murphy had banded together to -make James sick and tired of living in the Hotel St. Moe. He seldom -found his room made up, there was always something wrong with the -lights, the water and the steam, none of the help would answer his -bells, and when he hollered for service he was told he would find it in -the dictionary under S. But Pete Kift pulled the worst trick of all on -him. With the radiant Hazel on his arm and Guy keeping military distance -behind, Jimmy was proudly strutting through the lobby one fine evening. -All were resplendent in evening clothes, and to show you I'm not catty -I'll say that Hazel in an evening gown would attract attention away from -the Yosemite. As the party neared the desk, Pete Kift suddenly looks at -Jimmy and bawls "<i>Front!</i>" at the top of his bull elephant's voice, -and mechanically responding to the habit of a lifetime, poor Jimmy Burns -grabs an amazed guest's suitcase and hastily starts for the elevator! -The witnesses just screamed when they grasped the situation and -recognized James as the ex-bellhop. Even Guy smiled, but it was -different with Hazel, who could have shot down Mr. Burns on the spot in -cold blood. As for Jimmy, well, honestly, he would have welcomed the -bullet! -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless, in spite of this fox pass Hazel believed Jimmy had -actually inherited an even million, and evidently James had not gone out -of his way to make her think different. So one day Hazel tells me she's -all through posing for artists and is determined to make Jimmy her very -own. When she adds that he has sworn to star her in a musical comedy or -back her in a movie production, I nearly passed out! Can you imagine -Jimmy, with only a few thousand left, making any such maniacal promises -as that to a girl with a memory like Hazel's? <i>Oo la la</i>, what a fine -disturbance James was readying himself for! -</p> - -<p> -As I had vowed to say nothing about how Jimmy got his bankroll, I -couldn't very well give the ambitious Hazel the lowdown on matters, but -I <i>did</i> try most earnestly to lay her off him. I got nowhere! Refusing -to be warned, Hazel point-blankly accused me of having a yen for Jimmy -myself, and then she set sail for this gilded youth in dead earnest. -</p> - -<p> -Well, knowing nothing of Hazel's plans with regard to himself, the -doomed Jimmy kept on entertaining like his first name was Astor, his -middle name Vanderbilt and his last name Morgan. He took me, Hazel and -Guy to the races at Belmont Park and stabled us all in a box. As James -had loudly declared that he knew more about horses than Vincent Ibanez, -we all played his-feed-box tips for five races and we learned about -losers from him. When the sixth and last scramble arrived, Guy had -donated $1,500, I had sent in $50, and Hazel had parted with $80 to the -oral books and was fit to be tied I What Jimmy lost, nobody knows. -Anyhow, he gazed over the program for the sixth race, a mile handicap, -and suddenly let out a yell. -</p> - -<p> -"Hot dog!" he says, much excited. "Here's where we all get independent -for life. They's a beagle in this dash by the name of Bellhop and if -that ain't a hunch then Pike's Peak's a pimple. Get down on this baby -with the family jools and walk outa here rancid with money!" -</p> - -<p> -We split a contemptuous grin between us and presented it to Jimmy before -getting down on the favorite in a last attempt to break even on the day. -Jimmy milled his way back to our box, flushed and panting, and gayly -announced that he had shot the works on Bellhop's nose. He said we were -all paranoiacs for not doing the same. Well, it was all over in a -twinkling! The favorite found the handicap of our bets a bit too much -and finished an even last. Bellhop tripped the mile in something like -0.96 and won from here to the Ruhr, clicking off $15,000 for Mr. James -Joseph Aloysius Burns. James then announced his intention of buying the -horse and presenting it to Hazel for Arbor Day, and it was only with the -greatest of difficulty that me and Guy talked him out of it. Hazel gave -us a murderous glare and for the rest of the day you couldn't have got a -nail file between her and Jimmy, honestly! -</p> - -<p> -Whirling back to New York in Jimmy's car, now steered by a uniformed -chauffeur, I began to reprove James for this gambling and stepping out -when he should be using his money and time to secure his future. What -about all his promises to me? How about all the big things he was going -to do? When was he going to enter business, or whatever he thought he -could do best? -</p> - -<p> -"Don't make me laugh!" says Jimmy, tapping an imported cigarette on a -solid gold case. "I'm sittin' pretty. What a sucker <i>I'd</i> be to pester -myself about work when I got all this sugar!" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course," says Hazel, nestling closer to him. "Imagine a millionaire -<i>working!