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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8869-0.txt b/8869-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f30ac5e --- /dev/null +++ b/8869-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7164 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales From Bohemia, by Robert Neilson Stephens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales From Bohemia + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8869] +This file was first posted on August 17, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + +TALES FROM BOHEMIA + + +By Robert Neilson Stephens + + + + +ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS--A MEMORY + +One crisp evening early in March, 1887, I climbed the three flights of +rickety stairs to the fourth floor of the old “Press” building to begin +work on the “news desk.” Important as the telegraph department was +in making the newspaper, the desk was a crude piece of carpentry. My +companions of the blue pencil irreverently termed it “the shelf.” This +was my second night in the novel dignity of editorship. Though my rank +was the humblest, I appreciated the importance of a first step from “the +street.” An older man, the senior on the news desk, had preceded me. He +was engaged in a bantering conversation with a youth who lolled at such +ease as a well-worn, cane-bottomed screw-chair afforded. The older man +made an informal introduction, and I learned that the youth with pale +face and serene smile was “Mr. Stephens, private secretary to the +managing editor.” That information scarcely impressed me any more +than it would now after more than twenty years' experience of managing +editors and their private secretaries. + +The bantering continued, and I learned that the youth cherished literary +aspirations, and that he performed certain work in connection with the +dramatic department for the managing editor, who kept theatrical news +and criticisms within his personal control. + +Suddenly a chance remark broke the ice for a friendship between the +young man and me which was to last unbroken until his untimely death. +Stephens wrote the Isaac Pitman phonography! Here had I been for more +than three years wondering to find the shorthand writers of wide-awake +and progressive America floundering in what I conceived to be the +Serbonian bog of an archaic system of stenography. Unexpectedly a +most superior young man came within my ken who was a disciple of Isaac +Pitman. Furthermore, like myself, he was entirely self taught. No old +shorthand writer who can look back a quarter of a century on his own +youthful enthusiasm for the art can fail to appreciate what a bond of +sympathy this discovery constituted. From that night forward we were +chosen friends, confiding our ambitions to each other, discussing the +grave issues of life and death, settling the problems of literature. +Notwithstanding his more youthful appearance, my seniority in age +was but slight. Gradually “Bob,” as all his friends called him with +affectionate informality, was given opportunities to advance himself, +under the kindly yet firm guidance of the managing editor, Mr. Bradford +Merrill. That gentleman appreciated the distinct gifts of his young +protégé, journalistic and literary, and he fostered them wisely and +well. I remember perfectly the first criticism of an important play +which “Bob” was permitted to write unaided. It was Richard Mansfield's +initial appearance in Philadelphia as “Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde,” at the +Chestnut Street Theatre on Monday, October 3, 1887. + +After the paper had gone to press, and while Mr. Merrill and a few of +the telegraph editors were partaking of a light lunch, the night editor, +the late R.E.A. Dorr, asked Mr. Merrill “how Stephens had made out.” + +“He has written a very clever and very interesting criticism,” Mr. +Merrill replied. “I had to edit it somewhat, because he was inclined to +be Hugoesque and melodramatic in describing the action with very short +sentences. But I am very much pleased, indeed.” + +That was the beginning of Bob's career as a dramatic critic, a career +in which he gained authority and in which his literary faculties, his +felicity of expression and soundness of judgment found adequate scope. + +In the following two or three years the cultivation of the field of +dramatic criticism occupied his time to the temporary exclusion of his +ambition for creative work. He and I read independently; but our +tastes had much in common, though his preference was for imaginative +literature. Meanwhile I was writing short stories with plenty of plot, +some of which found their way into various magazines; but his taste lay +more in the line of the French short story writers who made an +incident the medium for portraying a character. Historical romance had +fascinations for me, but Alphonse Daudet attracted both of us to the +artistic possibilities that lay in selecting the romance of real life +for treatment in fiction as against the crude and repellent naturalism +of Zola and his school. This fact is not a little significant in view of +the turn toward historical romance which exercised all the activities of +Robert Neilson Stephens after the production of his play, “An Enemy to +the King,” by E.H. Sothern. + +Still our intimacy had prepared me for the change. Through many a long +night after working hours we had wandered through the moonlit streets +until daybreak exchanging views freely and sturdily on historical +characters on the philosophy of history, on the character of Henry of +Navarre and his followers, and on the worthies of Elizabethan England, +in the literature of which we had immersed ourselves. Kipling had +recently burst meteor-like on the world, and Barrie raised his head with +a whimsical smile closely chasing a tear. Thomas Hardy was in the saddle +writing “Tess,” and in France Daudet was yet active though his prime was +past. Guy de Maupassant continued the production of his marvellous +short stories. These were the contemporary prose writers who engaged our +attention. A little later we hailed the appearance of Stanley J. Weyman +with “A Gentleman of France,” and the Conan Doyle of “The White +Company” and “Micah Clarke” rather than the creator of “Sherlock Holmes” + commended our admiration. We were by no means in accord on the younger +authors. Diversity of opinion stimulates critical discussion, however. I +had not yet become reconciled to Kipling, who provoked my resentment +by certain coarse flings at the Irish, but “Bob” hailed him with +whole-hearted enthusiasm. + +We were not the only members of the staff with literary aspirations. +Others, like the late Andrew E. Watrous, had achievements of no mean +order in prose and verse. Still others were sustaining the traditions of +“The Press” as a newspaper office which throughout its history had +been a stepping stone to magazine work and other forms of literary +employment. Richard Harding Davis was on the paper and “Bob” Stephens +was one of the two men most intimately in his confidence regarding his +ambitions. + +Finally Bob told me that “Dick” had taken him to his house and read to +him “A bully short story,” adding, “It's a corker.” + +I inquired the nature of the story. + +“Just about the 'Press' office,” Bob replied, + +Among other particulars I asked the title. + +“'Gallegher,'” said Bob. + +Three years elapsed after our first acquaintance before Bob Stephens +began writing stories and sketches. The “Tales from Bohemia” collected +in this volume represent his early creative work. We were in the better +sense a small band of Bohemians, the few friends and companions who will +be found figuring in the tales under one guise or another. Many a merry +prank and many a jest is recalled by these pages. Of criticism I have no +word to say. Let the reader understand how they came into being and they +will explain themselves. “Bob” Stephens took his own environment, the +anecdotes he heard, the persons whom he met and the friends whom he +knew, and he treated them as the writers of short stories in France +twenty years ago treated their own Parisian environment. He made an +incident the means of illustrating a portrayal of character. Later he +was to construct elaborate plots for dramas and historical novels. + +“Bohemianism” was but a brief episode in the life of “R. N. S.” It +ceased after his marriage. But his natural gaiety remained. Seldom was +his joyous disposition overcast, or his winning smile eclipsed. For six +months I was privileged to live in the house with his mother. If he +had inherited his literary predilections from his father,--a highly +respected educator of Huntington, Pa. from whose academy many eminent +professional men were graduated,--his gentleness, his cheerfulness, his +winning smile and the ingratiating qualities to which it was the key, as +surely came from his mother. + +I remember a time when he was inordinately grave for several days +and pursued a tireless course of special reading through the office +encyclopaedias and some books he had borrowed. At last he drew aside the +veil of reserve which concealed his family affairs from even his closest +friends and inquired if I could direct him to any recent authority on +cancer. I divined the sad truth that his tenderly beloved mother was +suffering from the dread disease. That was the day before serums, and +nothing that he found to read in books or periodicals gave him a faint +hope that his dear one could be cured. Thenceforward, mother and +son awaited the inevitable end with uncomplaining patience which was +characteristic of both. His cheerful smile returned, and while the blow +of bereavement was impending practically all these “Tales from Bohemia” + were written. + +To follow the career of “R.N.S.” and trace his development after he gave +up newspaper work in the fall of 1893 is not required in this place. +“Tales from Bohemia” will be found interesting in themselves, apart from +the fact that they illustrate another phase of the literary gift of +a young writer who contributed so materially to the entertainment of +playgoers and novel readers for a period of ten years after the work in +this book was all done. + +J.O.G.D. + + + + +CONTENTS + +I. THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED + +II. A BIT OF MELODY + +III. ON THE BRIDGE + +IV. THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY + +V. OUT OF HIS PAST + +VI. THE NEW SIDE PARTNER + +VII. THE NEEDY OUTSIDER + +VIII. TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE + +IX. HE BELIEVED THEM + +X. A VAGRANT + +XI. UNDER AN AWNING + +XII. SHANDY'S REVENGE + +XIII. THE WHISTLE + +XIV. WHISKERS + +XV. THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + +XVI. THE SCARS + +XVII. “LA GITANA” + +XVIII. TRANSITION + +XIX. A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD + +XX. MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO + +XXI. AT THE STAGE DOOR + +XXII. “POOR YORICK” + +XXIII. COINCIDENCE + +XXIV. NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN + +XXV. AN OPERATIC EVENING + + + + +TALES FROM BOHEMIA + + + + + +I. -- THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED + +When Jack Morrow returned from the World's Fair, he found Philadelphia +thermometers registering 95. The next afternoon he boarded a Chestnut +Street car, got out at Front Street, hurried to the ferry station, and +caught a just departing boat for Camden, and on arriving at the other +side of the Delaware, made haste to find a seat in the well-filled +express train bound for Atlantic City. + +While he was being whirled across the level surface of New Jersey, past +the cornfields and short stretches of green trees and restful cottage +towns, he thought of the pleasure in store for him--the meeting with the +young person whom he had gradually come to consider the loveliest girl +in the world. Having neglected to read the list of “arrivals” in the +newspapers, he knew not at what hotel she and her aunt were staying. But +he would soon make the rounds of the large beach hotels, at one of which +she was likely to be found. + +She did not expect to see him. Therefore her first expression on +beholding him would betray her feelings toward him, whatever they were. +Should the indication be favourable, he would propose to her at the +first opportunity, on beach, boardwalk, hotel piazza, pavilion, yacht +or in the surf. Such were the meditations of Jack Morrow while the train +roared across New Jersey to the sea. + +The first sign of the flat green meadows, the smooth waters of the +thoroughfare, the sails afar at the inlet and the long side of the +sea-city stretching out against the sky at the very end of the earth is +refreshing and exhilarating to any one. It gave a doubly keen enjoyment +to Jack Morrow. + +“Within an hour, perhaps,” he mused, as the reviving odour of the salt +water touched his nostrils, “I shall see Edith.” + +When with the crowd he had made his way out of the train, and traversed +the long platform at the Atlantic City station, ignoring the stentorian +solicitations of the 'bus drivers, he started walking toward the ocean +promenade, invited by the glimpse of sea at the far end of the avenue. +Thus he crossed that wide thoroughfare--Atlantic Avenue--with its +shops and trolley-cars; passed picturesque hotels and cottages; crossed +Pacific Avenue where carriages and dog-carts were being driven rapidly +between the rows of pretty summer edifices, and traversed the famously +long block that ends at the boardwalk and the strand. + +He succeeded in getting a third-floor room on the ocean side of the +first hotel where he applied. He learned from the clerk that Edith was +not at this house. Sea air having revived his appetite, he decided to +dine before setting out in search of her. + +When, after his meal, he reached the boardwalk, the electric lights had +already been turned on and the regular evening crowd of promenaders was +beginning to form. He strolled along now looking at the beach and the +sea, now at the boardwalk crowd where he might perhaps at any moment +behold the face of “the loveliest girl in the world.” He beheld instead, +as he approached the Tennessee pier, the face of his friend George +Haddon. + +“Hello, old boy!” exclaimed Morrow, grasping his friend's hand. “What +are you doing here? I thought your affairs would keep you in New York +all summer.” + +“So they would,” replied Haddon, in a tone and with a look whose +distress he made little effort to conceal. “But something happened.” + +“Why, what on earth's the matter? You seem horribly downcast.” + +Haddon was silent for a moment; then he said suddenly: + +“I'll tell you all about it. I have to tell somebody or it will split +my head. But come out on the pier, away from the noise of that +merry-go-round organ.” + +Neither spoke as the two young men passed through the concert pavilion +and dancing hall out to a quieter part of the long pier. They sat near +the railing and looked out over the sea, on which, as evening fell, the +rippling band of moonlight grew more and more luminous. They could see, +at the right, the long line of brilliant lights on the boardwalk, and +the increasing army of promenaders. Detached from the furthest end of +the line of boardwalk lights, shone those of distant Longport. Above +these, the sky had turned from heliotrope to hues dark and indefinable, +but indescribably beautiful. Down on the beach were only a few people, +strolling near the tide line, a carriage, a man on horseback, and three +frolicking dogs. + +“It's simply this,” abruptly began Haddon. “Six weeks ago I was married +to--” + +“Why, I never heard of it. Let me congrat--” + +“No, don't, I was married to a comic opera singer, named Lulu Ray. +I don't suppose you've ever heard of her, for she was only recently +promoted from the chorus to fill small parts. We took a flat, and lived +happily on the whole, for a month, although with such small quarrels +as might be expected. Two weeks ago she went out and didn't come back. +Since then I haven't been able to find her in New York or at any of the +resorts along the Jersey coast. I suppose she was offended at something +I said during a quarrel that grew out of my insisting on our staying +in New York all summer. Knowing her liking for Atlantic City--she was a +Philadelphia girl before she went on the stage--I came here at once to +hunt her up and apologize and agree to her terms.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, I haven't found her. She's not at any hotel in Atlantic City. I'm +going back to New York to-morrow to get some clue as to where she is.” + +“I suppose you're very fond of her still?” + +“Yes; that's the trouble. And then, of course, a man doesn't like to +have a woman who bears his name going around the country alone, her +whereabouts unknown.” + +Morrow was on the point of saying: “Or perhaps with some other man,” + but he checked himself. He was sufficiently mundane to refrain from +attempting to reason Haddon out of his affection for the fugitive, or +to advise him as to what to do. He knew that in merely letting Haddon +unburden on him the cause of anxiety, he had done all that Haddon would +expect from any friend. + +He limited himself, therefore, to reminding Haddon that all men have +their annoyances in this life; to treating the woman's offence as light +and commonplace, and to cheering him up by making him join in seeing the +sights of the boardwalk. + +They looked on at the pier hop, while Professor Willard's musicians +played popular tunes; returned to the boardwalk and watched the pretty +girls leaning against the wooden beasts on the merry-go-round while the +organ screamed forth, “Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow Wow;” experienced +that not very illusive illusion known as “The Trip to Chicago;” were +borne aloft on an observation wheel; made the rapid transit of the +toboggan slide, visited the phonographs and heard a shrill reproduction +of “Molly and I and the Baby;” tried the slow and monotonous ride on +the “Figure Eight,” and the swift and varied one on the switchback. They +bought saltwater taffy and ate it as they passed down the boardwalk and +looked at the moonlight. Down on the Bowery-like part of the boardwalk +they devoured hot sausages, and in a long pavilion drank passable beer +and saw a fair variety show. Thence they left the boardwalk, walked to +Atlantic Avenue and mounted a car that bore them to Shauffler's, where +among light-hearted beer drinkers they heard the band play “Sousa's +Cadet March” and “After the Ball,” and so they arrived at midnight. + +All this was beneficial to Haddon and pleasant enough in itself, but +it prevented Morrow that night from prosecuting his search for the +loveliest girl in the world. He postponed the search to the next day. +And when that time came, after Haddon had started for New York, occurred +an event that caused Morrow to postpone the search still further. + +He had decided to go up the boardwalk on the chance of seeing Edith in +a pavilion or on the beach. If he should reach the vicinity of the +lighthouse without finding her, he would turn back and inquire at every +hotel near the beach until he should obtain news of her. + +He had reached Pennsylvania Avenue when he was attracted by the white +tents that here dotted the wide beach. He went down the high flight +of steps from the boardwalk to rest awhile in the shade of one of the +tents. + +Although it was not yet 11 o'clock, several people in bathing suits were +making for the sea. A little goat wagon with children aboard was passing +the tents, and after it came the cart of the “hokey-pokey” peddler, +drawn by a donkey that wore without complaint a decorated straw +bathing hat. Morrow, looking at the feet of the donkey, saw in the sand +something that shone in the sunlight. He picked it up and found that it +was a gold bracelet studded with diamonds. + +He questioned every near-by person without finding the owner. He +therefore put the bracelet in his pocket, intending to advertise it. +Then he resumed his stroll up the boardwalk. He went past the lighthouse +and turned back. + +He had reached the Tennessee Avenue pier without having found the +loveliest girl in the world. His eye caught a small card that had just +been tacked up at the pier entrance. Approaching it he read: + +“Lost--On the beach between Virginia and South Carolina Avenues, a gold +bracelet with seven diamonds. A liberal reward will be paid for its +recovery at the ---- Hotel.” + +The hotel named was the one at which Morrow was staying. He hurried +thither. + +“Who lost the diamond bracelet?” he asked the clerk. + +“That young lady standing near the elevator. Miss Hunt, I think her name +is,” said the clerk consulting the register. “Yes, that's it, she only +arrived last night.” + +Morrow saw standing near the elevator door, a lithe, well-rounded girl +with brown hair and great gray eyes that were fixed on him. She was +in the regulation summer-girl attire--blue Eton suit, pink shirtwaist, +sailor hat, and russet shoes. He hastened to her. + +“Miss Hunt, I have the honour to return your bracelet.” + +She opened her lips and eyes with pleasurable surprise and reached +somewhat eagerly for the piece of jewelry. + +“Thank you ever so much. I took a walk on the beach just after breakfast +and dropped it somewhere. It's too large.” + +“I picked it up near Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a curious coincidence +that it should be found by some one stopping at the same hotel. But, +pardon me, you're going away without mentioning the reward.” + +She looked at him with some surprise, until she discovered that he +was jesting. Then she smiled a smile that gave Morrow quite a pleasant +thrill, and said, with some tenderness of tone: + +“Let the reward be what you please.” + +“And that will be to do what you shall please to have me do.” + +“Ah, that's nice. Then I accept your services at once. I am quite alone +here; haven't any acquaintances in the hotel. I want to go bathing and +I'm rather timid about going alone, although I'd made up my mind to do +so and was just going up after my bathing suit.” + +“Then I am to have the happiness of escorting you into the surf.” + +They went bathing together not far from where he had found the bracelet. +He discovered that she could swim as well as he; also that in her dark +blue bathing costume, with sailor collar and narrow white braid, she was +a most shapely person. + +She laughed frequently while they were breasting the breakers; and +afterwards, as in their street attire they were returning on the +boardwalk, she chatted brightly with him, revealing a certain cleverness +in off-hand persiflage. + +He took her into the tent behind the observation wheel to see the +Egyptian exhibition, and she was good enough to laugh at his jokes about +the mummies, although the mummies did not seem to interest her. Further +down the boardwalk they stopped at the Japanese exhibition, and on the +way out he caught himself saying that if it were possible, he would take +great pleasure in hauling her in a jinrikisha. + +“I'll remember that promise and make you push me in a wheel-chair,” she +answered. + +When they were back at the hotel, she turned suddenly and said: + +“By the way, what's your name? Mine's Clara Hunt.” + +He told her, and while she went up the elevator with her bathing suit, +he arranged with the head waiter to have himself seated at her table. + +He learned from the clerk that she had arrived alone with a letter of +introduction from a former guest of the house, and intended to stay at +least a fortnight. + +At luncheon he proposed that they should take a sail in the afternoon. +She said, with a smile: + +“As it is you who invites me, I'll give up my nap and go.” + +They rode in a 'bus to the Inlet, and after spending half an hour +drinking beer and listening to the band on the pavilion, they hired a +skipper to take them out in his catboat. Six miles out the boat pitched +considerably and Miss Hunt increased her hold on Morrow's admiration +by not becoming seasick. At his suggestion they cast out lines for +bluefish. She borrowed mittens from the captain and pulled in four fish +in quick succession. + +“What an athletic woman you are,” said Morrow. + +“Yes, indeed.” + +“In fact, everything that's charming,” he continued. + +She replied softly: “Don't say that unless you mean it. It pleases me +too much, coming from you.” + +Morrow mused: “Here's a girl who is frank enough to say so when she +likes a fellow. It makes her all the more fascinating, too. Some women +would make me very tired throwing themselves at me this way. But it is +different with her.” + +They gave the fish to the captain and returned from the Inlet by the +Atlantic Avenue trolley, just in time for dinner. She did not lament +her lack of opportunity to change her clothes for dinner, nor did she +complain about the coat of sunburn she had acquired. + +In the evening, they sat together for a time on the pier, took a turn +together at one of the waltzes, although neither cared much for dancing +at this time of year, walked up the boardwalk and compared the moon with +the high beacon light of the lighthouse. + +He bought her marshmallows at a confectioner's booth, a fan at a +Japanese store, and a queer oriental paper cutter at a Turkish bazaar. +They took two switchback rides, during which he was compelled to put his +arm around her. Finally, reluctant to end the evening, they stood for +some minutes leaning against the boardwalk railing, listening to the +moan of the sea and watching the shaft of moonlight stretching from +beach to horizon. + +It was not until he was alone in his room that Morrow bethought of his +neglect of the loveliest girl in the world. And remorseful as he was, he +did not form any distinct intention of resuming his search for her the +next day. He rather congratulated himself on not having met her while he +was with this enchanting Clara Hunt. + +And he passed next day also with the enchanting Clara Hunt. They sat on +the piazza together reading different parts of the same newspaper for +an hour after breakfast; went to the boardwalk and turned in at a +shuffle-board hall, where they spent another hour making the weights +slide along the sanded board and then took another ocean bath. + +After luncheon they walked up the boardwalk to the iron pier. + +Seeing the lifeboat there, rising and falling in the waves, Clara asked: + +“Would the lifeguard take us in his boat for a while, I wonder?” + +Morrow went down to the beach and shouted to the lifeguard, who was none +other than the robust and stentorian Captain Clark. The captain brought +the boat ashore and as there were no bathers in the water at this point, +he agreed to row the young people out to the end of the pier. + +“This is a great place for brides and grooms this summer,” remarked the +captain in his frank and jocular way. + +Clara looked at Morrow with a blush and a laugh. Morrow was pleased at +seeing