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -And the only thing that really burned me up was Jimmy's grin at Guy and -the sly dig in the ribs he gave me, the little imp! -</p> - -<p> -Well, from then on Jimmy had lots of luck and all of it bad. The fellow -who invented money was a clever young man, but he really should have -stayed around the laboratory for another couple of hours and invented an -antidote for the trouble it brings. The well-to-do ex-bellhop used his -jack as a wedge to get into one jam after another, till finally came the -worst blow of all, and Miss Hazel Killian delivered it. -</p> - -<p> -It seems that Hazel got fatigued waiting for Jimmy to unbelt the roll -and star her in a musical comedy or a super-production, so she requested -a showdown. Jimmy checked up and discovered he had blown all but about -five thousand of his ill-gotten gains, and as trustworthy reports had -reached him that it would take about ten times that much to group a show -around the beauteous Hazel, he calmly told her all bets were off. Hazel -promptly fainted, but Jimmy's idea of first aid being an alarmed glance -and a dash for the door, she quickly snapped out of it and demanded ten -thousand dollars for the time she put in entertaining him. -</p> - -<p> -"Aha—a gold digger, hey?" says Jimmy indignantly. "So you wish ten -grand for entertainin' me? Where d'ye get that stuff? They ain't no ten -thousand dollars' worth of laughs in you for <i>me</i>, I'll tell the -world! Take the air!" -</p> - -<p> -Infuriated beyond speech, Hazel brought suit for $100,000 against James -the following day, charging that promising young man had promised to wed -her. Further, deponent sayeth not! -</p> - -<p> -That was the end of the high life for Jimmy Burns. Honestly, he was -scared stiff and he got little comfort from <i>me</i>, for I was absolutely -disgusted with the way he had carried on from the time Guy gave him that -money. Opportunity had knocked on this little fool's door and he had -pretended he wasn't at home. Not only that, but I felt he had got me in -wrong with Guy Tower, whose $25,000 investment for a plot now seemed a -total loss. I told Guy tearfully how sorry I was that my scheme had -failed to pan out, but he cut me off in the middle of my plea for -forgiveness, his face a mass of smiles. -</p> - -<p> -"My dear girl, you owe me no apology," says Guy, patting my shoulder. -"It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude. I've written a farce-comedy -around Jimmy's adventures with the twenty-five thousand, and Rosenblum -predicts it will be the hit of the season! I've never seen him so -enthusiastic. Your idea was more than successful, and Jimmy is welcome -to whatever he has left of the money when the time limit expires!" -</p> - -<p> -Wasn't that lovely? -</p> - -<p> -In the meantime, the miserable Jimmy had tried to forget his worries -again by mixing with his former fellow workmen about the hotel. Jerry -Murphy and Pete Kift wouldn't give him a tumble, so he sat on the -bellhops' bench all night, trying to square things with his -ex-playmates. But now that he was a "millionaire" they put on the ice -and treated him like a maltese would be treated at a mouse's reception. -A great longing comes over Jimmy to be a care-free bellboy again, -without the burden of wealth. He felt the irresistible call of the ice -water, the stationery and the tip! So, unable to lick the temptation, he -sneaked the baggage of a few guests upstairs and was promptly run out of -the hotel by the other boys for poaching on their preserves. To make -things perfect, a couple of days later he was served with the papers in -Hazel's suit. -</p> - -<p> -Unable to cope with the situation and hysterical with fear, Jimmy rushed -to the switchboard and made an appeal to me that would have melted a -Chinese executioner. He placed the blame for the trouble he was in on my -georgetted shoulders—manlike—and insisted that I had to get -him out of the mess. The legal documents Hazel had him tagged with -smacked to the terrified Jimmy of pitiless judges, stern juries, -jail—perhaps even the gallows! Honestly, James was in fearful -shape, no fooling. I shut off his moans finally, and told him to get rid -of whatever money he had left and I would take on myself the horrible -job of explaining everything to Hazel. With a wild whinny, Jimmy dashed -out of the hotel without even thanking me, gambled his remaining ducats -in one wild stock-market plunge—and two days later the ticker -informed him that he was worth $25,000 again! -</p> - -<p> -But money was now smallpox to Jimmy Burns. It was just three weeks and -four days since Guy Tower gave him the original $25,000, and under the -agreement Jimmy still had three days left to splurge. Nothing stirring! -What he wanted to do now was to get rid of his wealth, as I had told him -Hazel's barristers would never let her sue him should they find out the -defendant had no more nickels. Jimmy wanted to go to law with Hazel the -same way he wanted to part with his ears, so he busts in on Guy and -tells him to take back his gold because he don't wish any part of it. -Before the astonished Guy can open his mouth, Jimmy hurls twenty-five -one-thousand-dollar bills on the table and flees the room! -</p> - -<p> -Well, being an important customer of the St. Moe, Guy got Jimmy back his -old job hopping bells, broke, but happy for the first time in a month. -Then Guy insisted on me accepting a small royalty from his play for -producing Jimmy Burns as the plot. That left everybody taken care of but -the raging Hazel, who declared herself off me for life and was packed -and ready to leave me alone in New York. Guy solved that problem and -made Hazel crazily happy by engaging her to play <i>herself</i> in his -comedy, "Money to Burns." Merry Flag Day! -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/figure02.jpg" width="150" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_6_1" id="Footnote_6_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_1"><span class="label">[6]</span></a><i>Copyright, 1923, International Magazine Company -(Cosmopolitan Magazine)</i></p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY STORY THAT I LIKE BEST ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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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