that she seemed not displeased. + +“We're not married,” said Morrow to the captain. + +“Not yet, mebbe,” said the captain with one of his significant winks, +and then he gave vent to loud and long laughter. + +That evening Morrow and Clara took the steamer trip from the Inlet +to Brigantine and the ride on the electric car along flat and sandy +Brigantine beach. On the return, they became very sentimental. They +decided to walk all the way from the Inlet down the boardwalk. He found +himself quite oblivious to the crowd of promenaders. The loveliest girl +in the world might have passed him a dozen times without attracting his +attention. He had eyes and ears for none but Clara Hunt. + +And that night, far from reproaching himself for his conduct toward +the loveliest girl, etc., he hardly thought of her at all, more than +to wonder by what good fortune he had avoided meeting her. Some of the +people at their hotel made the same mistake regarding Morrow and Clara +as Captain Clark had made; the two were seen constantly together. Others +thought they were engaged. + +Morrow spoke of this to her next morning as they were being whirled down +to Longport on a trolley car along miles of smooth beach and stunted +distorted pine trees. “I heard a woman on the piazza whisper that I was +your fiancé,” he said. + +“Well, what if you were--I mean what if she did?” + +At Longport they took the steamer for Ocean City. They rode through that +quiet place of trees and cottages on the electric car, returning to the +landing just in time to miss the 11.50 boat for Longport. They had to +wait an hour and a half and they were the only people there who were not +bored by the delay. They returned by way of Somers' Point. + +While the boat was gliding through the sunlit waters of Great Egg +Harbour Inlet, Clara's hand happened to fall on Morrow's, which was +resting on the gunwale. She let her hand remain there. Morrow looked at +it, and then at her face. She smiled. When the Italian violin player on +the boat came that way, Morrow gave him a dollar. Alas for the loveliest +girl in the world! + +They passed most of that evening in a boardwalk pavilion, ostensibly +watching the sea and the crowd. They went up the thoroughfare in a +catboat the next morning, and, strange as it seemed to them, were the +only people out who caught no fish. The captain winked at his mate, who +grinned. + +In the afternoon, while Morrow and Clara stood on the boardwalk looking +down at the Salvation Army tent, along came that innocent eccentric +“Professor” Walters in bathing costume and with his swimming machine. +The tall, lean whiskered, loquacious “Professor” had made Morrow's +acquaintance in a former summer and now greeted him politely. + +“How d'ye do?” said the “Professor.” “Glad to see you here. You turn up +every year.” + +“You're still given to rhyming,” commented Morrow. + +“Yes, I have a rhyme for every time, in pleasure or sorrow. Is this Mrs. +Morrow?” + +“No.” + +“You ought to be sorry she isn't,” remarked the “Professor,” taking his +departure. + +Morrow and Clara walked on in silence. At last he said somewhat +nervously: + +“Everybody thinks we're married. Why shouldn't we be?” + +She answered softly, with downcast eyes: + +“I would be willing if I were sure of one thing.” + +“What's that?” + +“That you have never loved any other woman. Have you?” + +“How can you ask? Believe me, you are the only girl I have ever loved.” + +That evening, after dinner, Morrow and Clara, the newly affianced, about +starting from the hotel to the boardwalk, were at the top of the hotel +steps when a man appeared at the bottom. + +Morrow uttered a cry of recognition. + +“Why, Haddon, old boy, I'm glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my +wife that is to be.” + +Haddon stood still and stared. Clara, too, remained motionless. After a +moment, Haddon said very quietly: + +“You're mistaken. Let me introduce you to my wife that is.” + +Morrow looked at Clara. She turned her gray eyes fearlessly on Haddon. + +“You, too, are mistaken,” she said. “I had a husband before you married +me. He's my husband still. He's doing a song and dance act in a variety +theatre in Chicago. I'm sorry about all this, Mr. Morrow. I really like +you. Good-bye.” + +She ran back into the hotel and arranged to make her departure on an +early train next morning. + +Haddon turned toward the boardwalk, and Morrow, quite dazed, +involuntarily followed him. After a period of silence, Morrow said: + +“This is astonishing. A bigamist, and a would-be trigamist. She came +here the night before you left. How did you find out she was here?” + +“I read it in the Atlantic City letter of _The Philadelphia Press_ that +one of the Comic Opera singers daily seen on the boardwalk is Miss Clara +Hunt, who is known to theatre-goers by her stage name, Lulu Ray. These +newspaper correspondents know some of the obscurest people. If I had +told you her real name, you would have known who she was in time to have +avoided being taken in by her.” + +“Her having another husband lets you out.” + +“Yes. I'm glad and sorry, for damn it, I was fond of the girl. Excuse me +awhile, old fellow. I want to go on the pier and think awhile.” + +Haddon went out on the pier and looked down on the incoming waves and +thought awhile. He found it a disconsolate occupation, even with a cigar +to sweeten it. So he came back and mingled with the gay crowd on the +boardwalk and tried to forget her. + +Morrow had no sooner left Haddon than he felt his arm touched. Looking +around, he saw the smiling face of the loveliest girl in the world. + +“Well, by Jove, Edith,” he said. “At last I've found you!” + +“Yes. I heard you were down here. You see, I've been up in town for the +last week. Gracious, but Philadelphia is hot! Here's Aunt Laura.” + +Morrow spent the evening with Edith. One night a week later, he proposed +to her on the pier. + +“I will say yes,” she replied, “if you can give me your assurance that +you've never been in love with any one else.” + +“That's easily given. You know very well you're the only girl I've ever +loved.” + + + + +II. -- A BIT OF MELODY + + +[Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker, and used by the courtesy +of the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_.] + +It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the lodging-house +for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians +coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They +belonged to the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, and were returning from a +dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on +the following night. + +Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded +to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and +passed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded +face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering +gaslight. + +The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in +disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he +stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the +danger of the icy pavements. “I'm t'ankful to be at last home,” he said, +showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler from +his neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an +ample red beard. “Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay +warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera.” + +“Thanks for your solicitude,” I said, “but I must have my walk. Play +to your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into +geniality. Good night.” + +The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the +taciturnity of his countryman and confrère, with a gesture and a look +of reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he +disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs. + +As I passed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my +footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas in +his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf. + +My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of +heart. Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, +while his practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second +violinist. When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a smile: + +“My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity +cofers a multitude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer.” + +We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and +matinée duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, +and because those of us who could remember his long German surname could +not pronounce it. + +One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his +friend Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival +from Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned +that he had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had +departed the day before. The professor took him home, clothed him and +cared for him until eventually another second violin was needed in the +---- Theatre orchestra. + +Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, +and he picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and +waltzes. + +All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk +in that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to +collide with my friend the doctor. + +“I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat,” I said. “Won't you join +me? I know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where +devilled crabs are as good as the broiled oyster.” + +“With pleasure,” he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; “not for +your food, but for your society. But do you know what you did when you +ran against me at the corner? For a long time I've been trying to recall +a certain tune that I heard once. Three minutes ago, as I was walking +along, it came back to me, and I was whistling it when you came up. You +knocked it quite out of mind. I'm sorry, for interesting circumstances +connected with my first hearing of it make it desirable that I should +remember it.” + +“I can never express my regret,” I said. “But you may be able to catch +it again. Where were you when it came back to you three minutes ago?” + +“Two blocks away, passing a church. I think it was the shining of the +electric light upon the stained glass window that brought it back to +me, for on the night of the day when I first heard it in Paris a strong +light was falling upon the stained glass windows of the church opposite +the house in which I had apartments.” + +“Perhaps, then,” I suggested, “the law of association may operate again +if you take the trouble to walk back and repass the church in the same +manner and the same state of mind, as nearly as you can resume them.” + +“By Jove,” said the doctor, who likes experiments of this kind, “I'll +try it. Wait for me here.” + +I stood at the corner while the doctor briskly retraced his steps. His +firmly built, comfortable-looking form passed rapidly away. Within five +minutes he was back, a triumphant smile lighting his face. + +“Success!” he said. “I have it, although whether from chance or as a +result of repeating my impression of light falling on a church window +I can't say. Certainly, after all these years, the tune is again mine. +Listen.” + +As we proceeded up the street the doctor whistled a few measures +composing a rather peculiar melody, expressive, it seemed to me, of +unrest. I never forget a tune I have once heard, and this one was soon +fixed in my memory. + +“And the interesting circumstances under which you heard it?” I +interrogated. “Surely after the concern I've shown in the matter, you're +not going to deprive me of the story that goes with the tune?” + +“There is no reason why I should. But I hope you will not circulate the +melody. It is the music that accompanies a tragedy.” + +“Indeed? You have written one, then? It must be brief, as there isn't +much of the music.” + +“I refer to a tragedy which actually occurred. Tragedies in real life +are not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this +case music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in +Paris, apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife. +His name, as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he +came from Breslau. The wife, a very young and pretty creature, showed +herself, by her attire and manners, to be frivolous and vain, and +without having more than the slightest acquaintance with the pair, I +soon learned that she had no knowledge of or taste for music. He had +married her, I suppose, for her beauty, and had too late discovered the +incompatibility of their temperaments. But he loved her passionately +and jealously. One day I heard loud words between them, from which I +gathered unintentionally that something had aroused his jealousy. She +replied with laughter and taunts to his threats. The quarrel ended with +her abrupt departure from the room and from the house. + +“He did not follow her, but sat down at the piano and began to play +in the manner of one who improvises. Correcting the melody that +first responded to his touch, modifying it at several repetitions, he +eventually gave out the form that I have just whistled. + +“Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that +strain over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my +lamp light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the +way. Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you +dine?' I heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech +was plainly distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; +'you were with----.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I +know what she said in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only +a confused sound, which did not impress me at the time as indicating a +struggle, and which was followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or +a sullen truce had been restored in the household, and thought no more +about the affair. The next morning the wife was found dead, strangled. +The husband had disappeared, and has never, I believe, been heard of to +this day.” + +We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the +account had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm café, with +appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me +again the husband's name. + +“Heinrich Spellerberg.” + +“And who had the woman been?” + +“I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little +blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. +She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique.” + +“You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?” + +“No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong.” + +“Do you remember the exact date of the murder?” + +“Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February +17, 187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and +on, ever since--forgotten, most of the time; a few times recalled--as +to-night.” + +“And the man, what did he look like?” + +“Slim and of medium height. Very light complexion and eyes. His face +was entirely smooth. His hair, a bit flaxen in colour, was curly and +plentiful, especially about the back of his neck.” + +“In your evidence did you say anything about the strain of music, which +was manifestly of the murderer's own composition?” + +“No, it did not recur to me until later.” + +“And nothing was said about it by anybody?” + +“No one but myself knew anything about it--except the murderer; and +unless he afterward circulated it, he and you and I are the only men in +the world who have heard it.” + +“But if he continued, wherever he went, to exercise his profession, he +doubtless made some use of that bit of melody. The tune is so odd--quite +too good for him to have wasted.” + +“Still, neither of us has ever heard it, or anything like it. And if you +ever should come upon it, it would be interesting to trace the thing, +wouldn't it?” + +“Rather.” + +I began to whistle the air softly. Presently two handsome girls, with +jimp raiment and fearless demeanour, came in and took possession of an +adjacent table. + +“What'll it be, Nell?” + +“I'll take a dozen panned. I'm hungry enough to eat all the oysters that +ever came out of the sea. A rehearsal like that gives one an appetite.” + +“A dozen panned, and lobster salad for me, and two bottles of beer,” was +the order of the first speaker to the waiter. + +I recognized the faces as pertaining to the chorus of the opera company +at the ---- Theatre. I stopped whistling while I watched them. + +Suddenly, like a delayed and multiplied echo of my own whistling, came +in a soft hum from one of the girls the notes of the doctor's tragically +associated strain of music. + +The doctor and I exchanged glances. The girl stopped humming. + +“I think that's the prettiest thing in the piece, Maude,” said she. + +Undoubtedly it was the comic opera to be produced at the ---- Theatre to +which she alluded as “the piece.” + +“Amazing,” I said to the doctor. “Millocker composed the piece she's +talking about. Millocker never killed a wife in Paris. Nor would he +steal bodily from another. Perhaps the thing has been interpolated by +the local producer. It doesn't sound quite like Millocker, anyhow. I +must see about this.” + +“Where are you going?” + +“To the Actors' Club, or a dozen other places, until I find Harry +Griffiths. He's one of the comedians in the company at the ---- Theatre, +and he has a leading part in that piece to-morrow night. He'll know +where that tune came from.” + +“As you please,” said the amiable doctor. “But I must go home. You +can tell me the result of your investigation to-morrow. It may lead to +nothing, but it will be interesting pastime.” + +“And again,” I said, putting on my overcoat, “it may lead to something. +I'll see you to-morrow. Good night.” + +I found Griffiths at the Actors' Club, telling stories over a +mutton-chop and a bottle of champagne. When the opportunity came I drew +him aside. + +“I have bet with a man about a certain air in the new piece. He says +it's in the original score, and I say it's introduced, because I don't +think Millocker did it. This is it,” and I whistled it. + +“Quite right, my boy. It's not in the original. Miss Elton's part was +so small that she refused to play until the manager agreed to let her +fatten it up. So Weinmann composed that and put--” + +“This Weinmann,” I interrupted, abruptly, “what do you know about him? +Who is he?” + +“He's Gustav Weinmann, the new musical director. I don't know anything +about him. He's not been long in the country. The manager found him in +some small place in Germany last summer.” + +“How old is he? Where does he live?” + +“Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you +want to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?” + +“Good idea, this. Good night.” + +I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German +town. I would go to him and bluntly say: + +“Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it +is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?” + +Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed. + +All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I +began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour +down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The +only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. +The latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We +all were used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy +caprices, the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent +house. + +I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room +but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains +that used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys +took touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor. + +Suddenly the musical summonings of the player assumed a familiar +aspect,--that of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for +the past hour. + +Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in +the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, would doubtless know more about the +antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able to +tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come +from Germany. + +I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking +through the open door, beheld the professor at the piano. + +The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept +grandly in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's +head in soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of +the opposite wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined +Schaaf, who had fallen asleep listening while the professor played. + +The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain--so often +mutual companions--were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break the +spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, +however, I began quietly: + +“Professor.” + +The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to +face me, smiling pleasantly. + +“Pardon me,” I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the +moonshine that he might recognize me, “but I was attracted by the +air you were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was +composed by your new conductor at the ----” + +The professor answered with a laugh: + +“Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn't +matter.” + +“Ah, then it isn't his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?” + +“Me.” + +“You?” + +“Ja. And I have many oder to gif sheap, too.” + +“But where did you get it?” + +“I make it.” + +“When?” + +“Long 'go. I forget. I have make so many. Dey go away from my mindt an' +come again back long time after.” + +“Professor, what would you give me to tell you where and when you +composed that tune?” + +He looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression. It was with an +effort that I continued, as I looked straight into his eyes: + +“I will hazard a guess. Could it have been in Paris--one day twelve +years ago--” + +“I neffer be in Paris,” he interrupted, with a start which shocked and +convinced me, slight evidence though it may seem. So I spoke on: + +“What, never? Not even just that night--that 17th of February? Try to +recall it, Heinrich Spellerberg. You remember she came in late, and--who +would think that those soft white fingers had been strong enough?” + +“Hush, my friendt! I not touch her! She kill herself--she try to hang +and she shoke her neck. No, no, to you I vill not lie! You speak all +true! Mein Gott! Vat vill you do?” + +The man was on his knees. I thought of the circumstances, the persons +concerned, the high-strung, sensitive lover of music, the coarse, +derisive, perhaps faithless woman, and I replied quickly: + +“What will I do? Nothing to-night. It's none of my business, anyhow. +I'll sleep over it and tell you in the morning.” + +I left him alone. + +In the morning the professor's door stood ajar. I looked in. Man, +clothes, violin case, and valise had gone. Whither I have not tried to +ascertain. + +When the new opera was produced that evening the ---- Theatre +orchestra was unexpectedly minus two of its second violins, for Schaaf, +half-distracted, was wandering the cold streets in search of his friend. + + + + +III. -- ON THE BRIDGE + +When I tell you, my only friend, to whom I so rarely write and whom +I more rarely see, that my lonely life has not been without love for +woman, you will perhaps laugh or doubt. + +“What,” you will say, “that gaunt old spectre in his attic with his +books, his tobacco, and his three flower-pots! He would not know that +there is such a word as love, did he not encounter it now and then in +his reading.” + +True, I have divided my days between the books in a rich man's +counting-room and those in my attic. True, again, I have never been more +than merely passable to look at, even in my best days. + +Yet I have loved a woman. + +During the five years when my elder brother lay in a hospital across +the river, where he died, it was my custom to visit him every Sunday. +I enjoyed the afternoon walk to the suburbs, when the air has more of +nature in it, especially that portion of the walk which lay upon the +bridge. More life than was usual upon the bridge moved there on Sunday. +Then the cars were crowded with people seeking the parks. Many crossed +on foot, stopping to look idly down at the dark and sluggish water. + +One afternoon, as I stood thus leaning over the parapet, the sound of +woman's gentle laugh caused me to turn and ocularly inquire its source. +The woman and a man were approaching. At the side of the woman walked +soberly a handsome dog, a collie. There was that in their appearance +and manner which plainly told me that here were husband and wife, of +the middle class, intelligent but poor, out for a stroll. That they were +quite devoted to each other was easily discoverable. + +The man looked about thirty years of age, was tall, slender, and was +neither strong nor handsome, but had an amiable face. He was doubtless a +clerk fit to be something better. The woman was perhaps twenty-four. She +was not quite beautiful, yet she was more than pretty. She was of good +size and figure, and the short plush coat that she wore, and the manner +in which she kept her hands thrust in the pockets thereof, gave to her +a dauntless air which the quiet and affectionate expression of her face +softened. + +She was a brunette, her eyes being large and distinctly dark brown, her +face having a peculiar complexion which is most quickly affected by any +change in health. + +The colour of her cheek, the dark rim under her eyes, and the other +indefinable signs, indicated some radical ailment. In the quick glance +that I had of that pair, while the woman was smiling, a feeling of pity +came over me. I have never detected the exact cause of that emotion. +Perhaps in the woman's face I read the trace of past bodily and mental +suffering; perhaps a subtle mark that death had already set there. + +Neither the woman nor her husband noticed me as they passed. The dog +regarded me cautiously with the corner of his eye. I probably would +never have thought of the three again had I not seen them upon the +bridge, under exactly the same circumstances, on the next Sunday. + +So these young and then happy people walked here every Sunday, I +thought. This, perhaps, was an event looked forward to throughout the +week. The husband, doubtless, was kept a prisoner and slave at his desk +from Monday morning until Saturday night, with respite only for eating +and sleeping. Such cases are common, even with people who can think +and have some taste for luxury, and who are not devoid of love for the +beautiful. + +The sight of happiness which exists despite the cruelty of fate and +man, and which is temporarily unconscious of its own liabilities to +interruption and extinction, invariably fills me with sadness, and the +sadness which arose at the contemplation of these two beings begat in me +a strange sympathy for an interest in them. + +On Sundays thereafter I would go early to the bridge and wait until +they passed, for it proved that this was their habitual Sunday walk. +Sometimes they would pause and join those who gazed down at the black +river. I would, now and again, resume my journey toward the hospital +while they thus stood, and I would look back from a distance. The bridge +would then appear to me an abrupt ascent, rising to the dense city, and +their figures would stand out clearly against the background. + +It became a matter of care to me to observe each Sunday whether the +health of either had varied during the previous week. The husband, +always pale and slight, showed little change and that infrequently. +But the fluctuations of the woman as indicated by complexion, gait, +expression and otherwise, were numerous and pronounced. Often she looked +brighter and more robust than on the preceding Sunday. Her face would be +then rounded out, and the dark crescents beneath her eyes would be less +marked. Then I found myself elated. + +But on the next Sunday the cheeks had receded slightly, the healthy +lustre of the eyes had given way to an ominous glow, the warning of +death had returned. Then my heart would sink, and, sighing, I would +murmur inaudibly: + +“This is one of the bad Sundays.” + +There came a time when every Sunday was a bad one. + +What made me love this woman? Simply the unmistakable completeness and +constancy of her devotion to her husband,--the absorption of the woman +in the wife. Had the strange ways of chance ever made known to her my +feelings, and had she swerved from that devotion even to render me back +love for love, then my own adoration for her would surely have departed. + +Yes, I loved her,--if to fill one's life with thoughts of a woman, if in +fancy to see her face by day and night, if to have the will to die for +her or to bear pain for her, if those and many more things mean love. + +My richest joy was to see her content with her husband, and the darkest +woe of my life was to anticipate the termination of their happiness. + +So the Sundays passed. One afternoon I waited until almost dusk, yet the +couple did not appear. + +For seven Sundays in succession I did not meet them upon their wonted +walk. + +On the eighth Sunday I saw the dog first, then the man. The latter was +looking over the railing. The woman was not with him. Apprehensively I +sought with my eyes his face. Much grief and loneliness were depicted +there. + +Was he or I the greater mourner? I wondered. + +I suppose two years passed after that day ere I again beheld the +widower--whose name I did not and probably never shall know--upon +the bridge. The dog was not with him this time. It was a fine, sunny +afternoon in May. Grief was no longer in his face. By his side was a +very pretty, animated, rosy little woman whom I had never seen before. +They walked close to each other, and she looked with the utmost +tenderness into his face. She evidently was not yet entirely accustomed +to the wedding-ring which I observed on her finger. + +I think that tears came to my eyes at this sight. Those great brown +eyes, the plush sack, the lovely face that had borne the impress of +sorrow so speedily, had felt death--those might never have existed, so +soon had they been forgotten by the one being in the world for whom that +face had worn the aspect of a perfect love. + +Yet one upon whom those eyes never rested has remembered. And surely the +memory of her is mine to wed, since he, whose right was to cherish it, +has allowed himself to be divorced from it in so brief a time. + +The memory of her is with me always, fills my soul, beautifies my life, +makes green and radiant this existence which all who know me think cold, +bleak, empty, repellent. + +You will not laugh, then, my friend, when I tell you that love is not to +me a thing unknown. + + * * * * * + +So runs a part of the last letter to my father that the old bookkeeper +ever wrote. + + + + +IV. -- THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_.Copyright, 1892, by J.B. +Lippincott Company.] + +Mr. Mogley was an actor of what he termed the “old school.” He railed +against the prevalence of travelling theatrical troupes, and when he +attitudinized in the barroom, his left elbow upon the brass rail, his +right hand encircling a glass of foaming beer, he often clamoured for +a return of the system of permanently located dramatic companies, and +sighed at the departure of the “palmy days.” + +A picturesque figure, typical of an almost bygone race of such figures, +was Mogley at these moments, his form being long and attenuated, +his visage smooth and of angular contour, his facial mildness really +enhanced by the severity which he attempted to impart to his countenance +when he conversed with such of his fellow men as were not of “the +profession.” + +Like Mogley's style of acting, his coat was old. But, although neither +he nor any of his acquaintances suspected it, his heart was young. He +still waited and hoped. + +For Mogley's long professional career had not once been brightened by +a distinct success. He had never made what the men and women of his +occupation designate a hit, or even what the dramatic critics wearily +describe as a “favourable impression.” This he ascribed to lack of +opportunity, as he was merely human. Mr. and Mrs. Mogley eagerly sent +for the newspapers on the morning after each opening night and sought +the notices of the performance. These records never contained a word of +either praise or censure for Mogley. + +Mrs. Mogley had first met Mogley when she was a soubrette and he a +“walking gentleman.” It was his Guildenstern (or it may have been his +Rosencrantz) that had won her. Shortly after their marriage there came +to her that life-ailment which made it impossible for her to continue +acting. She had swallowed her aspirations, shedding a few tears. She +lived in the hope of his triumph, and, as she had more time to think +than he had, she suffered more keenly the agony of yearning unsatisfied. + +She was a little, fragile being, with large pale blue eyes, and a face +from which the roses had fled when she was twenty. But she was very much +to Mogley: she did his planning, his thinking, the greater part of his +aspiring. She always accompanied him upon tours, undergoing cheerfully +the hard life that a player at “one-night stands” must endure in the +interest of art. + +This continued through the years until last season. Then when Mogley was +about to start “on the road” with the “Two Lives for One” Company, +the doctor said that Mrs. Mogley would have to stay in New York or +die,--perhaps die in any event. So Mogley went alone, playing the +melodramatic father in the first act, and later the secondary villain, +who in the end drowns the principal villain in the tank of real water, +while his heart was with the pain-racked little woman pining away in the +small room at the top of the dingy theatrical boarding-house on Eleventh +Street. + +The “Two Lives for One” Company “collapsed,” as the newspapers say, +in Ohio, three months after its departure from New York; this +notwithstanding the tank of real water. Mogley and the leading actress +overtook the manager at the railway station, as he was about to flee, +and extorted enough money from him to take them back to New York. + +Mogley had not returned too soon to the small room at the top of the +house on Eleventh Street. He turned paler than his wife when he saw her +lying on the bed. She smiled through her tears,--a really heartrending +smile. + +“Yes, Tom, I've changed much since you left, and not for the better. I +don't know whether I can live out the season.” + +“Don't say that, Alice, for God's sake!” + +“I would be resigned, Tom, if only--if only you would make a success +before I go.” + +“If only I could get the chance, Alice!” + +As the days went by, Mrs. Mogley rapidly grew worse. She seemed to fail +perceptibly. But Mogley had to seek an engagement. They could not live +on nothing. Mrs. Jones would wait with the daily increasing board-bill, +but medicine required cash. Each evening, when Mogley returned from his +tour of the theatrical agencies of Fourteenth Street and of Broadway, +the ill woman put the question, almost before he opened the door: + +“Anything yet?” + +“Not yet. You see this is the bad part of the season. Ah, the profession +is overcrowded!” + +But one Monday afternoon he rushed up the stairs, his face aglow. In the +dark, narrow hallway on the top floor he met the doctor. + +“Mrs. Mogley has had a sudden turn for the worse,” said the physician, +abruptly. “I'm afraid she won't live until midnight.” + +Doctors need not give themselves the trouble to “break news gently” in +cases where they stand small chances of remuneration. + +Mogley staggered. It was cruel that this should occur just when he had +such good news. But an idea occurred to him. Perhaps the good news would +reanimate her. + +“Alice,” he cried, as he threw open the door, “you must get well! My +chance has come. The tide, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune, +is here.” + +She sat up in bed, trembling. “What is it, Tom?” + +“This. Young Hopkins asked me to have a drink at the Hoffman this +afternoon, and, while I was in there, Hexter, who managed the 'Silver +King' Company the season I played Coombe, came in all rattled. 'Why this +extravagant wrath?' Hopkins asked, in his picturesque way. Then Hexter +explained that his revival of Wilkins' old burlesque on 'Faust' couldn't +be put on to-night, because Renshaw, who was to be the Mephisto, was too +sick to walk. 'No one else knows the part,' Hexter said. Then I told him +I knew the part; how I'd played Valentine to Wilkins' Mephisto when the +piece was first produced before these Gaiety people brought their 'Faust +up-to-date' from London. You remember how, as Wilkins was given to late +dinners and too much ale, he made me understudy his Mephisto, and if the +piece had run more'n two weeks, I'd probably had a chance to play it. +Well, Hexter said, as everything was ready to put on the piece, if +I thought I was up in the part, he'd let me try it. So we went to +Renshaw's room and got the part and here it is.” + +“But, Tom, burlesque isn't in your line.” + +“Isn't it? Anything's in my line. 'Versatility is the touchstone +of power.' That's where we of the old stock days come in! Besides, +burlesque is the thing now. Look at Leslie, and Wilson, and Hopper, and +Powers. They're the men who draw the salaries nowadays. If I make a hit +in this part, my fortune is sure.” + +“But Hexter's Theatre is on the Bowery.” + +“That doesn't matter. Hexter pays salaries.” + +Objections like this last one had often been made, and as often overcome +in the same words. + +“And then besides--why, Alice, what's the matter?” + +She had fallen back on the bed with a feeble moan. He leaned over her. +Slowly she opened her eyes. + +“Tom, I'm afraid I'm dying.” + +Then Mogley remembered the doctor's words. Alice dying! Life was hard +enough even when he had her to sustain his courage. What would it be +without her? + +The typewritten part had fallen on the bed. He pushed it aside. + +“Hexter and his Mephisto be d----d!” said Mogley. “I shall stay at home +with you to-night.” + +“No, no, Tom: your one chance, remember! If you should make a hit before +I die, I could go easier. It would brighten the next world for me until +you come to join me.” + +Mogley's weaker will succumbed to hers. So, with his right hand around +Mrs. Mogley's wrist, turning his eyes now and then to the clock in the +steeple which was visible through the narrow window, that he might know +when to administer her medicine, he held his “part” in his left hand and +refreshed his recollection of the lines. + +At seven o'clock, with a last pressure of her thin fingers, a kiss upon +her cheek where a tear lay, he left her. He had thought she was asleep, +but she murmured: + +“May God help you to-night, Tom! My thoughts will be at the theatre with +you. Good-bye.” + +Mrs. Jones's daughter had promised to look in at Mrs. Mogley now and +then during the evening, and to give her the medicine at the proper +intervals. + +Mogley reported to the stage manager, who showed him Renshaw's +dressing-room and gave him Renshaw's costume for the part. His mind ever +turning back to the little room at the top of the house and then to the +words and “business” of his part, he got into Renshaw's red tights and +crimson cape. Then he donned the scarlet cap and plume and pasted the +exaggerated eyebrows upon his forehead, while the stage manager stood +by, giving him hints as to new “business” invented by Renshaw. + +“You have the stage to yourself, you know, at that time, for a +specialty.” + +“Yes, I'll sing the song Wilkins did there. I see it's marked in the +part and the orchestra must be 'up' in it. In the second act I'll do +some imitations of actors.” + +At eight he was ready to go on the stage. + +“May God be with you!” reëchoed in his ear,--the echo of a weak voice +put forth with an effort. + +He heard the stage manager in front of the curtain announcing that, +“owing to Mr. Renshaw's sudden illness, the talented comedian, Mr. +Thomas Mogley, had kindly consented to play Mephisto, at short notice, +without a rehearsal.” + +He had never heard himself called a talented comedian before, and +he involuntarily held his head a trifle higher as the startling and +delicious words reached his ears. + +The opening chorus, the witless dialogue of secondary personages, then +an almost empty stage, old Faust alone remaining, and the entrance of +Mephisto. + +Some applause that came from people that had not heard the preliminary +announcement, and whose demonstration was intended for Renshaw, rather +disconcerted Mogley. Then, ere he had spoken a word, or his eyes +had ranged over the hazy lighted theatre on the other side of the +footlights, there sounded in the depths of his brain: + +“My thoughts will be at the theatre with you!” + +There were many vacant seats in the house. He singled out one of them on +the front row and imagined she was in it. He would play to that vacant +seat throughout the evening. + +In all burlesques of “Faust” the rôle of Mephisto is the leading comic +figure. The actor who assumes it undertakes to make people laugh. + +Mogley made people laugh that night, but it was not his intentional +humourous efforts that excited their hilarity. It was the man himself. +They began by jeering him quietly. Then the gallery grew bold. + +“Ah there, Edwin Booth!” sarcastically yelled an urchin aloft. + +“Oh, what a funny little man he is!” ironically quoted another from +a song in one of Mr. Hoyt's farces, alluding to Mogley's spare if +elongated frame. + +“He t'inks dis is a tragedy,” suggested a Bowery youth. + +But Mogley tried not to heed. + +In the second act some one threw an apple at him. Mogley laboured +zealously. The ribald gallery had often been his foe. Wait until such +and such a scene! He would show them how a pupil of the old stock +companies could play burlesque! Song and dance men from the varieties +had too long enjoyed undisputed possession of that form of drama. + +But, one by one, he passed his opportunities without capturing the +house. Nearer came the end of the piece. Slimmer grew his chance +of making the longed-for impression. The derision of the audience +increased. Now the gallery made comments upon his personal appearance. + +“He could get between raindrops,” yelled one, applying a recent speech +of Edwin Stevens, the comic opera comedian. + +And at home Mogley's wife was dying--holding to life by sheer power of +will, that she might rejoice with him over his triumph. Tears blinded +his eyes. Even the other members of the company were laughing at his +discomfiture. + +Only a little brunette in pink tights who played Siebel, and whom he had +never met before, had a look of sympathy for him. + +“It's a tough audience. Don't mind them,” she whispered. + +Mogley has never seen or heard of the little brunette since. But he +anticipates eventually to behold her ranking first after Alice among the +angels of heaven. + +The curtain fell and Mogley, somewhat dazed in mind, mechanically +removed his apparel, washed off his “make-up,” donned his worn street +attire and his haughty demeanour, and started for home. + +Home! Behind him failure and derision. Before him, Alice, dying, waiting +impatiently his return, the news of his triumph. + +“We won't need you to-morrow night, Mr. Mogley,” said the stage manager +as he reached the stage door. “Mr. Hexter told me to pay you for +to-night. Here's your money now.” + +Mogley took the envelope as in a dream, answered not a word, and +hastened homeward. He thought only: + +“To tell her the truth will kill her at once.” + +Mrs. Mogley was awake and in a fever of anticipation when Mogley entered +the little room. She was sitting up in bed, staring at him with shining +eyes. + +“Well, how was it?” she asked, quickly. + +Mogley's face wore a look of jubilant joy. + +“Success!” he cried. “Tremendous hit! The house roared! Called before +the curtain four times and had to make a speech!” + +Mogley's ecstasy was admirably simulated. It was a fine bit of acting. +Never before or since did Mogley rise to such a height of dramatic +illusion. + +“Ah, Tom, at last, at last! And, now, I must live till morning, to read +about it in the papers!” + +Mogley's heart fell. If the papers would mention the performance at all, +they would dismiss it in three or four lines, bestowing perhaps a word +of ridicule upon him. She was sure to see one paper, the one that the +landlady's daughter lent her every day. + +Mogley looked at the illuminated clock on the steeple across the way. A +quarter to twelve. + +“My love,” he said, “I promised Hexter I would meet him to-night at the +Five A's Club, to arrange about salary and so forth. I'll be gone only +an hour. Can you do without me that long?” + +“Yes, go; and don't let him have you for less than fifty dollars a +week.” + +Shortly after midnight the dramatic editor of that newspaper Miss Jones +daily lent to Mrs. Mogley, having sent up the last page of his notice of +the new play at Palmer's, was confronted by the office-boy ushering +to the side of his desk a tall, spare, smooth-faced man with a sober +countenance, an ill-concealed manner of being somewhat over-awed by his +surroundings, and a coat frayed at the edges. + +“I'm Mr. Thomas Mogley,” said this apparition. + +“Ah! Have a cigarette, Mr. Mogley?” replied the dramatic editor, +absently, lighting one himself. + +“Thank you, sir. I was this evening, but am not now, the leading +comedian of the company that played Wilkins's 'Faust' at the ---- +Theatre. I played Mephisto.” (He had begun his speech in a dignified +manner, but now he spoke quickly and in a quivering voice.) “I was a +failure--a very great failure. My wife is extremely ill. If she knew I +was a failure, it would kill her, so I told her I made a success. I have +really never made a success in my life. She is sure to read your paper +to-morrow. Will you kindly not speak of my failure in your criticism +of the performance? She cannot live later than to-morrow morning, and I +should not like--you see--I have never deigned to solicit favours from +the press before, sir, and--” + +“I understand, Mr. Mogley. It's very late, but I'll see what I can do.” + +Mogley passed out, walking down the five flights of stairs to the +street, forgetful of the elevator. + +The dramatic editor looked at his watch. “Half-past twelve,” he said; +then, to a man at another desk: + +“Jack, I can't come just yet. I'll meet you at the club. Order devilled +crabs and a bottle of Bass for me.” + +He ran up-stairs to the night editor. “Mr. Dorney, have you the theatre +proofs? I'd like to make a change in one of the theatre notices.” + +“Too late for the first edition, my boy. Is it important?” + +“Yes, an exceptional case. I'll deem it a personal favour.” + +“All right. I'll get it in the city edition. Here are the proofs.” + +“Let's see,” mused the dramatic editor, looking over the wet proofs. +“Who covered the ---- Theatre to-night? Some one in the city department. +I suppose he 'roasted' Gugley, or whatever his name is. Ah, here it is.” + +And he read on the proof: + +“The revival of an ancient burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last +night was without any noteworthy feature save the pitiful performance +of the part of Mephisto by a doleful gentleman named Thomas Mogley, who +showed not the faintest of humour and who was tremendously guyed by +a turbulent audience. Mr. Mogley was temporarily taking the place of +William Renshaw, a funmaker of more advanced methods, who will appear in +the rôle to-night. There are some pretty girls and agile dancers in the +company.” + +Which the dramatic editor changed to read as follows: + +“The revival of a familiar burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last +night was distinguished by a decidedly novel and original embodiment +of Mephisto by Thomas Mogley, a trained and painstaking comedian. His +performance created an abundance of merriment, and it was the manifest +thought of the audience that a new type of burlesque comedian had been +discovered.” + +All of which was literally true. And the dramatic editor laughed over it +later over his bottle of white label at the club. + +By what power Mrs. Mogley managed to keep alive until morning I do not +know. The dull gray light was stealing into the little room through the +window as Mogley, leaning over the bed, held a fresh newspaper close +to her face. Her head was propped up by means of pillows. She laughed +through her tears. Her face was all gladness. + +“A new--comedian--discovered,” she repeated. “Ah, Tom, at last! That is +what I lived for! I can die happy now. We've made a--great--hit--Tom--” + +The voice ceased. There was a convulsion at her throat. Nothing stirred +in the room. From the street below came the sound of a passing car and a +boy's voice, “Morning papers.” Mogley was weeping. + +The dead woman's hand clutched the paper. Her face wore a smile. + + + + +V. -- OUT OF HIS PAST + +This is no fable; it is the hardest kind of fact. I met Craddock not +more than a week ago. His inebriety prevented his recognizing me. + +What a joyous, hopeful man he was upon the day of his marriage! He +looked toward the future as upon a cloudless spring dawn one looks +forward to the day. + +He had sown his wild oats and had already reaped a crop of knowledge. +“I have put the past behind me,” he said. And he thought it would stay +there. + +He married one of the sweetest and best of women. The match was an ideal +one--exceptionally so. His wife's mother objected to it and moved away +on account of it. “That's a detail,” said Craddock. + +There are details and details. The importance of any one of them depends +on circumstances. + +Craddock had all the qualities and attributes requisite to make him a +son-in-law to the liking of his mother-in-law--lack of money. + +So she went to live in Boston, maintained a chilly correspondence with +her daughter, and bided her time. + +Craddock had had his old loves, a fact that he did not attempt to +conceal from his wife. She insisted upon his telling her about them, +although the narration put her into manifest vexation of mind. Such is +the way of young wives. + +There was one love about which Craddock said less than about any of the +others, because it had encroached more upon his life than any of them. +It had nearly approached being a serious affair. He had a delicacy +concerning the mention of it, too, for he flattered himself that the +flame, although entirely extinguished upon his own side, yet smouldered +deep in the heart of the woman. Therefore, he spoke of that episode in +vague and general terms. + +Strange as it seemed to Craddock, clear as it is to any student of men +and women, it was this amour that excited the most curiosity in the mind +of his wife. + +“What was her name?” asked the latter. + +“Agnes Darrell.” + +“I don't think she has a pretty name, at all events.” + +“Oh, that was only her stage name. I really don't remember what her real +name was.” + +This was a judicious falsehood. + +“Well, I'm sorry that you ever made love to actresses. I'm afraid I +can't think as much of you after knowing--” + +“After knowing that the first sight of you drove the memory of all +actresses and other women in the world out of my head,” cried Craddock, +with a merry fervour that made his speech irresistible. + +So they persisted in being extremely happy together for three years, to +the grinding chagrin of Craddock's mother-in-law in Boston. + +One July Friday, Craddock's wife was at the seashore, while Craddock, +who ran down each Saturday to remain with her until Monday, was battling +with his work and the heat and the summer insects, in his office in the +city. Mrs. Craddock received her mail, two letters addressed to her at +the seaside, two forwarded from the city whither they had first come. + +Of the latter one was a milliner's announcement of removal. The other +was in a large envelope, and the address was in a chirography unknown to +her. The large envelope contained a smaller one. + +This second envelope was addressed to Miss Agnes Darrell, ---- Hotel, +Chicago, in the handwriting of Craddock. + +The feelings of Craddock's wife are imaginable. She took from this +already opened second envelope the letter that it contained. It also was +in Craddock's penmanship. She succeeded in a semistupefied condition in +reading it to the end. + +“May 13. + +“My Dearest Agnes:--I have just a moment in which to tell you the old +story that one heart, thousands of miles east of you, beats for you +alone. With what joy do I anticipate the early ending of the season, +when, like young Lochinvar, you will come out of the West. I shall +contrive to be with you as often as possible this summer. With renewed +vows of my unalterable devotion, I must hastily say good night. + +“Yours always, + +“Jack.” + +Any who seek a new emotion would ask for nothing more than Craddock's +wife then experienced. It was not until the first shock had given away +to a calm, stupendous indignation that she began to comment upon the +epistle in detail. + +“May 13th--at that very time Jack was sighing at the thought of my being +away from him during the hot weather and telling me how he would miss +me. All deception! His heart at that very time was beating for her +alone. And he would contrive to see her as often as possible this +summer--during my absence!” + +It was then that Craddock's wife learned the great value of pride +and anger as a compound antidote to overwhelming grief in certain +circumstances. + +When Craddock, quite unarmed, rushed to meet her at the seashore upon +the next evening, she was en route for Boston. + +In several ensuing years, Craddock's wife's mother took care that every +communication from him, every demand for an explanation, every piteous +plea for enlightenment, for one interview, should be ignored. The mother +sent the girl to relatives in Europe; and after Craddock had spent three +years and all the money that he had saved toward the buying of a house +for his wife and himself, in trying to cross her path that he might have +a moment's hearing, he came back home and went to the dogs. + +He would have killed himself had not hope remained--the hope that some +chance turn of events would bring him face to face with her, that he +might know wherefore his punishment. He would have proudly resolved to +forget her, and he would have striven day and night to make a name that +some day would reach her ears whereever she might go, had he not felt +that some terrible mistake had taken her from him; time would eventually +rectify matters. As hope bade him live and as his inability to forget +her made it impossible for him to put his thoughts upon work, he became +a drunkard. + +He might not have done so had he been you or I; but he was only +Craddock, and whether or not you find his offence beyond the extent of +palliation, the fact is that he drank himself penniless and entirely +beyond the power of his own will to resume respectability. + +Naturally his friends abandoned him. + +“Craddock is making a beast of himself,” said one who had formerly sat +at his table. “To give him money merely accelerates the process.” + +“When a man loses all self-respect, how can he expect to retain the +sympathy of other people?” queried a second. + +“I never thought much of a man who would go to the gutter on account of +a woman. It shows a lack of stamina,” observed a third. + +All of which was true. But particular cases have exceptionally +aggravating circumstances. Special combinations may produce results +which, although seemingly under human control, are almost, if not quite, +inevitable. + +One day Craddock's wife came back to him. In Paris she had made a +discovery. She had kept the letter from Jack to the actress in a box +that always accompanied her. Opening this box suddenly, her eye fell +upon the postmark, stamped upon the envelope. She had never noticed +this before. She knew that the date written above the letter itself was +incomplete, the year not being indicated. According to the postmark, the +year was 1875. + +That was four years before Jack married her; two years before he first +saw her. + +She had always supposed the sending of the letter to her to be the act +of some jealous rival of Jack's for the actress's affection. Now she +knew not to what it might have been attributable. + +When she arrived at the hospital where Craddock was recovering from the +effects of an unconscious attempt at suicide, she was ten years older, +in fact, than when she had left him; twenty years older in appearance. +She took him home and has been trying to make a man of him. She +manifests toward him limitless patience and tenderness, and she +tolerates uncomplainingly his bi-weekly carousals. But she can afford +to, having come into possession of a small fortune at her mother's +recent death. + +Craddock is amiably content with her. He cannot bring himself to regard +her as the beautiful young bride of his youth. So little remains of her +former charm, her former vivacity and girlishness, that it seems as if +Craddock's wife of other times had died. + +A few days ago, I met at the Sheepshead Races a _passée_ actress who was +telling about the conquests of her early career. + +“There was one young fellow awfully infatuated with me,” she said, “who +used to write me the sweetest letters. I kept them long after he stopped +caring for me, until he was married; then I destroyed them. I found one +short one, though, in an old handbag some years after, and, just for a +joke I mailed it to his wife at his old address. I don't suppose it ever +reached her, though, or he would have acknowledged it, for the sake of +old times. I wonder whatever became of Jack Craddock. People used to say +he had a bright future--I say, tell that messenger-boy to come here! I'm +going to put five on Tenny for this next race. And you'll lend me the +five, won't you?” + + + + +VI. -- THE NEW SIDE PARTNER + +A chance in life is like worldly greatness--to which, indeed, it is +commonly a requisite preliminary. Some are born with it, some achieve +it, and some have it thrust upon them. + +There is a youth who has had it thrust upon him. What he will do with it +remains to be seen. Know the story, which is true in every detail save +in two proper names: + +The midnight train from New York, which crawls out of the Jersey City +ferry station at 12:25, is usually doleful, especially in the ordinary +cars. One who cannot sleep easily therein has a weary two or three +hours' time to Philadelphia. Almost any equally wakeful companion is +then a source of joy. + +A girl of medium size, wearing a veil, and being rather carelessly +attired in dark clothes which fitted a charming figure, walked jauntily +up the aisle, saw that no seat was entirely vacant, and therefore, after +a hasty glance at me, sat down beside me. + +Had not the two very young men in the seat behind us drunk too much +wine that night in New York, the girl and I might never have exchanged a +word. But the conversation of the youths was such as to cause between us +the intercommunication of smiles, and eventually of speeches. + +Then casual observations about the fulness of the car, the time of the +train, and our respective destinations,--mine being Philadelphia, +hers being Baltimore, led to the revelation that she was a constant +traveller, because she was an actress. She had been a soubrette in +musical farce, but lately she had belonged to a variety and burlesque +company. She had gone upon the stage when she was thirteen, and she was +now twenty. + +“What kind of an act do you do?” I asked, in the language of the variety +“profession.” + +“Oh, I can do almost anything,” she said, in a tone of a self-possessed, +careless, and vivacious woman. “I sing well enough, and I can dance +anything, a skirt dance, a clog, a Mexican fandango, a Carmencita kind +of step, anything at all. I don't know when I ever learned to dance. I +didn't learn, it just came to me; but the best thing I do is whistling. +I'm not afraid of any man in the business when it's a case of whistling. +There's no fake about my whistle; it's the real thing. I can whistle any +sort of music that goes.” + +“Your company appears in Baltimore this week?” + +“Oh, no! I've left the company. You see, I've been off for six weeks on +account of illness, and now I'm going over to Baltimore to my father's +funeral. He is to be buried to-morrow. See, here's the telegram. I've +been having hard lines lately. I've not had any sleep for three days, +and I won't get to Baltimore till daylight. I want to start back to New +York to-morrow night, if I can raise the stuff. I had just enough money +to get a ticket to Baltimore, and now I'm dead broke.” + +Then she laughed and got me to untie her veil. When it was removed, I +saw a frank young face with an abundance of soft brown hair. About the +light blue eyes were the marks of fatigue, and the colour of the cheeks +further confirmed her account of loss of sleep. + +Her feet pattered softly upon the floor of the car. + +“I'm doing a single shuffle,” she said, in explanation of the movement +of her feet. “If you could do one too, we might do a double.” + +“Do you do your act alone on the stage?” I asked, “or are you one of a +team?” + +“We're a team. My side partner's a man. It pays better that way. We +get $40 a week and transportation. I used to get only $12 except when +I stood around and posed, then I got $35 and had to pay my own railroad +fare. You can bet I have a good figure, when I get $35 for that alone! +I handle the money of the team and I divide it even between us. I don't +believe in the man getting nine-tenths of the stuff, do you? Besides, +I'm older than my partner is. I put him in the business.” + +“How was that?” + +“Oh, I picked him up on the street in New York. I saw that he had a good +voice and was a bright kid, so I took him for my partner.” + +“But tell me how it came about.” + +She was quite willing to do so. And the rumbling of the wheels, the rush +of the train over the night-swathed plains of New Jersey, accompanied +her voice. All the other passengers were sleeping. To the following +effect was her narrative: + +At evening a crowd of boys had gathered at the corner of Broadway and +a down-town street. One of them--ragged, unkempt, but handsome--was +singing and dancing for the diversion of the others. That way came the +variety actress, then out of an engagement. She stopped, heard the boy +sing, and saw him dance. She pushed through the crowd to him. + +“How did you learn to dance?” she asked. + +“Didn't ever learn,” he said, with impudent sullenness. + +“Who taught you to sing?” + +“None o' yer business.” + +“But who did teach you?” + +“Nobody.” + +“What's your name?” + +“None of your business.” + +“Will you come along with me into the restaurant over there?” + +“No.” + +But presently he was induced to go, although he continued to answer her +questions in the savage, distrustful manner of his class. They went into +a cheap eating-house and saloon, through the “Ladies' Entrance,” and +while they sat at a table there, she learned by means of resolute and +patient questions that the boy earned his living by blacking shoes now +and then, and that he did not know who his parents were, as he had been +“put” with a family whose ill-usage he had fled from to live in the +street. He began to melt under her manifestations of interest in him, +and with pretended reluctance he gave his promise to wash his face and +hands and to call upon her that evening at the theatrical boarding-house +on Twenty-seventh Street where she was living. Then she left him. + +When he called, she took him to her room and induced him to allow her to +comb his hair. A deal of persuasion was necessary to this. Then she +took him out and bought him a cheap suit of clothes on the Bowery. A +half-hour later he was standing with her in the wings at Miner's Variety +Theatre. A man and woman were doing a song and dance upon the stage. + +“Watch that man,” the actress said to the boy of the streets. “I want +you to do that sort of an act with me one of these days.” + +When he had thus received his first lesson, she led him back to the +theatrical boarding-house, and in her room he showed her what ability he +had picked up as a singer and dancer. She secured a room for him in the +house, and she had the precaution to lock him in lest he should take +fright at his novel change of surroundings and flee in the night. When +she released him on the next morning she found him docile and cheerful. + +She escorted him into the big dining-room to breakfast. + +“Who's your friend, Lil?” asked a certain actor whose name is known from +Portland to Portland. + +“He's my new side partner,” she said, looking at the boy, who was not in +the least abashed at the bold gaze of the negligently dressed soubrettes +and the chaffing comedians who sat at the tables. + +Everybody laughed. “What can he do?” was the general question. + +“Get out there and show them, young one,” she said, pointing to the +centre of the dining-room. + +The boy obeyed without timidity. When he had sung and danced, there was +hilarious applause. + +“Good for the kid,” said the well-known actor. “What are you going to do +with him, Lil?” + +“I'm going to try to get an engagement for us together in Rose St. +Clair's Burlesque Company.” + +“I'll help you,” said the actor. “I know Rose. I'll go and see her right +away, and you come there with the kid about 11 o'clock.” + +When the girl and her protégé arrived at the boarding-house of the fat +manageress they found that the actor had so far kept his promise as to +have inveigled her into a condition of alcoholic amiability. She asked +them what they could do. Each one sang and danced, and the girl, who +also whistled, outlined to the manageress her idea of an “act” in which +the two should appear. There was a hitch when the question of salary +arose. The girl fixed upon $40. Rose thought that amount was too large. +Lil adhered to her terms, and was about to leave without having made +an agreement, when the manageress called her back, and a contract for a +three weeks' engagement was signed at once. + +The period between that day and the beginning of the engagement, +which subsequently opened at Miner's Theatre, was spent by the girl +in coaching her protégé. He was a year younger than she, a fact which +tended to increase the influence that she promptly obtained over him. +His sullenness having been overcome, he became a devoted and apt +pupil. Having beheld himself in neat clothes and acquired habits +of cleanliness, he speedily developed into a handsome youth of soft +disposition and good behaviour. + +The new song and dance “team” was successful. The boy quickly gained +applause, and especially did he easily win the liking of such women as +he met or appeared before. A new world was open to him. Naturally he +enjoyed the easy conquests that he made in the curious, careless circle +into which he had been brought. + +He is still having his “fling.” But he has been from the first most +obedient and unquestioning to his benefactress. He goes nowhere, does +nothing, without previously obtaining permission from her. + +She is proud of the advancement that he has accomplished already, and +she is determined to make him a conspicuous figure upon the stage. + +What is it that actuates this girl in her endeavour to elevate this boy +in the world? What the mystery that brought to the gamin this guardian +angel in the form of a variety actress who mingles bright sayings with +lack of grammar, who tells Rabelaisian anecdotes in one minute and +philosophizes in slang about the issues of life the next? + +“You're in love with him, aren't you?” I said, as the train plunged on +through the darkness. + +“I don't know whether I am or not. He's just a kid, you know. I suppose +the proper end of such a romance is that we should marry. But then I +wouldn't be married to a man that I couldn't look up to.” + +“But women don't invariably love that way. I'm sure you're in love with +the boy. Have you never thought as to whether you were or not?” + +“Have I? I should smile! I thought of it even on the first night, +after I picked him up, when I locked him in his room. But I have always +regarded him in a sort of motherly way, although only a year older. It +seems kind of unnatural for me to love him as a woman loves a man. If he +was only older!” + +“Ah, that wish is sure evidence that you love him!” + +“One thing I do know is that, though he always obeys me, he doesn't care +as much for me as I do for him.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“He wouldn't think so much of other girls if he did. He doesn't look +upon me as a woman for him to fall in love with. He regards me as +an older sister. Why, he never even takes a girl to supper after the +performance without asking my permission.” + +“And you give it?” + +“Yes; but he never knows how I feel when I do.” + +“And how do you feel then?” + +“The first time he asked me, it was like a knife going through me. I +haven't got used to it yet.” + +She paused for a time before adding: + +“But, anyhow, he's going to make a name for himself some day. He has it +in him. I'm not the only one that thinks so. I'm trying now to get him +to go to a school of acting, but he thinks variety is good enough for +him. He'll get over that, though.” + +She spoke so tenderly and yet so proudly of him, that I could not +without a pang of pity meditate upon the probable outcome of this +attachment, which, according to the logic of realists, will be the boy's +eventual success in life, long after he will have forgotten the hand +that lifted him out of the depth in which he first opened his eyes. + +He knows nothing of his parentage. His benefactress once sought, by +means of Inspector Byrnes's penetrating eye, to pierce the clouds +surrounding his origin, but the inspector smiled at the hopelessness of +the attempt. + +“Where is he now?” I asked. + +“I left him in New York,” she said. “I suppose he'll blow in all his +money as soon as he can possibly manage to do so.” + +And she laughed and did another “shuffle” with her feet upon the floor +of the car. + + + + +VII. -- THE NEEDY OUTSIDER + +There was animation at the Nocturnal Club at three o'clock in the +morning. The city reporters who had been dropping in since midnight were +now reinforced by telegraph editors, for the country editions of the +big dailies were already being rushed in light wagons over the sounding +stones to the railroad stations. + +The cheery and urbane African--naturally called Delmonico by the +habitués of the Nocturnal Club--found his time crowded in serving +bottled beer, sandwiches, or boiled eggs to the groups around the +tables. + +To a large group in the back room Fetterson related how he had once +missed the last car at the distant extremity of West Philadelphia, and, +failing to find a cab west of Broad Street, had walked fifty blocks +after midnight and had still succeeded in getting his report in the +second edition and thus making a “beat on the town.” + +Then spoke up a needy outsider whom Fetterson had brought in at one +o'clock. + +I neglected to mention Fetterson's penchant for queer company. It is +quite right that reporters know policemen, are on chaffing terms with +night cabmen, and have large acquaintance with pugilists and even +with “crooks.” But Fetterson picks up the most remarkable and +out-of-the-way--not to speak of out-at-elbows--specimens of mankind, +craft in distress on the sea of humanity. The needy outsider was his +latest acquisition. + +It is enough to say of this destitute acquaintance of Fetterson's that +he was a ragged man needing a shave. In daylight, in the country, you +would have termed him a tramp. Hitherto he had sat in our group in +silence. When he opened his mouth to discourse, it was natural that he +should have a prompt and somewhat curious hearing. + +“Speaking of walking,” he said, “I have walked a bit in my time. Mostly, +though, I've rode--on freight-cars. The longest straight tramp I ever +made was from Harrisburg to Philadelphia once when the trains weren't +running. The cold weather made walking unpleasant. But what do you think +of a woman--no tramp woman, either--starting from Pittsburg to walk to +Philadelphia?” + +“Oh, there is a so-called actress who recently walked from San Francisco +to New York,” put in some one. + +“Yes, but she took her time, and had all the necessaries of life on the +way. She walked for an advertisement. The woman I speak of walked in +order to get there. She walked because she hadn't the money to pay her +fare. Her husband was with her, to be sure. He was a pal o' mine. +You see, it was a hard winter, years ago, and work was so scarce in +Pittsburg that the husband had to remain idle until the two had begun +to starve. He had some education, and had been an office clerk. At that +time of his life he couldn't have stood manual labour. Still he tried to +get it, for he was willing to do anything to keep a lining to his skin. +If you've never been in his predicament, you can't realize how it is +and you won't believe it possible. But I've known more than one man to +starve because he couldn't get work and wouldn't take public charity. +Starvation was the prospect of this young fellow and his wife. So they +decided to leave Pittsburg and come to Philadelphia, where they thought +it would be easier for the husband to get work. + +“'But how can we get there?' the husband asked. + +“She was a plucky girl and had known hardship, although she was frail to +look at. + +“'Walk,' she replied. + +“And two days later they started.” + +The outsider paused and lighted a forbidding-looking pipe. + +When he resumed his narrative he spoke in a lower tone. The +recollections that he called up seemed to stir him within, although he +was calm enough of exterior. + +“I won't describe the experience of my pal on that trip. It was his +first tramp. He knew nothing of the art of vagabondage. Of course they +had to beg. That was tough, although he got used to it and to many +tricks in the trade. They slept in barns and they ate when and where +they could. It cut him to the heart to see his wife in such hunger +and fatigue. But her spirits kept up better than his--or at least they +seemed to. Often he repented of having started upon such a trip. But he +kept that to himself. + +“When the wife did at last give in to the cold, the hunger, and the +weariness, it was to collapse all at once. It happened in the mountain +country. In the evening of a cold, dull day they were trudging along on +the railroad ties, keeping on the west-bound track so they could face +approaching trains and get off the track in time to avoid being run +down. + +“'We'll stop in the town ahead,' the husband said. 'We can get warm in +the station, and you shall have supper if we have to knock at every door +in the town.' + +“And the wife said: + +“'Yes, we'll stop, for I feel, Harry, as if--as if I couldn't--go any +fur--Harry, where are you?' + +“She fell forward on the track. When the man picked her up she was +unconscious. Clasping her in his arms, he set his teeth and fixed his +eyes on the lights of the town ahead and hurried forward. + +“But before he reached the town, he found it was a dead body he was +carrying. + +“You see she had kept up until the very last moment, in the hope of +reaching the town before dark. + +“What the man did, how he felt when he discovered that her heart had +ceased to beat, there in the solitude upon the mountains, with the town +in sight at the foot of the slope in the gathering night, I can leave to +the vivid imaginations of you newspaper men. For four hours he mourned +over her body by the side of the track, and those in the train that +passed could not see him for the darkness. + +“Then my pal took the body in his arms and started up the mountain, for +the track at that point passed through what they call a cut, and the +hills rise steep on each side of it. He had his prejudices against +pauper burial, my pal had, and he shrunk from going to the town and +begging a grave for her. He didn't need a doctor's certificate to tell +him that life had gone for ever from her fragile body. He knew that she +had died of cold and exhaustion. + +“As he turned the base of the hill to begin to descend it, he saw in the +clouded moonlight a deserted railroad tool-house by the track. In front +of it lay a broken, rusty spade. He shouldered this and proceeded up the +mountain. It was a long walk, and he had to stop more than once to rest, +but he got to the top at last. There was a little clearing in the woods +here, where some one had camped. The ruins of a shanty still remained. + +“My pal laid down the body of her who had been his wife, with the dead +face turned toward the sky, which was beginning to be cleared of its +clouds. Then he started to dig. + +“It was a longer job than he had expected it to be, for my pal was tired +and numb. But the grave was made at last, upon the very summit of the +mountain. + +“He lifted up the body of that brave girl, he kissed the cold lips, and +he took off his coat and wrapped it carefully about the head, so that +the face would be protected from the earth. He stooped and laid the body +in the shallow grave, and he knelt down there and prayed. + +“He filled the grave up with earth with the broken spade that he had +used in digging it. All these things required a long time. He didn't +observe how the night was passing, nor that the sky became clear and the +stars shone and the moon crossed the zenith and began to descend in the +west. He didn't notice that the stars began to pale. But he worked on +until he had finished, and then he stopped and prayed again. + +“When he arose, his face was toward the east, and over the distant +hilltops he saw the purple of the dawn.” + +The outsider ceased to speak. + +“What then?” + +“That's all. My pal walked down the mountain, jumped upon the first +freight-train that passed, and has been a wanderer on the face of the +earth ever since.” + +There were various opinions expressed of this narrative. I quietly asked +the needy outsider as we left the club at sunrise: + +“Will you tell me who your pal was--the man who buried his wife on the +mountain-top?” + +There was contemptuous pity in the outsider's look as it dwelt a moment +upon me before he replied: “The man was myself.” + +And then he condescended to borrow a quarter from me. + + + + +VIII. -- TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE + +Tommy McGuffy was growing old. The skin of his attenuated face was so +shrunk and so stretched from wrinkle to wrinkle that it seemed narrowly +to escape breaking. About the pointed chin and the cheekbones it had the +colour of faded brick. + +Old Tommy had become so thin that he dared not venture to the top of the +hill above his native village of Rearward on a windy day. + +His knees bent comically when he walked. + +For some years the villagers had been counting the nephews and nieces to +whom the savings of the old retired dealer in dry-goods would eventually +descend. + +Ten thousand dollars and a house and lot constituted a heritage worth +anticipating in Rearward. + +The innocent old man was not upon terms of intimacy with his prospective +heirs. Having remained unmarried, his only close associates were two +who had been his companions in that remote period which had been his +boyhood. One of these, Jerry Hurley, was a childless widower, a very +estimable and highly respected man who owned two farms. The other, like +himself a bachelor, was Billy Skidmore, the sexton of the church, and, +therefore, the regulator of the town clock upon the steeple. + +There came a great shock to Tommy one day. As old Mrs. Sparks said, +Jerry Hurley, “all sudden-like, just took a notion and died.” + +The wealth and standing of Jerry Hurley insured him an imposing funeral. +They laid his body beside that which had once been his wife in Rearward +cemetery. His heirs possessed his farm, and time went on--slowly as it +always does at Rearward. Tommy went frequently to Hurley's grave and +wondered when his heirs would erect a monument to his memory. It is +necessary that your grave be marked with a monument if you would stand +high in that still society that holds eternal assembly beneath the pines +and willows, where only the breezes speak, and they in subdued voices. + +Years passed, and the grave of Tommy's old friend, Jerry, remained +unmarked. Jerry's relatives had postponed the duty so long that they +had grown callous to public opinion. Besides, they had other purposes to +which to apply Jerry's money. It was easy enough to avoid reproach; they +had only to refrain from visiting the graveyard. + +“Jerry never deserved such treatment,” Tommy would say to Billy the +sexton, as the two met to talk it over every sunny afternoon. + +“It's an outrage, that's what it is!” Billy would reply, for the +hundredth time. + +It was, in their eyes, an omission almost equal to that of baptism or +that of the funeral service. + +One day, as Tommy was aiding himself along the main street of Rearward +by means of a hickory stick, a frightful thought came to him. He turned +cold. + +What if his own heirs should neglect to mark his own grave? + +“I'll hurry home at once, and put the money for it in a stocking foot,” + thought Tommy, and his knees bent more than usually as he accelerated +his pace. + +But as he tied a knot in the stocking, came the fear that even this +money might be misapplied; even his will might be ignored, through +repeated postponement and the law's indifference. + +Who, save old Billy Skidmore, would care whether old Tommy McGuffy's +last resting-place were designated or not? Once let the worms begin +operations upon this antique morsel, what would it matter to Rearward +folks where the banquet was taking place? + +Tommy now underwent a second attack of horror, from which he came +victorious, a gleeful smile momentarily lifting the dimness from his +excessively lachrymal eyes. + +“I'll fix 'em,” he said to himself. “I'll go to-day to Ricketts, the +marble-cutter, and order my own tombstone.” + +Three months thereafter, Ricketts, the marble-cutter, untied the knot +in the stocking that had been Billy's and deposited the contents in the +local savings-bank. + +In the cemetery stood a monument very lofty and elaborate. Around it was +an iron fence. Within the enclosure there was no grave as yet. + +“Here,” said the monument, in deep-cut-letters, but bad English, “lies +all that remains of Thomas McGuffy, born in Rearward, November 11, 1820; +died----. Gone whither the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are +at rest.” + +This supplementary information was framed in the words of Tommy's +favourite passage in his favourite hymn. His liking for this was mainly +on account of its tune. + +He had left the date of his death to be inserted by the marble cutter +after its occurrence. + +Rearward folks were amused at sight of the monument, and they ascribed +the placing of it there to the eccentricity of a taciturn old man. + +Tommy seemed to derive much pleasure from visiting his tombstone on +mild days. He spent many hours contemplating it. He would enter the iron +enclosure, lock the gate after him, and sit upon the ground that was +intended some day to cover his body. + +He was a familiar sight to people riding or walking past the +graveyard,--this thin old man leaning upon his cane, contentedly +pondering over the inscription on his own tombstone. + +He undoubtedly found much innocent pleasure in it. + +One afternoon, as he was so engaged, he was assailed by a new +apprehension. + +Suppose that Ricketts, the marble-cutter, should fail to inscribe the +date of his death in the space left vacant for it! + +There was almost no likelihood of such an omission, but there was at +least a possibility of it. + +He glanced across the cemetery to Jerry Hurley's unmarked mound, and +shuddered. + +Then he thought laboriously. + +When he left the cemetery in such time as to avoid a delay of his +evening meal and a consequent outburst of anger on the part of his old +housekeeper, he had taken a resolution. + +“Threescore years and ten, says the Bible,” he muttered to himself as he +walked homeward. “The scriptural lifetime'll do for me.” + +A week thereafter old Tommy gazed proudly upon the finished inscription. + +“Died November 11, 1890,” was the newest bit of biography there +engraved. + +“But it's two years and more till November 11, 1890,” said a voice at +his side. + +Tommy merely cast an indifferent look upon the speaker and walked off +without a word. + +The whole village now thought that Tommy had become a monomaniac upon +the subject of his tombstone. Perhaps he had. No one has been able +to learn from his friend, Billy Skidmore, what thoughts he may have +communicated to the latter upon the matter. + +Tommy now lived for no other apparent purpose than to visit his +tombstone daily. He no longer confined his walks thither to the pleasant +days. He went in weather most perilous to so old and frail a man. + +One of his prospective heirs took sufficient interest in him to advise +more care of his health. + +“I can easily keep alive till the time comes,” returned the antique; +“there's only a year left.” + +Rapidly his hold upon life relaxed. A week before November 11, 1890, he +went to bed and stayed there. People began to speculate as to whether +his unique prediction--or I should say, his decree--would be fulfilled +to the very day. + +Upon the fifth day of his illness Death threatened to come before the +time that had been set for receiving him. + +“Isn't this the tenth?” the old man mumbled. + +“No,” said his housekeeper, who with one of his nieces, the doctor, and +Billy Skidmore, attended the ill man, “it's only the 9th.” + +“Then I must fight for two days more; the tombstone must not lie.” + +And he rallied so well that it seemed as if the tombstone would lie, +nevertheless, for Tommy was still alive at eleven-thirty on the night +of November 11. Moreover he had been in his senses when last awake, and +there was every likelihood that he would look at the clock whenever his +eyes should next open. + +“He can't live till morning, that's sure,” said the doctor. + +“But, good Lord! you don't mean to say that he'll hold out till after +twelve o'clock,” said Billy Skidmore, whose anxiety only had sustained +him in his grief at the approaching dissolution of his friend. + +“Quite probably,” replied the doctor. + +“Good heavens! Tommy won't rest easy in his grave if he don't die on the +11th. The monument will be wrong.” + +“Oh, that won't matter,” said the niece. + +Billy looked at her in amazement. Was his old friend's sacred wish to +miscarry thus? + +“Yes, 'twill matter,” he said, in a loud whisper. “And if time won't +wait for Tommy of its own accord, we'll make it. When did he last see +the clock?” + +“Half-past nine,” said the housekeeper. + +“Then we'll turn it back to ten,” said Skidmore, acting as he spoke. + +“But he may hear the town clock strike.” + +Billy said never a word, but plunged into his overcoat, threw on his +hat, and hurried on into the cold night. + +“Ten minutes to midnight,” he said, as he looked up at the town clock +upon the church steeple. “Can I skin up them ladders in time?” + +Tommy awoke once before the last slumber. Billy was by his bedside, +as were the doctor, the housekeeper, and the niece. The old man's eyes +sought the clock. + +“Eleven,” he murmured. Then he was silent, for the town clock had begun +to strike. He counted the strokes--eleven. Then he smiled and tried to +speak again. + +“Almost--live out--birthday--seventy--tombstone--all right.” + +He closed his eyes, and, inasmuch as the town clock furnishes the +official time for Rearward, the published report of Tommy McGuffy's +going records that he passed at twenty-five minutes after eleven P.M., +November 11, 1890. + +Very few people know that time turned back one hour and a half in order +that the reputation of Tommy McGuffy's tombstone for veracity might be +spotless in the eyes of future generations. + +Billy Skidmore, the sexton, arranged to have Rearward time ready for the +sun when it rose upon the following morning. + + + + +IX. -- HE BELIEVED THEM + +He was a bachelor, and he owned a little tobacco store in the suburbs. +All the labour, manual and mental, requisite to the continuance of the +establishment, however, was done by the ex-newsboy, to whom the old +soldier paid $4 per week and allowed free tobacco. + +He had come into the neighbourhood from the interior of the state +shortly after the war, and for a time there were not ten houses within +a block of his shop. The shop is now the one architectural blemish in a +long row of handsome stores. Miles of streets have been built up around +it. + +The old soldier used to sit in an antique armchair in the rear of his +shop, smoking, from meal to meal. + +“I l'arnt the habit in the army,” he would say. “I never teched tobacker +till I went to the war.” + +People would look inquiringly at his empty sleeve. + +“I got that at Gettysburg in the second day's fight,” he would explain, +complacently. + +He was often asked whether he was a member of the Grand Army of the +Republic. + +“No; 'tain't worth while. I done my fightin' in '63 and '64--them times. +I don't care about doin' it over again in talk. Talk's cheap.” + +This made folks smile, for he was continually fighting his battles over +again in conversation. Every regular customer had been made acquainted +with the part that he had taken in each contest, where he had stood when +he received his wound, what regiment had the honour of possessing him, +and how promptly he had enlisted against the wishes of parents and +sweetheart. + +“Of course you get a pension,” many would observe. + +He would shake his head and answer, in a mild tone of a man consciously +repressing a pardonable pride. + +“I never 'plied, and as long as the retail tobacker trade keeps up like +this, I reckon I won't make no pull on the gover'ment treash'ry.” + +And he would puff at his cigar vigorously, beam upon the group +that surrounded his chair, and start on one of his long trains of +reminiscences. + +He was an amiable old fellow, with gray hair carefully combed back from +his curved forehead, a florid countenance, boyish blue eyes, puffed +cheeks, a smooth chin, and very military-looking gray moustache. He was +manifestly a man who ate ample dinners and amply digested them. He would +glance contentedly downward at his broad, round body, and smilingly +remark: + +“I didn't have that girth in my fightin' days. I got it after the war +was over.” + +All who knew him admired him. He would tell with simple frankness how, +after distinguishing himself at Antietam, he chose to remain a private +rather than take the lieutenancy that was placed within his reach. He +would frequently say: + +“I ain't none o' them that thinks the country belongs to the soldiers +because they saved it. No, sir! If they want the country as a reward, +where's the credit in savin' it?” + +How could one help exclaiming: “What a really noble old man!” + +Finally some of the young men who received daily inspiration from his +autobiographical narratives arranged a surprise for the old soldier. +They presented him with a finely framed picture of the battle of +Gettysburg, under which was the inscription: + +“To a True Patriot. Who Fought and Suffered Not for Self-Interest or +Glory, but for Love of His Country.” + +This hung in his shop until the day of his death. Then his brother came +from his native village to attend to his burial. The brother stared at +the picture, inquired as to the meaning of the inscription, and then +laughed vociferously. + +In the old soldier's trunk was found a faded newspaper that had been +published in his village in 1865. It contained an account of an accident +by which a grocer's clerk had lost his arm in a thrashing-machine. The +grocer's clerk and the old soldier were one person. + +He had never seen a battle, but so often had he told his war stories +that in his last days he believed them. + + + + +X. -- A VAGRANT + +On a July evening at dusk, two boys sat near the crest of a grass-grown +embankment by the railroad at the western side of a Pennsylvania town. +They talked in low tones of the sky's glow above where the sun had set +beyond the low hills across the river, and also of the stars, and of the +moon, which was over the housetop behind them. Then there was noise of +insects chirping in the grass and of steam escaping from the locomotive +boilers in the engine shed. + +A rumble sounded as from the north, and in that direction a locomotive +headlight came into view. It neared as the rumble grew louder, and +soon a freight-train appeared. This rolled past at the foot of the +embankment. + +From between two grain cars leaped a man, and after him another. So +rapidly was the train moving that they seemed to be hurled from it. +Both alighted upon their feet. One tall and lithe, led the way up the +embankment, followed by the other, who was short and stocky. + +“Bums,” whispered one of the boys at the top of the embankment. + +The tramps stood still when they reached the top. Even in the half-light +it could be seen that their clothes were ill-fitting, frayed, and torn. +They wore cast-off hats. The tall man, whose face was clean-cut and +made a pretence of being smooth-shaven, had a pliable one; the other was +capped by a dented derby. + +“Here's yer town at last! And it looks like a very jay place at that,” + said the short tramp to the tall one, casting his eyes toward the house +roofs eastward. + +The boys sitting twenty feet away became silent and cautiously watched +the newcomers. + +“Yep,” replied the tall tramp, in a deep but serious and quiet voice, +“and right about here is the spot where I jumped on a freight-train +fifteen years ago, the night I ran away from home. That seems like +yesterday, though I've not been here since.” + +“Skipped a good home because the old lady brought you a new dad! You +wouldn't catch me being run out by no stepfather. Billy, you was rash.” + +“Mebby I was. But, on the dead, Pete, it was mostly jealousy. I thought +my mother couldn't care for me any more if she could take a second +husband. My sister thought so too, but she wasn't able to get away like +me. Of course I was strong. It was boyish pique that drove me away. I +didn't fancy having another man in my dead father's place, either. And +I wanted to get around and see the world a bit. After I'd gone I often +wished I hadn't. I'd never imagined how much I loved mother and sis. +But I was tougher and prouder in some ways than most kids. You can't +understand that sort of thing, Pete. And you can't guess how I feel, +bein' back here for the first time in fifteen years. Think of it, I was +just fifteen when I came away. Why, I spent half my life here, Petie!” + +“Oh, I've read somewhere about that,--the way great men feel when they +visit their native town.” + +The short tramp took a clay pipe from his coat pocket and stuffed into +it a cigar-end fished from another pocket. Then he inquired: + +“And now you're here, Billy, what are you go'n to do?” + +“Only ask around what's become o' my folks, then go away. It won't take +me long.” + +“There'll be a through coal-train along in about an hour, 'cordin' to +what the flagmen told us at that last town. Will you be back in time to +bounce that?” + +“Yes. We needn't stay here. There's little to be picked up in a place +like this.” + +“Then skin along and make your investigations. I'll sit here and smoke +till you come back. If you could pinch a bit of bread and meat, by the +way, it wouldn't hurt.” + +“I'll try,” answered the tall tramp. “I'm goin' to ask the kids yonder, +first, if any o' my people still live here.” + +The tall tramp strode over to the two boys. His companion shambled down +the embankment to obtain, at the turntable near the locomotive shed +across the railroad, a red-hot cinder with which to light his pipe. + +“Do you youngsters know people here by the name of Kershaw?” began the +tall tramp, standing beside the two boys. + +Both remained sitting on the grass. One shook his head. The other said, +“No.” + +The tramp was silent for a moment. Then it occurred to him that his +mother had taken his stepfather's name and his sister might be married. +Therefore he asked: + +“How about a family named Coates?” + +“None here,” replied one of the boys. + +But the other said, “Coates? That's the name of Tommy Hackett's +grandmother.” + +The tramp drew and expelled a quick, audible breath. + +“Then,” he said, “this Mrs. Coates must be the mother of Tommy's mother. +Do you know what Tommy's mother's first name is?” + +“I heard Tom call her Alice once.” + +The tramp's eyes glistened. + +“And Mr. Coates?” he inquired. + +“Oh, I never heard of him. I guess he died long ago.” + +“And Tommy Hackett's father, who's he?” + +“He's the boss down at the freight station. Agent, I think they call +him.” + +“Where does this Mrs. Coates live?” + +“She lives with the Hacketts. Would you like to see the house? Me and +Dick has to go past it on the way home. We'll show you.” + +“Yes, I would like to see the house.” + +The boys arose, one of them rather sleepily. They led the way across the +railway company's lot, then along a sparsely built up street, and around +the corner into a more populous but quiet highway. At the corner was a +grocery and dry-goods store; beyond that were neat and airy two-story +houses, fronted by a yard closed in by iron fences. One of these houses +had a little piazza, on which sat two children. From the open half-door +and from two windows came light. + +“That's Hackett's house,” said one of the boys. + +“Thanks, very much,” replied the tramp, continuing to walk with them. + +The boys looked surprised at his not stopping at the house, but they +said nothing. + +At the next corner the tramp spoke up: + +“I think I'll go back now. Good night, youngsters.” + +The boys trudged on, and the tramp retraced his steps. When he reached +the Hacketts' house, he paused at the gate. The children, a boy of eight +and a girl of six, looked at him curiously from the piazza. + +“Are you Mr. Hackett's little boy and girl?” he asked. + +The girl stepped back to the hall door and stood there. The boy looked +up at the tramp and answered, “Yes, sir.” + +“Is your mother in?” + +“No, she's across the street at Mrs. Johnson's.” + +“Grandmother's in, though,” continued the boy. “Would you like to see +her?” + +“No, no! Don't call her. I just wanted to see your mother.” + +“Do you know mamma?” inquired the girl. + +“Well--no. I knew her brother, your uncle.” + +“We haven't any uncle--except Uncle George, and he's papa's brother,” + said the boy. + +“What! Not an uncle Will--Uncle Will Kershaw?” + +“O--h, yes,” assented the boy. “Did you know him before he died? That +was a long time ago.” + +The tramp made no other outward manifestation of his surprise than to +be silent and motionless for a time. Presently he said, in a trembling +voice: + +“Yes, before he died. Do you remember when he died?” + +“Oh, no. That was when mamma was a girl. She and grandmother often talk +about it, though. Uncle Will started West, you know, when he was fifteen +years old. He was standing on a bridge out near Pittsburg one day, and +he saw a little girl fall into the river. He jumped in to save her, but +he was drowned, 'cause his head hit a stone and that stunned him. They +didn't know it was Uncle Will or who it was, at first, but mamma read +about it in the papers and Grandpa Coates went out to see if it wasn't +Uncle Will. Grandpa 'dentified him and they brought him back here, but, +what do you think, the doctor wouldn't allow them to open his coffin, +and so grandma and mamma couldn't see him. He's buried up in the +graveyard next Grandpa Kershaw, and there's a little monument there that +tells all about how he died trying to save a little girl from drownin'. +I can read it, but Mamie can't. She's my little sister there.” + +The tramp had seated himself on the piazza step. He was looking vacantly +before him. He remained so until the boy, frightened at his silence, +moved further from him, toward the door. Then the tramp arose suddenly. + +“Well,” he said, huskily, “I won't wait to see your mamma. You needn't +tell her about me bein' here. But, say--could I just get a look at--at +your grandma, without her knowing anythin about it?” + +The boy took his sister's hand and withdrew into the doorway. Then he +said, “Why, of course. You can see her through the window.” + +The tramp stood against the edge of the piazza upon his toes, and craned +his neck to see through one of the lighted windows. So he remained +for several seconds. Once during that time he closed his eyes, and the +muscles of his face contracted. Then he opened his eyes again. They were +moist. + +He could see a gentle old lady, with smooth gray hair, and an expression +of calm and not unhappy melancholy. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, +her hands resting on the arms, her look fixed unconsciously on the paper +on the wall. She was thinking, and evidently her thoughts, though sad, +perhaps, were not keenly painful. + +The tramp read that much upon her face. Presently, without a word, he +turned quickly about and hurried away, closing the gate after him. + +When the two children told about their visitor later, their mother said: + +“You mustn't talk to strange men, Tommy. You and Mamie should have come +right in to grandma.” + +Their father said: “He was probably looking for a chance to steal +something. I'll let the dog out in the yard to-night.” + +And their grandmother: “I suppose he was only a man who likes to hear +children talk, and perhaps, poor fellow, he has no little ones of his +own.” + +The tramp knew the way to the cemetery. But first he found the +house where he had lived as a boy. It looked painfully rickety and +surprisingly small. So he hastened from before it and went up by a +back street across the town creek and up a hill, where at last he stood +before the cemetery gate. It was locked; so he climbed over the wall. He +went still further up the hill, past tombstones that looked very white, +and trees that looked very green in the moonlight. At the top of the +hill he found his father's grave. Beside it was another mound, and at +the head of this, a plain little pillar. The moon was high now and the +tramp was used to seeing in the night. Word by word he could slowly read +upon the marble this inscription: + +“William Albert, beloved son of the late Thomas Kershaw and his wife +Rachel; born in Brickville, August 2, 1862; drowned in the Allegheny +River near Pittsburg, July 27, 1877, while heroically endeavouring to +save the life of a child.” + +The tramp laughed, and then uttered a sigh. + +“I wonder,” he said, aloud, “what poor bloke it is that's doin' duty for +me under the ground here.” + +And at the thought that he owed an excellent posthumous reputation to +the unknown who had happened to resemble him fifteen years before, he +laughed louder. Having no one near to share his mirth, he looked up at +the amiable moon, and nodded knowingly thereat, as if to say: + +“This is a fine joke we're enjoying between ourselves, isn't it?” + +And by and by he remembered that he was being waited for, and he strode +from the grave and from the cemetery. + +By the railroad the short tramp, having smoked all the refuse tobacco in +his possession, was growing impatient. Already the expected coal-train +had heralded its advent by whistle and puff and roar when his associate +had joined him. + +“Found out all you wanted to know?” queried the stout little vagabond, +starting down the embankment to mount the train. + +“Yep,” answered the tall vagrant, contentedly. + +The small man grasped the iron rod attached to the side of one of the +moving coal-cars and swung his foot into the iron stirrup beneath. His +companion mounted the next car in the same way. + +“Are you all right, Kersh?” shouted back the small tramp, standing safe +above the “bumpers.” + +“All right,” replied the tall tramp, climbing upon the end of a car. +“But don't ever call me Kersh any more. After this I'm always Bill +the Bum. Bill Kershaw's dead--” and he added to himself, “and decently +buried on the hill over there under the moon.” + + + + +XI. -- UNDER AN AWNING + +For ten minutes we had been standing under the awning, driven there at +two o'clock at night by a shower that had arisen suddenly. + +“A pocket umbrella is one of the unsupplied necessities of the age,” + said my companion. + +“Yes, and the peculiarity of the age is that while such luxuries as +the phonograph and the kinetograph multiply day by day, important +necessities remain unsupplied.” + +My friend mused for a time, while he watched the reflection of the +electric light in the little street pools that were agitated by the +falling fine drops of rain. + +He looked from the reflection to the light itself, and thus his eyes +turned upward. + +An expression of surprise changed to mirth, and then dropping his glance +until it met mine, he said: + +“Have you noticed anything peculiar about this awning?” + +“No, what is it?” + +“Simply that there is no awning. Look up and see. Here are the posts +and there is the framework, but only the sky is above, and we've been +getting rained upon for the past ten minutes in blissful ignorance.” + +It was as he said, so we ran to the next awning, which was a fact, not a +figment of fancy. + +“That reminds me,” resumed my friend, “of Simpkins. He was a young man +who used to catch cold at the slightest dampness. His being out in the +rain without an umbrella never failed to result in his remaining in the +house for two or three subsequent days. + +“One night, Simpkins, surprised by an unexpected shower, took refuge +beneath the framework of an awning, which framework lacked the awning +itself. He waited for an hour, until the shower had passed, and then +joyously took up again his homeward way, without having observed his +mistake. He told me on the next day of his narrow escape from the rain. +I happened to know that the awning to which he alluded had been removed +a few weeks before. But I did not tell him so until there no longer +seemed to exist any likelihood of his catching cold from that wetting. +You see, his imagination had saved him.” + +“That tale is singularly reminiscent of those dear old stories about the +man who took cold through sitting at a window that was composed of one +solid sheet of glass, so clean that he thought it was no glass at all; +and the men who, awaking in the night, stifling for want of fresh air, +broke open the door of a bookcase which they took to be a window, and +immediately noticed a pleasant draught of pure outside air.” + +“There is a likeness, which simply goes toward proving the truth of all +three accounts. But the remarkable thing about Simpkins' case is that +when he once learned that there had been nothing over his head during +that rain, he immediately caught cold, although two weeks had passed +since the night of the shower. Wonderful, wasn't it?” + +“Astonishing, indeed.” + +Silence ensued and we meditated for awhile. Evidently the same thought +came simultaneously into the minds of both of us, for while I was +mentally commenting upon the deserted and lonely condition of the city +streets at two o'clock on a rainy night, my friend spoke: + +“A man is alone with his conscience, the electric lights, the shadows +of the houses, and the sound of the rain at a time and place like this, +isn't he? Standing as we stand now, under an awning, during a persistent +rainfall, at this hour, with no other human being in sight, a man is for +the time upon a desert island. Which reminds me: + +“One night, at a later hour than this, when the rain was heavier than +this, I was alone under an awning that was smaller than this. Being +without umbrella and overcoat, I saw at least a quarter of an hour +waiting for me. The thought was dismal. + +“Happy idea! I would smoke. I had a cigar in my mouth in an instant. + +“Horrors! I had no matches. + +“The desire to smoke instantly increased tenfold. I puffed despairingly +at my unlit cigar. No miracle occurred to ignite it. I looked longingly +at the electric lights and the gas-lamps in the distance. + +“Like a sailor cast upon an island and straining his eyes on the lookout +for a ship, I stood there scanning the prospect in search of a man with +a light. I was Enoch Arden; the awning was my palm-tree. + +“Ten minutes passed. No craft hove in sight. + +“Suddenly uncertain footsteps were heard. I looked. Some one came +that way. It was a squalid-looking personage--a professional beggar, +half-drunk. He landed upon my island, beneath my awning. + +“'For charity's sake, give me a match!' I cried. + +“He looked at me--'sized me up,' in the technical terminology of his +trade. Intelligence began to illumine his countenance. He saw that the +opportunity of his life had come. He held out a match. + +“'I'll sell it to you for fifty cents,' he said, with a grin. + +“I had erred in revealing the depth of my want, the extent of my +distress. + +“I compromised by promising to give him a half-dollar if I should +succeed in lighting my cigar with his solitary match. We did succeed. He +took the fifty and started back for the saloon from whence he had come. + +“Oh, my boy, the irony of fate--that same old oft-quoted irony! + +“I hadn't blown three mouthfuls of smoke from that cigar when a friend +came along with a lighted cigar, an umbrella, and a box full of matches. + +“The whole effect of this story lies in the value that fifty cents +possessed for me at that time. It was my last fifty cents, and two days +stood between that night and salary day. + +“I had another experience--” + +But a night car came in view from around a corner, my friend ran for it, +and his third tale remains untold. + + + + +XII. -- SHANDY'S REVENGE + +He was old enough to know better, and a superficial observer might have +thought that he did. But a severe and haughty manner in repose is not +any indication of knowledge, nor is a well-kept beard, even when it is +turning gray. Melrose Welty, the possessor of these and other ways and +features symbolical of wisdom, had no higher occupation in life than +to sit in club-houses and cafés, telling of conquests won by him over +women, chiefly over soubrettes and chorus girls. + +Of his means of livelihood, no one had certain knowledge. He always +dressed well, but he abode in a lodging-house, to which he never invited +any of his associates. He affected the society of newspaper men, some of +whom pronounced him a good fellow until they discovered that he was an +ass; and he never refused an invitation to have a drink. + +When he had you at a table in a quiet corner of a café, or in front of +a bar, or in the lobby of a theatre between the acts, no matter how the +conversation began, he would invariably turn it into that realm to which +his thoughts were confined. + +“I've got a supper on hand to-night after the performance,” he would +probably say, “with a blonde in the ---- Company. A lovely girl, too! +It's curious, old man, how I happened to meet her. I've talked to her +only twice, but I made a hit with her in the first five minutes. I'll +tell you how it was--” + +Whereupon, if you were polite, and did not know Welty sufficiently to +flee on a pretext, he would tell you how it was, inflicting upon you the +wearisome minute details of the most commonplace thing in the world, the +birth and growth of an acquaintance between a man about town and a silly +young woman, not fastidious as to who pays for her food and drink as +long as the food and drink are adequate. + +If you were a newspaper man, Welty was apt to supplement his story with +something like this: + +“By the way, old fellow, if you have any pull with your dramatic editor, +can't you give her a line or two? She hasn't much to do in the piece, +but she does it well, and she's clever. She may get a good part one of +these days. Have something nice said about her, won't you?” + +And if you ever gave another thought to this plea, you determined to use +whatever influence you had with the dramatic editor to this effect, that +the young woman would have to exhibit very decided cleverness indeed ere +she should have “something nice” said about her in the paper. + +Welty was not wont to retain one divinity on the altar of his +conversation longer than a week. But he did so once. He talked about the +same girl every day for a month. And thereby came his undoing. + +She was a slender little girl who was singing badly a small rôle in a +certain comic opera at the time of these occurrences. She had a babyish +manner across the footlights, and she was thought to be a blonde, for +she was wearing a yellow wig over her own short black hair that season. +Her first name was Emily. + +Welty managed to be introduced to her by thrusting himself upon a little +party of which she was a member, and in which was one acquaintance of +his, at a restaurant one night. He called upon her at her boarding house +the next day, where she received him with some surprise, and left most +of the conversation to him. When he visited there again, she caused him +to be told that she was out, and this took place a half dozen times. +Their real acquaintance never went any further, but an imaginary +acquaintance between them, growing from Welty's wish, made great +progress in his fancy and in the stories told by him at his club to +groups of men, some of whom doubted and looked bored, while others +believed and grinned and envied. + +It was at the point where Emily had quite forgotten Welty, and Welty's +stories portrayed her as recklessly adoring him and seeking him in cabs +at all hours, that Barry McGettigan, a despised young reporter, “doing +police,” heard one of Welty's accounts of an alleged interview with +Emily; and Barry, who had a way of knowing human nature and observing +people, suspected. + +Now Barry cherished a deep-rooted grudge against Welty, all the more +dangerous because Welty was unaware of it. Its exact cause has never +been torn from Barry's breast. Some have ascribed it to Welty's having +mimicked Barry's brogue before a crowd in a saloon one night. Others +have laid it to the following passage of words, which is now a part of +the ancient history of the Nocturnal Club. + +“Spakin' of ancestors,” Barry began, “I'd loike to bet--” + +“I'd like to bet,” broke in Welty, “that your own ancestry leads +directly to the Shandy family.” + +There was a general laugh, which Barry, whose nose was as flat as +any Shandy's could have been but who had never read Sterne, did not +understand. + +“What did he mane?” Barry asked a friend. The friend told him to read +“Tristram Shandy.” He spent two hours in a public library next day and +learned how his facial peculiarity had been used by Welty to create a +laugh and incidentally to insult him. + +This he never forgave. And he bided his time. + +Now, having heard Welty boast of being the object of this Emily's +infatuation, Barry McGettigan deflected his mind from the contemplation +of murders, infanticides, fires, and other matters of general interest, +and gave his best thoughts and skill to investigating this talked-of +love affair of Welty's. + +He discovered the true situation within three days. He found that Emily +was engaged to be married to a college football player who came to the +city once a week to see her. + +He borrowed money, made himself very agreeable to Welty, and also got +himself introduced to the football player. The latter was a tall, lithe, +heavy-shouldered, brown-faced, thick-knuckled youth, who practiced all +kinds of athletic diversions. + +Barry McGettigan sounded the football man in one brief interview one +night, between the acts of the comic opera, at the saloon next door. He +found a means of fastening himself upon the football player's esteem. +The collegian expressed a mild desire to see something of police-station +life. Barry invited him to spend an evening with him on duty at Central +Station. The collegian accepted. Barry appointed a time and named a +certain café as a meeting place. + +Then Barry invited Welty to dine with him at the same café on the +same evening at the same hour. By means of his borrowed money, he had +lavished costly drinks upon Welty of late, and Welty had reason to +anticipate a dinner worth the accepting. Barry told Welty nothing of the +collegian and he told the collegian nothing more of Welty. + +When the evening came, Barry found Welty awaiting him at the café. The +two sat down at a table. The preliminary cocktail had only arrived when +in walked the collegian. Barry saluted him as if the meeting had only +occurred by chance. He made the collegian and Welty known to each other +by name only. And then he ordered dinner. + +When a bottle had been drunk, Barry innocently turned the current of the +conversation to women. He spoke modestly of a mythical conquest he +had recently made. The football player listened without showing much +interest. Presently Barry paused. + +Welty took a drink and began: + +“No, my boy,” said he to Barry, “you're wrong there. It's like you +youngsters to think you know all about the sex, but the older you grow +the less you think you know about them, until you get to my age.” + +Barry made no answer, but looked at Welty with becoming deference. + +The football man's eyes were wandering about the café, showing him to be +indifferent to the theme of discussion. + +“I know,” continued Welty, “that many more or less writers have said, +as you say, that women must be sought and pursued to be won. They deduce +that theory from the habits of lower animals and of barbarous nations, +in which the man obtains the woman by chase and force. But it's all +a theory, and simply shows that the learned writers study their books +instead of their fellow men and women.” + +The collegian looked restless, as if the conversation had gotten beyond +his depth. + +Barry remained silent, and with a flattering aspect of great interest in +Welty's observations. + +“Now,” went on Welty, striking the table with the bottom of his glass, +“I've had a little experience of this sort of thing in my time, and +I can say that in nine cases out of ten, once you've attracted the +attention of your game, let it alone and it will chase you. That's how +to win women.” + +The collegian looked bored. + +“Just to illustrate,” said Welty, “I'll tell of a little conquest of my +own. I use it because it is the first that comes to my mind, not that +I'm given to bragging about my success in these matters. I suppose +you've seen the opera at the ---- Theatre?” + +The collegian ceased looking bored. Barry McGettigan sat perfectly, +unnaturally still. + +“And,” pursued Welty, “you've doubtless noticed the three girls who +appear as the queen's maids of honour?” + +The collegian looked somewhat concerned. Barry stopped breathing. + +“Well,” continued Welty, “you mayn't believe it, for we've kept it +really quiet, one of them girls is really dead gone on me.” + +The collegian opened his mouth wide, and Barry began to nervously tap +his hand upon the table. + +“It's the one,” said Welty, “who wears the big blond wig. Her name's +Emi--” + +There was the noise of upsetting plates, bottles, and glasses, of +a man's feet rapping up against the bottom of a table and his head +thumping down against the floor. There was the sight of an agile youth +leaping across an overturned table and alighting with one foot at each +side of the prostrate form of an astonished man, whose gray whiskers +were spattered with blood. There was the quick gathering of a crowd, an +excited explanation on the part of the collegian, a slow recovery on +the part of the man on the floor, and Barry McGettigan's vengeance was +complete. + +For, by one of those incredible coincidences that have the semblance of +fatality, the football player's fist had reduced Melrose Welty's nose to +a flatness which the nose of no imaginable Shandy ever has surpassed. + + + + +XIII. -- THE WHISTLE + +She was the wife of a railway locomotive engineer, and the two lived +in the newly built house to which he had taken her as a bride a year +before. + +Many other people in the country railroad town used to laugh at a thing +which she had once said to a gossiping neighbour: + +“I can tell the sound of the whistle on Tom's engine from all other +whistles. Every afternoon when his train gets to the crossing at the +planing-mill, I hear that whistle, and then I know it's time to get +Tom's supper.” + +The gossips found something humourous in the fact that the engineer's +wife recognized the whistle of her husband's engine and knew by it when +to begin to prepare his supper. So are the small manifestations of love +and devotion regarded by coarse minds. You frequently observe this in +the conduct of certain people at the theatre when tender sentiments are +uttered upon the stage. + +Perhaps the men were envious of the engineer. He had a prettier wife, +they said, when he was not present, than was deserved by a mere freight +engineer, very recently elevated from the post of fireman. Perhaps, +also, the petty malevolence of the women was due to the wife's superior +comeliness. Be that as it may, each afternoon at half-past four or +thereabouts, when Tom's whistle was blown at the crossing by the +planing-mill, loungers in the grocery store and wives in their kitchens +smiled knowingly and said: + +“Time to begin to get Tom's supper, now.” + +But the engineer was careless and his wife was disdainful of their +neighbours. She loved the sound of that whistle. In the earliest days of +their married life it even sent the crimson to her cheeks. The engineer +could make it as expressive as music. It began like a sudden glad cry; +it died away lingeringly, tenderly. Virtually it said to one pair of +ears: + +“My darling, I have come back to you.” + +Whenever the engineer pulled the rope for that particular signal, he +pictured his wife arising from her work-basket in their little parlour +with a thrill of pleasure and affection, and passing out to the kitchen. + +She, likewise, at the signal, made a mental image of Tom, seated in the +engine cab, his one hand fixed upon the shining lever, his eyes fixed +upon the glistening tracks ahead. + +At six o'clock, usually, supper was hot, and Tom arrived through +the front gateway, glancing at the flower-bed in the centre of the +diminutive grass plot, carrying his dinner-pail, having divested himself +of his grimy, greasy blouse and overalls at the great repair shops, +where his engine had already begun, with much panting, to spend the +night. + +In a small railroad town on the main line, one is continually hearing +locomotive whistles. All the inhabitants know that one long moan of +the steam is the signal of the train's swift approach; that two short +shrieks of the whistle direct the trainmen to tighten the brakes; that +four, given when the train is still, are intended for the flagman, who +has gone away to the rear to warn back the next train, and that they +tell him to return to his own train as it is about to start; that +five whistles in succession announce a wreck and command the immediate +attendance of the wreck crew. + +In the town many cheeks blanch when those five long, ominous wails of +the escaping steam cleave the air. A husband, a son, a father who has +gone forth blithely in the morning, with his dinner-pail full, may be +brought out of the wreck, mangled or dead. And until complete details +are known there is a tremor in the whole community. Some hearts beat +faster, others seem to stand still. People speak in hushed tones. + +One afternoon, the engineer's wife, observing the altitude of the sun, +looked at the clock and saw that the time was a few minutes before five. + +Tom's whistle had not yet blown. + +At five-fifteen came the sound of another whistle. It was prolonged and +then repeated. The engineer's wife stood still and counted. + +Five! + +The most docile and apparently cheerful patient in the ---- Asylum for +the Insane is a widow, still young, who spends the greater time of each +day sewing and humming tunes softly to herself. Every afternoon at +about half-past four she assumes a listening attitude, suddenly hears +an inaudible whistle, smiles tenderly, starts up and places invisible +dishes and impalpable viands upon an imaginary table, and then loses +herself in a reverie which ends in slumber. + +No striking clock is allowed within her hearing. It was long ago noticed +that the stroke of five or any series of five similar sounds would cause +her to moan piteously. + +The people afar in the country town do not laugh now when they talk +of Tom and the whistle which was shrieking madly as he and his engine +plunged down the bank together on that day when the huge boulder rolled +from the hillside stone quarry and lay upon the tracks, just on this +side of the curve above the town. + + + + +XIV. -- WHISKERS + +The facts about the man we called “Whiskers” linger in my mind, asking +to be recorded, and though they do not make much of a story, I am +tempted to unburden myself by putting them on paper. It was mentally +noted as a sure thing by everybody who saw him go into the managing +editor's room, to ask for a position on the staff of the paper, that if +he should obtain a place and become a fixture in the office, he would +be generally known as Whiskers within twenty-four hours after his +instalment. + +What tale he told the managing editor no one knew, but every one in the +editorial rooms deduced later that it must have been something a trifle +out of the common, for the managing editor, who had gone through the +form of taking the names of three previous applicants that afternoon and +telling them that he would let them know when a vacancy should occur on +the staff, told the man whom we eventually christened Whiskers that he +might come around the next day and write whatever he might choose to in +the way of Sunday “specials,” comic verses, or editorial paragraphs, on +the chance of their being accepted. + +The next day the hairy-faced man took possession of a desk in the room +occupied by the exchange editor and one of the editorial writers, and +began to grind out “copy.” + +He was a slim, figure, with what is commonly denominated a “slight +stoop.” His trousers were none too long for his thin legs, his tightly +fitting frock coat, threadbare, shiny, and unduly creased, was hardly of +a fit for his slender body and his long arms. It was his face, however, +that mostly individualized his appearance. + +The face was pale, the outlines symmetrical, but rather feeble, and the +countenance would have seemed rather lamblike but for the fact that it +was framed with thick, long hair and a luxuriant beard, which caressed +his waistcoat. + +These made him impressive at first sight. + +On the first day of his presence, he said little to the men with whom he +shared his room in the office. On the second day he grew communicative +and talked rather pompously to the exchange editor. He prated of his +past achievements as a newspaper man in other cities. He had a cheerful +way of talking in a voice that was high but not loud. His undaunted +manner of uttering self-praise caused the exchange editor to wink at the +editorial writer. It engendered, too, a small degree of dislike on the +part of these worthies; and the exchange editor made it a point to watch +for some of the new man's work in the paper, that he might be certain +whether the new man's ability was equal to the new man's opinion of it. + +The exchange editor found that it was not. The new man had been in the +office four days before any of his contributions had gone through the +process of creation, acceptance, and publication. Some verses and some +alleged jokes were his first matter printed. They were below mediocrity. +The exchange editor ceased to dislike the whiskered man and thereafter +regarded him as quite harmless and mildly amusing. + +This view of him was eventually accepted by every one who came to know +him, and he was made the object of a good deal of gentle chaffing. + +He earned probably $15 or $20 at space rates, a lamentably small amount +for so intellectual looking a man, but a very large amount considering +the quality of work turned out by him. + +Doubtless he would not have made nearly so much had not the managing +editor whispered something in the ears of the assistant editor-in-chief, +whose duty it was to judge of the acceptability of editorial matter +offered, the editor of the Sunday's supplement, and other members of +the staff who might have occasion to “turn down” the new man's +contributions, or to wink at the deficiencies in his work. + +One day Whiskers, with many apologies and much embarrassment, asked +the exchange editor to lend him a quarter, which request having been +complied with, he put on his much rubbed high hat and hurried from the +room. + +“It's funny the old man's hard up so soon,” the exchange editor said +to the editorial writer at the next desk, “It's only two days since +pay-day.” + +“Where does he sink his money?” asked the editorial writer. “His +sleeping-room costs him only $3 a week, and, eating the way he does, at +the cheapest hash-houses, his whole expenses can't be more than $8. No +one ever sees him spend a cent. He must sink it away in a bank.” + +“Hasn't he any relatives?” + +“He never spoke of any, and he lives alone. Wotherspoon, who lodges +where he does, says no one ever comes to see him.” + +“He certainly doesn't spend money on clothes.” + +“No; and he never drinks at his own expense.” + +“He's probably leading a double life,” said the exchange editor, +jestingly, as he plunged his scissors into a Western paper, to cut out a +poem by James Whitcomb Riley. + +Without making many acquaintances, Whiskers, by reason of his hirsute +peculiarity, became known throughout the building, from the business +office on the ground floor to the composing-room on the top. When he +went into the latter one day and passed down the long aisle between the +long row of cases and type-setting machines, with a corrected proof +in his hand, a certain printer, who was “setting” up a clothing-house +advertisement, could not resist the temptation to give labial imitation +of the blowing of wind. The bygone joke concerning whiskers and the wind +was then current, and a score of compositors took up the whistle, so +that all varieties of breeze were soon being simulated simultaneously. +Whiskers coloured sightly, but, save a dignified straightening of his +shoulders, he showed no other sign that he was conscious of the rude +allusion to his copious beard. + +Whiskers chose Tuesday for his day off. + +It was on a certain Tuesday evening that one of the reporters came into +the exchange editor's room and casually remarked: + +“I saw your anti-shaving friend, who sits at that desk, riding out to +the suburbs on a car to-day. He was all crushed up and carried a bouquet +of roses.” + +“That settles it,” cried the editorial writer to the exchange editor, +with mock jubilation. “There can be no doubt the old man was leading a +double life. The bouquet means a woman in the case.” + +“And his money goes for flowers and presents,” added the exchange +editor. + +“Some of it, of course,” went on the editorial writer, “and the rest +he's saving to get married on. Who'd have thought it at his age?” + +“Why, he's not over forty. It's only his whiskers that make him look +old. One can easily detect a sentimental vein in his composition.” + +“That accounts for his fits of abstraction, too. So he's found favour in +some fair one's eyes. I wonder what she's like.” + +“Young and pretty, I'll bet,” said the exchange editor. “He's impressed +her by his dignified aspect. No doubt she thinks he's nothing less than +an editor-in-chief.” + +The next day Whiskers was taciturn, as his office associates now +recalled that he was wont to be after “his day off.” Doubtless his +thoughts dwelt upon his visits to his divinity. He did not respond to +their efforts to involve him in conversation. + +He was observed upon his next day off to take a car for the suburbs and +to have a bouquet in his hand and a package under his arm. The theory +originated by the editorial writer had general acceptance. It was passed +from man to man in the office. + +“Have you heard about the queer old duck with the whiskers, who writes +in the exchange room? He's engaged to a young and pretty girl up-town, +and eats at fifteen-cent soup-shops so that he can buy her flowers and +wine and things.” + +“What! Old Whiskers in love! That's a good one!” + +One day while Whiskers' pen was busily gliding across the paper, the +exchange editor broke the silence by asking him, in a careless tone: + +“How was she, yesterday, Mr. Croydon?” + +Whiskers looked up almost quickly, an expression of almost pained +surprise on his face. + +“Who?” he inquired. + +“Ah, you thought because you didn't tell us, it wouldn't out. But you've +been caught. I mean the lady to whom you take roses every week, of +course.” + +Whiskers simply stared at the exchange editor, as if quite bewildered. + +“Oh, pardon me,” said the exchange editor, somewhat abashed. “I didn't +mean to offend you. One's affairs of the heart are sacred, I know. But +we all guy each other about each other's amours here. We're hardened to +that sort of pleasantry.” + +A look of enlightenment, a blush, a deep sigh, and an “Oh, I'm not +offended,” were the only manifestations made by Whiskers after the +exchange editor's apology. + +It was inferred from his manner that he did not wish to make confidences +or receive jests about his love-affairs. + +A time came when Whiskers seemed to have something constantly on his +mind. Not content with one day's vacation each week, he would go off for +periods of three or four hours on other days. + +“Do you notice how queerly the old man behaves?” said the editorial +writer to the exchange editor thereupon. “Things are coming to a +crisis.” + +“What do you mean by that?” + +“Why, the wedding, of course.” + +This inference received a show of confirmation afterward when Whiskers +had a private interview with the managing editor, received an order on +the cashier for all the money due him, and for a part of the managing +editor's salary as a loan, and quietly said to the exchange editor that +he would be away for a week or so. The editorial writer happened to be +at the cashier's window when Whiskers had his order cashed. So when the +editorial writer and the exchange editor compared notes a few minutes +later, the latter complimented the former upon the correctness of his +prediction that Whiskers' marriage was imminent. + +“He didn't invite us,” said the exchange editor, “but then I suppose the +affair is to be a very quiet one, and we can't take offence at that. The +old man's not a bad lot, by any means. Let's do something to please him +and to flatter his bride. What do you say to raising a fund to buy them +a present, in the name of the staff?” + +“I'm in for it,” said the editorial writer, producing a half-dollar. + +They canvassed the office and found everybody willing to contribute. The +managing editor and the assistant editor-in-chief had gone home, but as +they had shown kindness to Whiskers, and were, in fact, the only two men +on the staff who knew anything about his private affairs, the exchange +editor took his chances and put in a dollar for each of them. + +“And now, what shall we get--and where shall we send it?” said the +exchange editor. + +“Not to his lodging-house, certainly. He'll probably be married at the +residence of his bride's parents, as the notices say. We'd better get it +quick, and rush it up there--wherever that is--somewhere up-town.” + +“But say,” interposed the city editor, who was present at this +consultation, “maybe the ceremony has already come off. I saw the old +man giving in a notice for advertisement across the counter at the +business office an hour ago.” + +“Well, we may be able to learn from that where the bride lives, anyhow, +and some one can go there and find out something definite about the +happy pair's present and future whereabouts,” suggested the editorial +writer. + +“That's so,” said the city editor. “The notice is in the composing-room +by this time. I'll run up and find it.” + +The city editor left the editorial writer and the exchange editor alone +together in the room, each sitting at their own desk. + +“What shall we get with this money?” queried the former, touching the +bills and silver dumped upon his desk. + +“Something to please the woman. That'll give Whiskers the most pleasure. +He evidently loves her deeply. These constant visits and gifts speak the +greatest devotion.” + +“Of course, but what shall it be?” + +The two were battling with this question when the city editor returned. +He came in and said quietly: + +“I found the notice. At least, I suppose this is it. What is the old +man's full name?” + +“Horace W. Croydon.” + +“This is it, then,” said the city editor, standing with his back to the +door. “The notice reads: 'On March 3d, at the Arlington Hospital for +Incurables, Rachel, widow of the late Horace W. Croydon, Sr., in her +59th year. Funeral services at the residence of Charles--'” + +“Why,” interrupted the editorial writer, in a hushed voice, “that is a +death notice.” + +“His mother,” said the exchange editor. “The Hospital for +Incurables--that is where the flowers went.” + +The editorial writer's glance dropped to the desk, where the money lay +for the intended gift. The exchange editor sat perfectly still, gazing +straight in front of him. The city editor walked softly to the window +and looked out. + + + + +XV. -- THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + +“I'm a bad man,” said Tobit McStenger, after three glasses of whiskey. +And he was. In making the declaration, he echoed the expression of the +community. + +He looked it. Not only in the sneering mouth above the half-formed chin, +and in the lowering eyes of undecided colour beneath the receding brow, +but also in every shiftless attitude and movement of his great gaunt +body, and even in the torn coat and shapeless felt hat--both once black, +but both now a dirty gray--his aspect proclaimed him the preeminent +rowdy of his town. + +When out of jail he was engaged in oyster opening at Couch's saloon, or +selling fresh fish, caught in the river, or vagrancy in the streets +of Brickville. He lived in a log house containing two rooms, by Muddy +Creek, an intermittent stream that flowed--sometimes--through a corner +of the town. He was a widower and had a son nine years old, little Tobe, +who went to school occasionally, but gave most of his day to carrying a +paper flour-sack around the town and begging cold victuals, in obedience +to paternal commands, and throwing stones at other boys, who called him +“Patches,” a nickname descended from his father. + +Little Tobe's face was always black, from the dust of the bituminous +coal that he was compelled to steal at night from the railroad +companies' yard. His attire was in miniature what his father's was in +the large, as his character was in embryo what the elder Tobit's was in +complete development. With long, entangled hair, a thin, crafty face, +and stealthy eyes, he was a true type of malevolent gamin, all the more +uncanny for the crudity due to his semirustic environments. + +Such were Tobit and little Tobe, the most conspicuous of the village +“characters” of Brickville, a Pennsylvania town deriving sustenance from +its brick-kiln, its railroads, and its contiguous farming interests. + +It was town talk that Tobit McStenger was a hard father; drunk or sober, +he chastised little Tobe upon the slightest occasion. + +“But,” said Tobit McStenger, after admitting his severity as a parent +before the bar in Couch's saloon, “let any one else lay a finger on that +kid! Just let 'em! They'll find out, jail or no jail, I'm ugly!” And he +went on to repeat for the thousandth time that when he was ugly he was a +bad man. + +Whereupon the other loungers in Couch's saloon, “Honesty Tom Yerkes,” + the hauler, Sam Hatch, the bill-poster, and the rest, agreed that a +man's manner of governing his household was his own business. + +Tobit McStenger had his word to say upon all village topics. When +in Couch's saloon one night he learned that the school directors had +decided to take the primary school from the tutorship of a woman and +to put a man over it as teacher, Tobit pricked up his ears and had many +words to say. He was working at the time, and he spoke in loud, coarse +tones, as he wielded his oyster-knife, having for an audience the usual +dozen barroom tarriers. + +“I know what that means,” cried Tobit McStenger. “It means they ain't +satisfied with having our children ruled with kindness. It means Miss +Wiggins, who's kep' a good school, which I know all about, fer my son's +one of her scholars--it means she don't use the rod enough. They've made +up their minds to control the kids by force, and they went and hired a +man to lick book learnin' into 'em. Who is the feller, anyway?” + +“Pap” Buckwalder read the answer to Tobit's question from the current +number of the Brickville _Weekly Gazette_. + +“The new teacher is Aubrey Pilling, the adopted son of farmer Josiah +Pilling, of Blair Township. He has taught the school of that township +for three winters, and is a graduate of the Brickville Academy.” + +Sam Hatch, standing by the stove, remembered him. + +“Why, that's the backward fellow,” said he, “that the girls used to guy. +His hair and eyebrows is as white as tow, and when he'd blush his face +used to turn pink. He always walked in from the country, four miles, +every morning to school and back again at night. There ain't much +use getting him take a woman's place. He's about the same as a woman +hisself. He hardly talks above a whisper, and he's afraid to look a girl +in the face.” + +“Ain't he the boy Josiah Pilling took out o' the Orphans' Home, here +about twenty years ago?” queried Pap Buckwalder. + +“Yep,” replied Hatch. “I heerd somethin' about that when he went to the +'cademy here. He was took out of a home by a farmer, who gave him his +name 'cause the boy didn't know his own, nor no one else did, and so he +was brought up on the farm.” + +“So that's the sort o' people they've put the education of our children +into the hands uv!” exclaimed Tobit McStenger. “Well, all I got to say +is, let him keep his hands off my boy Tobe, or he'll find out the kind +of a tough customer I am.” + +Tobit McStenger, in the few weeks immediately following this change in +the primary school, remained continuously industrious, to the surprise +of all who knew him. As Tobit was an expeditious oyster-opener, Tony +Couch, the saloon-keeper who employed him, was much rejoiced. Tobit +toiled at oyster-opening and little Tobe became regular in his +attendance at school. + +The new school-teacher, a broad, awkward, bashful youth, painfully +blond, came to town and accomplished that for which he had been called. +He brought discipline to the primary school, an achievement none +easier for the fact that many of his pupils were in their teens, and +incidentally he suspended Tobit McStenger the younger. + +When little Tobe, glad of the enforced return to the liberties of his +begging days, brought home his soiled first reader and told his father +that the teacher had sent him from school with orders not to return +until he could learn to keep his face clean, the father became swollen +with an overflowing wrath. He swore frightfully, and started off, +vowing that he would “show the white-faced foundling how to treat decent +people's children.” + +And he had two tall drinks of whiskey put on the slate against him at +Couch's and proceeded to carry out his threat. + +It was a cold day in December. Pilling, the teacher, sat near the stove +in the little square school-room, listening to the irrepressible hum of +his restless pupils and the predominating monotonous sound of a small +girl's voice reciting multiplication tables. + +“Three times three are nine,” she whined, drawlingly; “three times four +are twelve, three times--” + +The little girl with the braided hair stopped short. A loud knock fell +upon the door. + +A boy looked through the window, evidently saw the one who had knocked, +then cast a curious look at Pilling, the teacher. Pilling observed this, +and asked the boy: + +“Who is it?” + +After a moment of hesitation, the boy replied: + +“It's old Patchy--I mean, Tobe McStenger's father.” + +Pilling, whose bashfulness was manifest only in the presence of women, +had the utmost calmness before his pupils. He walked quietly to the door +and locked it. + +McStenger, furious without, heard the sound of the bolt being thrust +into place, whereupon he began to kick at the door. Pilling turned +the chair facing his class and told the girl with the braided hair to +continue. + +“Three times five are fifteen, three times six--” + +A crashing sound was heard. McStenger had broken a window. Pilling +looked around, as if seeking some impromptu weapon. While he was doing +so, McStenger broke another window-pane with a club. Then McStenger went +away. + +That evening, Pilling had Tobit McStenger arrested for malicious +mischief. The oyster-opener was held pending trial until January court. +He was then sentenced to thirty days more in the county jail. Meanwhile +little Tobe mounted a freight-train one day to steal a ride, and +Brickville has not seen or heard of him since. He enlisted in the great +army of vagabonds, doubtless. Perhaps some city swallowed him. + +Tobit McStenger felt at home in jail. It was not a bad place of +residence during the coldest months. But for one defect, jail life would +have been quite enviable; it forced upon him abstinence from alcoholic +liquor. + +Every period of thirty days has its termination, and Tobit McStenger +became a free man. He returned to his old life, opening oysters during +part of the time, idling and drinking during the other part. He made no +attempt to spoil the peace of Aubrey Pilling, and he only laughed when +he heard of the disappearance of Little Tobe. + +Pilling, by his success in conducting the primary school, had won +the esteem of Brickville's citizens. His timidity had diminished, or, +rather, it had been discovered to be merely quietness, self-communion, +instead of timidity. He had shown himself less prudish than he had been +thought. Occasionally he drank whiskey or beer, which was looked upon as +a good sign in a man of his kind. + +Tobit McStenger did not know this. He invariably evaded mention of +Pilling. People wondered what would happen when the two should meet. +For Tobit was known to be revengeful, and he was now, more than ever, in +speech and look, a bad man. + +The expected and yet the unexpected happened one night in Couch's +saloon,--the scene of most of the eventful incidents in Tobit +McStenger's life since he had dawned upon Brickville. Tobit and Honesty +Yerkes, Pap Buckwalder, old Tony Couch himself, and half a score others +were making a conversational hubbub before the bar. + +In walked Aubrey Pilling. He came quietly to an unoccupied spot at the +end of the bar and ordered a glass of beer, without looking at the +other drinkers. Some one nudged Tobit McStenger and pointed toward the +white-haired young pedagogue. The noise of talk broke off abruptly. + +McStenger placed his back against the bar, resting his elbows upon it, +and turned a scornful gaze toward Pilling, who had taken one draught +from his glass of beer. + +“Say, Tony,” began McStenger, in his big, growling voice, “who's your +ladylike customer? Oh, it's him, is it? Well, he needn't be skeered of +me. I don't mix up with folks o' his sort. You see, people could only +expect to be insulted through their children by fellows of his birth--” + +“Hush, Mack!” whispered Tony Couch, whose sense of deportment advised +him that McStenger was treading forbidden ground. Pilling had not looked +up. He stood quietly at some distance from the others, intent upon his +glass of beer on the bar before him, perfectly still. + +But McStenger went on, more loudly than before: + +“By fellows, as I said, who came from orphans' homes, and never knew who +their parents was, and whose mothers may have been God knows what--” + +Pilling, without turning, had lifted his glass. With an easy motion +he had tossed its remaining contents of beer into the face of Tobit +McStenger. The latter drew back from the splash of the liquid as if +stung. Then, with a loud cry of rage, he leaped toward Pilling. The +teacher turned and faced him. + +McStenger clapped one huge hand against Pilling's neck, and in an +instant thereafter his long, bony fingers were pressing upon the +teacher's throat, in what had the looks of a fatal clutch. But Pilling, +with both his arms, violently forced McStenger from him. The teacher +took breath and McStenger reached for a whiskey decanter. The others in +the saloon looked on with eager interest, fearing to come between such +formidable combatants. Tony Couch ran out in search of the town's only +policeman. McStenger advanced toward the teacher. + +Pilling was farm bred. He had chopped down trees with his right +arm alone in his time. Pilling thrust forth his arm with unexpected +suddenness. Upon the floor, six feet behind his antagonist, was a +cuspidor with jagged edges. + +And Tobit McStenger slept with his fathers. + +The jury acquitted the teacher on the plea of self-defense. The loungers +in Couch's saloon judiciously said that it was a very bad break for +Tobit McStenger to have made. + + + + +XVI. -- THE SCARS + +My friend the tune-maker has often unintentionally amused his +acquaintances by the gravity with which he attributes significance to +the most trivial occurrences. + +He turns the most thoughtless speeches, uttered in jest, into +prophecies. + +“Very well,” he used to say to us at a café table, “you may laugh. But +it's astonishing how things turn out sometimes.” + +“As for instance?” some one would inquire. + +“Never mind. But I could give an instance if I wished to do so.” + +One evening, over a third bottle, he grew unusually communicative. + +“Just to illustrate how things happen,” he began, speaking so as to be +audible above the din of the café to the rest of us around the table, +“I'll tell you about a man I know. One February morning, about eight +years ago, he was hurrying to catch a train. There was ice on the +sidewalks and people had to walk cautiously or ride. As he was turning a +corner he saw by a clock that he had only five minutes in which to reach +the station, three blocks away. An instant later he saw a shapely figure +in soft furs suddenly describe a forward movement and drop in a heap to +the sidewalk, ten feet in front of him. A melodious light soprano scream +arose from the heap. A divinely turned ankle in a quite human black +stocking was momentarily visible. He was by the side of the mass of furs +and skirts in three steps. + +“He caught the pretty girl under the arms and elevated her to a standing +posture. She recovered her breath and her self-possession promptly and +glowed upon him with the brightest of smiles. He had never before seen +her. + +“'Oh, thank you,' she said; adding, with the unconscious exaggeration of +a schoolgirl, 'You've saved my life.' + +“Realizing the absurdity of this speech, she blushed. Whereupon her +rescuer, feeling that the situation warranted him in turning the matter +to jest, replied: + +“'That being the case, according to the rules of romance, I ought to +marry you, like all the men who rescue the heroines in stories.' + +“'Oh,' she answered, quickly, 'this isn't in a novel; it's real life.' + +“'Yes; besides which, I see by the clock over there I have only four +minutes in which to catch a train. Good morning.' + +“And he ran off without taking a second glance at her. He arrived at the +station in due time. + +“Three years after that he married the most charming woman in the world, +after an acquaintance of only six months. + +“This woman is as beautiful as she is amiable. Nature has not been +guilty of a single defect in her construction. A tiny scar upon her knee +is all the more noticeable because of its solitude. + +“It is a peculiarity of scars that each has a history. The history of +this one has thus far, for no adequate reason, remained a family secret. + +“Another noteworthy fact about scars is that they may be, and in many +cases they are, useful for purposes of identification. + +“Of course you anticipate the dramatic climax of my story, gentlemen. +Nevertheless, let me give it, for the sake of completeness, in the form +of a dialogue between the husband and the wife. + +“'How came the wound there?' + +“'Oh, I fell against the corner of a paving-stone one icy morning three +years ago.' + +“'And to think that I was not there to help you up!' + +“'True; but another young man served the purpose, and I'm afraid he +missed a train on my account.' + +“'What! It wasn't on the corner of ---- and ---- Streets?' + +“'It was just there. How did you know?' + +“So you see, as they completely proved by comparing recollections, the +little speech uttered in merriment had been prophetic, a fact that they +probably would never have learned had it not been for the identifying +service of the scar.” + +“But if this has been kept a family secret, how do you happen to know +it, and by what right do you divulge it?” one of us asked. + +The ballad composer blushed and clouded his face with tobacco smoke; and +then it recurred to us all that “the most charming woman in the world” + is his wife. + + + + +XVII. -- “LA GITANA” + +This is not an attempt to palliate the foolishness of Billy Folsom. It +is not an essay in the emotional or the pathetic. You may pity him or +reproach him, if you like, but my purpose is not to evoke any feeling +toward or opinion of him. I do not seek to play upon your sympathies or +to put you into a mood, or to delineate a character. I simply tell the +story of how certain critical points in a man's life were accompanied +by music; how a destiny was affected by a tune. Anything aside from +mere narrative in this account will be incidental and accidental. The +manifestations of love, of wounded vanity, of recklessness; of even +the death itself, are here subsidiary in interest to the train of +circumstance. He who underwent them is not the hero of the recital; she +who caused them is not the heroine. The heroine is a melody, the waltz +tune of “La Gitana.” + +Everybody remembers when the tune was regnant. Its notes leaped gaily +from the strings of every theatre orchestra; soubrettes in fluffy +raiment and silk stockings yelled it singly and in chorus; hand-organs +blared it forth; dancers kicked up their toes to it; it monopolized the +atmosphere for its dwelling-place; it was everywhere. + +Until one night, however, it did not touch the ear of Billy Folsom. He +had stayed late in the country, under the delusion that he was hunting. +It seems there are a few shootable things yet in certain parts of +Pennsylvania, and Folsom had the time and money to linger in search of +them. He came back to town in fine, exhilarating November weather, and +on one of these evenings when the joy of living is keenest, he and I +strolled with the crowd. Why I strolled with Folsom I do not know, +for he was not a man of ideas. He was even so bad as to be vain of his +personal appearance, especially upon having resumed the dress of the +city after months of outing. + +We passed one of these theatres whose stages are near the street. A +musical farce was current there. From an open window came the tune, +waylaying us as we walked. The orchestra was playing it fortissimo. You +could hear it above the footfalls, the laughter, and the conversation of +the promenaders. + +Folsom stopped. “Listen to that.” + +“Yes, 'La Gitana.' It's all around. It's a catchy thing, and suits this +intoxicating weather.” + +“It goes to the spot. Let's go inside. What's the play?” + +He turned at once toward the main entrance of the theatre. + +“A farce called 'Three Cheers and a Tiger,'--a Hoyt sort of a piece. The +little Tyrrell is doing her tambourine dance to the music.” + +“Never heard of the lady,” he said to me. And then to the youth on the +other side of the box-office window, “Have you any seats left in the +front row?” + +Folsom always asked for seats in the front row. This time it was fatal. +As we walked up the aisle, Folsom ahead, the little Tyrrell shot one +casual glance of her gray eyes at him, as almost any dancer would have +done at a front row newcomer entering while she was on the stage. In the +next instant her eyes were following her toe in its swift flight upward +to the centre of the tambourine that her hand brought downward to meet +it. But the one glance across the footlights had been productive. Folsom +sat staring over the heads of the musicians, his gaze fastened upon the +little Tyrrell, who was leaping about on the stage to the tune of “La +Gitana.” His lips opened slightly and remained so. His eyes feasted +upon the flying dancer in the rippling blond wig, his ears drank in the +buoyant notes. + +It is well known that power lies in a saltatorial ensemble of white lace +skirts, pale blue hose, lustrous naked arms, undulating bodice, magnetic +eyes, flying hair, and an unchanging smile, to focus the perceptions of +a man, to absorb his consciousness, aided by a tune which seems to close +out from him all the rest of the world. + +And there, while this plump little girl danced and the frivolous, stupid +crowd looked eagerly on, from all parts of the overheated theatre, began +the tragedy of Billy Folsom. + +He gazed in rapture, and when she had finished and stood panting and +kissing her hands in response to applause, he heaved an eloquent sigh. + +“I'd like to meet that girl,” he whispered to me, assuming a tone of +carelessness. + +Thereafter he kept his eye fixed upon the wings until she reappeared. +And the rest of the performance interested him only when she was in +view. + +I knew the symptoms, but I did not think the malady would become +chronic. + +He managed to have himself introduced to her a week later in New York +by Ted Clarke, the artist, who made newspaper sketches of her in some +of her dances. Folsom saw her going up the steps to an elevated railway +station. He ran after her, in order to be near her. He followed her into +a car, where Ted Clarke, recognizing her, rose to give her his seat. +She rewarded the artist by opening a conversation with him, and Folsom +availed himself of his acquaintance with Clarke to salute the latter +with surprising cordiality. She looked a few years older and less +girlish without her blond wig but she was still quite pretty in brown +hair. She treated Folsom with her wonted offhand amiability. He left the +train when she left it, and he walked a block with her. With pardonable +shrewdness she inspected his visage, attire, and manner, for indications +of his pecuniary and social standing, while he was indulging in silly +commonplaces. When they parted at the quiet hotel where she lived she +said lightly: + +“Come and see me sometime.” + +To her surprise, perhaps, he came the next day, preceded by several +dozen roses and a few pounds of bonbons. + +Every night thereafter he was at the theatre where she was appearing, +watching her dance from the front row or from the lobby, agitated with +mingled pleasure and jealousy when she received loud applause, angry +at the audience when the plaudits were not enthusiastic. When their +acquaintance was two weeks old, she allowed him to wait for her at the +stage door, and at last he was permitted to take her to supper. + +There was a second supper, at which four composed the party. We had a +room to ourselves, with a piano in the corner. The event lasted long, +and near the end, while the other soubrette played the tune on the +piano, and Folsom kept time by clinking the champagne glass against the +bottle, the little Tyrrell, continually laughing, did her skirt dance, +“La Gitana.” + +Thus with that waltz tune ever sounding in his ears, he fell in love +with her; strangely enough, really in love. She, having her own affairs +to mind, gave him no thought when he was not with her, and when they +were together she deemed him quite a good-natured, bearable fellow, as +long as he did not bore her. + +He made several declarations of love to her. She smiled at them, and +said, “You're like the rest; you'll get over it. Meanwhile, don't look +like that; be cheerful.” At certain times, when circumstances were +auspicious, when there was night and electric light and a starry sky +with a moon in it, she was half-sentimental, but such moods were only +superficial and short-lived, and she invariably brought an end to them +with flippant laughter or some matter-of-fact speech that came with a +shock to Billy, although it did not cool his adoration. + +Billy became quite gloomy. He was the veritable sighing lover. Although +for a month he was admittedly the chief of her admirers and saw her +every day, he seemed to make no progress toward securing a hospitable +reception for and a response to his love. + +One day, as they were walking together on Broadway, she said: + +“You're always in the dumps nowadays. Really you must not be that way. +Doleful people make me tired.” + +And thereafter Billy, possessed by a horrible fear that his mournful +demeanour might cause his banishment from her, kept making desperate +efforts to be lively, which were a dismal failure. It was ludicrous. The +gayer he affected to be, the more emphatic was his manifest depression. +So she wearied of his company. One day he called at her hotel, and, as +was his custom, went immediately to her sitting-room without sending +in his card. Before he knocked at the door, he heard the notes of her +piano; some one was playing the air of “La Gitana” with one finger. +After two or three bars, the instrument was silent. Then a man's voice +was heard. Billy knocked angrily. Miss Tyrrell opened the door, looked +annoyed when she saw him, and introduced him to the tenor of a comic +opera company of which she recently had been engaged as leading +soubrette. Billy's call was a short one. + +At eight o'clock that evening he sent this note to her from the café +where he was dining: + +“Will be at stage door with carriage at eleven, as before.” + +He was there at eleven. So was the tenor. The little Tyrrell came out +and looked from one to the other. Billy pointed to his waiting carriage. +The dancer took the tenor's arm and said: + +“I'm sorry I can't accept your invitation, Mr. Folsom. Really I'm very +much obliged to you, but I have an engagement.” + +She went off with the tenor, and Billy went off with the cab and made +himself drunker than he had ever been in his life. At dawn his feet +were seen protruding from the window of a coupé that was being driven up +Broadway, and he was bawling forth, as best he could, the tune which had +served indirectly to bring the little Tyrrell into his life. + +After that night, it was the old story, a woman ridding herself of a man +for whom she had never cared, and who indeed was not worth caring for. +But the operation was just as hard upon Folsom as if he had been. You +know the stages of the process. She began by being not at home or just +about to go out. He wrote pleading notes to her, in boyish phraseology, +and she laughed over these with the tenor. He made the breaking off the +more painful by going nightly to see her dance that fatal melody. He +watched her from afar upon the street, and almost invariably saw the +tenor by her side. He drank continually, and he begged Ted Clarke to +tell her, in a casual way, that he was going to the dogs on account of +her treatment of him. Whereupon she laughed and then looked scornful, +saying: “If he's fool enough to drink himself to death because a woman +didn't happen to fall in love with him, the sooner he finishes the work +the better. I have no use for such a man.” + +No one has, and I told Billy so. But he kept up his pace toward the goal +of confirmed drunkenness. He ceased his attendance at the theatre where +she danced, only after he learned that the tenor had married her. But +that dance of hers had become a part of his life. Its accompanying tune +was now as necessary to his aural sensibilities as food to his stomach. +He therefore spent his evenings going to theatres and concert-halls +where “La Gitana” was likely to be sung or played. He rarely sought in +vain. The melody was to be found serving some purpose or other at almost +every theatre that winter. It was the “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay” of its time. + +Some men who drink themselves to death require years and wit to complete +the task. Others save time by catching pneumonia through exposure due to +drink. Billy Folsom was one of the pneumonia class. He “slept off” the +effects of a long lark in an area-way belonging to a total stranger. A +policeman took him to his lodgings by way of the station house, and a +day later his landlord sent for a doctor. Five days after that I went +over to see him. He was in bed, and one of his friends, a man of his own +kind, but of stronger fibre, was keeping him company. Billy told us how +it had come about: + +“I wouldn't have gone on that racket if it hadn't been for one thing. +I'd made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, and I was walking along +full of plans for reformation. Suddenly I heard the sound of a banjo, +coming from an up-stairs window, playing a certain tune I've got +somewhat attached to. I saw the place was a kind of a dive and I went +in. I got the banjo-player to strum the piece over again, and I bought +drinks for the crowd. Then I made him play once more, and there were +other rounds of drinks, and the last I remember is that I was waltzing +around the place to that air. Two days after that the officer found +me trespassing on some one's property by sleeping on it. I dropped my +overcoat and hat somewhere, and it seemed there must have been a draft +around, for I caught this cold.” + +I told Folsom to stop talking, as he was manifestly much weaker than he +or his friend supposed him to be. There ensued a few seconds of silence. +A loud noise broke upon the stillness with a shocking suddenness. It was +the clamour of a band-piano in the street beneath Folsom's window, and +of all the tunes in the world the tune that it shrieked out was “La +Gitana.” I looked at Folsom. + +He rose in his bed and, clenching his teeth, he propelled through their +interstices the word: + +“Damn!” + +He remained sitting for a time, his hair tumbled about, his eyes wide +open but expressive of meditation as the notes continued to be thumped +upward by the turbulent instrument. Presently he said, in a husky voice: + +“How that thing pursues me! It's like a fiend. It has no let-up. It +follows me even into the next world.” + +He sat for a moment more, intently listening. Then, with a quick, +peevish sigh, he fell back from weakness. We by his side did not know it +at the instant, but we discovered in a short time what had taken place +when his head had touched the pillow, for he remained so still. + +And that was the last of Billy Folsom, and up from the murmuring street +below came the notes of the band-piano playing “La Gitana.” + + + + +XVIII. -- TRANSITION + +Three of us sat upon an upper deck, sailing to an island. The day was +sunlit, the wind was gentle, and the faintest ripple passed over the +sea. + +“Do you see the tremulous old man sitting over there by the pilot-house +absorbing the sunshine? He reminds me of another old man, one whom I +watched for six years, while he faded and died. He never knew me, but +he walked by my house daily and I walked by his. It was an interesting +study. The conclusion of the process was so inevitable. The time came +when he did not pass my house. Then he took the sunlight in a bow-window +on the second floor of his residence. So closely had I watched his +decadence during the six years that I was able to say to myself one +morning, 'There will be crape on his door before the day is out.' And so +there was.” + +The bon-vivant laughed rather mechanically, but the other, he who makes +verses so dainty that the world does not heed them, smiled softly and +sympathetically to me and said: + +“You are right. Nothing is so fascinating as the study of a progress--a +development or a decline. The inevitability of the end makes it more +engrossing, for it relieves it of the undue eagerness of curiosity, the +feverishness of uncertainty.” + +“Well, I am content rather to live than to contemplate life,” said the +bon-vivant. “It's true I have given myself up to observing anxiously +such an advancement as you describe--a vulgar one you will say. When I +was a very young man I was a very thin man. I determined to amplify my +dimensions. I followed with careful interest my daily increase toward my +present--let us not say obesity, but call it portliness.” + +“You are inclined to be easy upon yourself,” I commented. + +“Indeed I am--in all matters.” + +After a pause the verse-maker, throwing away his cigarette, took up +again the theme that I had introduced. + +“Yes, it is an engaging occupation to note any progression, even when +it is toward a fatal or a horrible culmination. But when it is to some +beautiful and happy outcome, this advancement is an ineffably charming +spectacle. Such it is when it is the unfolding of a flower or the +filling out of a poetic thought. + +“But no growth nor transformation in the material world is more +entrancing to observe than that by which a young girl becomes a lovely +woman. + +“This transition seems to be sudden. It is not so. It is rapid, perhaps, +as life goes, but each stage is distinctly marked. All men have not time +to watch the change, however, and so most men awaken to its occurrence +only when it is completed. Such was the case of the young and lowborn +lover of Consuelo in George Sand's romance. Do you remember that +incomparable scene in which he suddenly begins to notice that some +feature of Consuelo is handsome, and, with surprise, calls her attention +to its comeliness? She, equally astonished and delighted, joins him +in the visual examination of her charms, and the two pass from one +attraction to the other, finally completing the discovery that she is a +beautiful woman. + +“The Italian gamin was not the sort of man to have anticipated this +transfiguration and to have watched its stages. + +“You may argue that his delight at suddenly opening his eyes to +the finished work was greater than would have been his pleasure at +contemplating the alteration in process. Doubtless his was. As to +whether yours would be in such a case, depends upon your temperament. + +“I have experienced both of these pleasures. Perhaps it may be due to +certain special circumstances that I cherish the memory of the more +lasting delight, even though it was tempered by occasional doubts as to +the end, more tenderly than I do the more sudden and keen awakening. + +“There is a woman who first came under my observations when she was +thirteen years old. She was then agreeable enough to the eye, more +by reason of the gentleness of her expression than for any noteworthy +attractions of face and figure. Her face, indeed, was plain and +uninteresting; her figure unformed and too slim. Her hair, however, was +charming, being soft and extremely light in colour. She seemed awkward, +too, and timid, through fear of offending or making a bad impression. + +“For a reason I was particularly interested in her. I knew, young as I +then was, that plain girls, in many cases, develop into handsome women. + +“At fourteen her hair showed indications of changing its tint. +Its tendency was unmistakably toward brown. This was temporarily +unfavourable, but a brightening of the blue eyes and a newly acquired +poise of the head, with a step toward self-confidence in manner, were +compensating alterations. + +“At fifteen there came an emancipation of mind and speech from +schoolgirl habits. A defensive assumption of impertinent reserve, varied +by fits of superficial garrulity, gave way to real thoughtfulness, +to natural amiability. Then came, too, an emboldenment of the facial +outline, a constancy to the colour of the cheeks, a certainty of gait, +and the first perceptible roundness of contour beneath the neck. + +“At sixteen she had adorable hands, and she could wear short sleeves +with impunity. A rational, unforced, and coherent vivacity had now +revealed itself as a characteristic of her mode and conversation. Her +ankles had long before that grown too sightly to be exhibited. Such is +so-called civilization! Her hair seemed to darken before one's eyes. The +oval of her face attracted the attention of more than one of my artist +friends. + +“At seventeen she had learned what styles of attire, what arrangements +of her hair, were best suited to display effectively her comeliness. + +“This was one of the greatest steps of all. + +“The simplest draperies, she found, the least complicated headgear, were +most advantageous to her appearance. + +“A taste for reading the most ideal and artistic of books, as well as +her liking for poetry, the theatre, music, and pictures had implanted +that exalted something in her face which cannot be otherwise acquired. + +“When she was eighteen people on the street turned to look at her as she +passed. + +“At nineteen her figure was unsurpassable. Indeed, I think there cannot +be a more beautiful and charming woman in America. She is now twenty. + +“It was my privilege to view closely the bursting of this bud into +bloom.” + +The fin de siècle versewright became silent and lighted a fresh +cigarette. + +“Will you permit me to ask,” said I, “what were the especial facilities +that you had for observing this evolution?” + +“Yes,” he answered, softly, a tender look coming into his eyes. “She is +my wife. She was thirteen when I married her. Suddenly placed without +means of subsistence, knowing nothing of the world, she came to me. I +could see no other way. We are very happy together.” + +The pretty narrative of the rhymer put each of us in a delectable mood. +The notes of a harp and violins came from the lower deck in the form of +a seductive Italian melody. White sails dotted the far-reaching sea. + + + + +XIX. -- A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD + +Hearken to the tale of how fortune fell to the widow of Busted Blake. + +The outcome has shown that “Busted” was not radically bad. But he was +wretchedly weak of will to reject an opportunity of having another drink +with the boys--or with the girls--or with anybody or with nobody. + +In the days of his ascendancy, when he was a young and newly married +architect, he was a buyer of drinks for others. Waiters in cafés vied +with each other in showing readiness to take his orders. He was rated a +jolly good fellow then. No one would have supposed it destined that +some fine night a leering barroom wit should reply to his whispered +application for a small loan by pouring a half-glass of whiskey upon his +head and saying: + +“I hereby christen thee 'Busted.'” + +The title stuck. Blake, through continued impecuniosity, lost all shame +of it in time; lost, too, his self-respect and his wife. Mrs. Blake, a +gentle and pretty little brunette, had wedded him against the will of +her parents. She had trusted, for his safety, to the allurements of his +future, which everybody said was bright, and to his love for her. + +The years of tearful nights, the pleadings, the reproaches, the seesaw +of hope and despair, need not here be dwelt upon. They would make an old +story, and some of the details might be shocking to the young person. +They reached a culmination one day when she said to him: + +“You love drink better than you love me. I have done with you.” + +She was a woman and took a woman's view of the case. + +When he came back to their rooms that night, she was not there. Then he +knew how much he loved her and how much he had underestimated his love. + +She did not go to her parents. There was a very musty proverb that she +knew would meet her on the threshold. “You made your bed, now lie on +it.” Her father was a man of no originality, hence he would have put it +in that way. + +She got employment in a photograph gallery, where she made herself +useful by being ornamental, sitting behind a desk in the anteroom. + +I know not what duties devolve upon the woman who occupies that post +in the average photographer's service; whatever they are she performed +them. But within a very short time after she had left the “bed and +board” of Busted Blake, she had to ask for a vacation. She spent it in +a hospital and Busted became a father. She resumed her chair behind the +photographer's desk in due time, found a boarding-house where infants +were not tabooed, and managed to subsist, and to care for her child--a +girl. + +Somebody lived in that boarding-house who knew Busted Blake, and it was +through inquiries resulting from, this somebody's jocularly calling him +“papa” one night in a saloon that Busted was made aware of his accession +to the paternal relation. + +When the poor wretch heard the news, he made a prodigious effort to keep +his face composed. But the muscles would not be resisted. He burst out +crying, and he laid his head upon his arm upon a beer-flooded table and +wept copiously, causing a sudden hush to fall upon the crowd of +topers and a group to gather around his table and stare at him,--some +mystified, some grinning, none understanding. + +The next day he made a herculean effort to pull himself together. He +obtained a position as draughtsman from one who had known him in his +respectable period, and he went tremblingly and sheepishly to call upon +his wife and child. + +The consequence of his visit was a reunion, which endured for two whole +weeks. At the end of that time she cast him off in utter scorn. + +How he lived for the next two years can be only known to those who are +familiar through experience with the existence of people who ask other +people on the street for a few cents toward a night's lodging. By those +who knew him he was said to be “no good to himself or any one else.” He +acquired the raggedness, the impudence, the phraseology of the vagabond +class. He would hang on the edge of a party of men drinking together +in front of a bar, on the slim chance of being “counted in” when the +question went round, “What'll you have?” He was perpetually being +impelled out of saloons at foot-race speed by the officials whose +function it is, in barrooms, to substitute an objectionable person's +room for his company. + +One winter Sunday morning he slept late on a bench in a public square. +Awakened by an officer, he arose to go. Hazy in head and stiff at +joints, he slightly staggered. He heard behind him the cooing laugh of +a child. He looked around. It was himself that had awakened the infant's +mirth--or that strange something which precedes the dawn of a sense of +humour in children. The smiling babe was in a child's carriage which a +plainly dressed woman was pushing. He looked at the woman. It was his +wife and the pretty child was his own. + +He walked rapidly from the place, and on the same day he decided to +leave the city. He had herded with vagrants of the touring class. The +methods of free transportation by means of freight-trains and free +living, by means of beggary and small thievery in country towns, were no +secret to him. He walked to the suburbs, and at nightfall he scrambled +up the side of a coal-car in a train slowly moving westward. + +What hunger he suffered, what cold he endured, what bread he begged, +what police station cells he passed nights in, what human scum he +associated with, what thirst he quenched, and with what incredibly bad +whiskey, are particulars not for this unobjectionable narrative, for do +they not belong to low life? And who nowadays can tolerate low life +in print unless it be redeemed by a rustic environment and a laboured +exposition of clodhopper English and primitive expletives? Low life +outside of a dialect story and a dreary village? Never! + +Mrs. Blake and the child lived in a fair degree of comfort upon the +mother's wages, but often the mother shuddered at thought of what might +happen should she ever lose her position at the photographer's. + +Consumption had its hold on Busted Blake when he arrived in the +mining-town called Get-there City, in Kansas, one evening. Get-there +City had not gotten there beyond a single straggling street of shanties. +But it had acquired a saloon, although liquor-selling had already been +forbidden in Kansas. + +Busted Blake, with ten cents in his clothes, entered the saloon and +asked in an asthmatic voice for as much whiskey as that sum was good +for. + +While awaiting a response, his eyes turned toward the only other +persons in the saloon,--three burly, bearded miners of the conventional +big-hatted, big-booted, and big-voiced type. Above their heads and +against the wall was this sign, lettered roughly with charcoal, under a +crudely drawn death's head: + +“Five thousand dollars will be paid by the undersigned to the widow of +the sneaking hound that informs on this saloon. This is no meer bluf. P. +GIBBS.” + +Blake, after a brief coughing fit, looked up at the man behind the +bar,--a great thick-necked fellow with a mien of authority, and yet with +a certain bluff honesty expressed about his eyes and lips. This man, +whose air of proprietorship convinced Blake that he could be none other +than P. Gibbs, had first looked sneeringly at the ten cents, but had +shown some small sign of pity on hearing the ominous cough of the +attenuated vagrant. He set forth a bottle and glass. + +“Help yerself,” said P. Gibbs. While Blake was doing so, Mr. Gibbs went +on: + +“Bad cough o' yourn. Y' mightn't guess it, but that same cough runs in +my fam'ly. It took off a brother, but it skipped me.” + +Here was a bond of sympathy between the big, law-defying saloon-keeper +and the frail toper from the East. Busted Blake drained his glass and +presently coughed again. P. Gibbs again set forth the bottle, and this +time he drank with Blake. Before long, by dint of repeated fits of +coughing on the part of Blake, the sympathy of P. Gibbs was so worked +upon that he invited the three miners in the saloon to join him and the +stranger. + +Blake slept in a corner of the saloon that night. He left the next +morning, a curious expression of resolution on his face. + +During the next three weeks he was now and then alluded to in P. Gibbs's +saloon as the “coughing stranger.” + +In the middle of the third week, at nine o'clock in the evening, when +the lamps in P. Gibbs's saloon were exerting their smallest degree of +dimness and the bar was doing a good business, the door opened and in +staggered Busted Blake. His staggering on this occasion was manifestly +not due to drink. His face had the hideous concavities of a starved man +and the uncertainty of his gait was the token of a mortal feebleness. +His emaciation was painful to behold. His eyes glowed like huge gems. + +The crowd of miners looked at him with surprise as he entered. + +“The coughing stranger!” cried one. + +“The coffin stranger, you mean,” said another. + +Busted Blake lurched over to the bar. His eyes met those of P. Gibbs on +the other side, and the latter reached for a whiskey-bottle. + +Blake fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a piece of soiled paper, +which he laid on the bar under the glance of P. Gibbs. + +“Keep that!” said Blake, in a husky voice, whose service he compelled +with much effort. “And keep your word, too! That's where you'll find +her.” + +P. Gibbs picked up the paper. + +“What do you mean?” he asked. + +“That woman's name there. It's the name of my widow; the address, too, +of a photograph man who will tell you where she is. Get the money to her +quick, before the governor and the troops comes down on you to close you +up. And don't let her know how it comes about. Pick a man to take it to +her,--let him pay his expenses out of it,--a man you can trust, and make +him tell her I made it somehow, mining or something, so she'll take it. +You know.” + +P. Gibbs, who had listened with increasing amazement, opened wide his +eyes and drew his revolver. He spoke in a strangely low, repressed +voice: + +“Stranger, do you mean to say--” + +“Yes, that's it,” shrieked Busted Blake, turning toward the crowd of +intensely interested onlookers. “And I call on all you here to witness +and to hold him to his word. That's no mere bluff he says in his notice +there, and I'm the sneaking hound that informed. My widow is entitled to +$5,000. I did it in Topeka, and for proof, see this newspaper.” + +P. Gibbs fired a shot from his revolver through the newspaper that Blake +pulled from his shirt. Then the saloon-keeper brought his weapon on a +level with Blake's face. + +“It's good your boots is on!” said P. Gibbs, ironically. + +But he did not fire. Blake stood perfectly still, awaiting the shot, and +feebly laughing. + +So the two remained for some moments, until Blake suddenly sank to the +floor, quite exhausted. He died within a half-hour on the saloon floor, +his head resting in the palm of P. Gibbs, who knelt by his side and +tried to revive him. + +At the next dawn, a man whom they called Big Andy started East, and the +piece of paper that Blake handed to P. Gibbs was not all that he took +with him. The United States marshal arrived and duly closed Gibbs's +saloon, which reopened very shortly afterward, minus the $5,000 offer. + +And Big Andy found the widow of Busted Blake, to whom he told a bit of +fiction in accounting for the legacy conveyed by him to her that would +have imposed upon the most incredulous legatee. When she had recovered +from the surprise of finding herself and her child provided with the +means of surviving the possible loss of her situation, she forgave the +late Busted, and there was a flow of tears unusual to a boarding-house +parlour and unnerving to Big Andy. + +Presently she asked Andy whether he knew what her husband's last words +had been. + +“Yep,” said Andy. “I heard'm plain and clear. Pete Gibbs,--the other +executor of the will, you know,--Pete says, 'It's all right, pardner, +me and Andy'll see to it,' and then your husband says, 'Thank Gawd I've +been some good to her and the child at last.'” + +Which account was entirely correct. When Big Andy had returned to +Get-there City, and related how he had performed his mission, he added: + +“I'd been such a lovely liar all through, it's a shame I had to go an' +spoil the story by puttin' in some truth at the finish.” + +They put up a wooden grave-mark where Blake was buried, and after his +name they cut in the wood this testimonial: + +“A tenderfoot that was some good to his folks at last.” + + + + +XX. -- MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO + +Near the uneven road among the hills a small field of stony ground lay +between woods and cultivated land. Nothing grew upon it and no house +could be seen from it. The sun beat upon it and crows flew over it to +and from the woods. + +Along the road trudged a thin old negro with stooping back and gray +wool. His knees were bent and his cumbrously shod feet pointed far +outward from his line of progress. He wore an aged frock coat and +a battered stiff hat, although the month was June. His small face, +beginning with a smoothly curved forehead and ending with a cleanly +cut chin, was mild and conciliating, shiny, and of the colour of light +chocolate. He carried a tin bucket full of cherries. Pop Thornberry was +returning to the town. + +Pop, whose proper name was Moses, and who was a deacon in the African +Methodist Church, made his living this way and that way. He did odd jobs +for people, and he fished and hunted when fishing and hunting were in +season. + +On this June day he had risen early and walked three miles to pick +cherries “on shares.” He had picked ten quarts and left four of them +with the farmer whose trees had produced them. At six cents a quart he +would profit thirty-six cents by his walk of six miles and his work of a +half-day. + +The sun was scorching and Pop was tired. He decided to rest in the +barren field, at its very edge in shade of the woods. He climbed +the zigzag fence with some labour and at the expense of a few of his +cherries. He sat down upon a little knob of earth, took off his hat, +drew a red handkerchief from the inside thereof, and slowly wiped his +perspiring brow. + +He looked up at the sky, which was so brightly blue that it made his +eyes blink. He sought optical relief in the dark green of the woods. +Then, in steadying his pail of cherries between his legs, he turned his +glance to the ground in front of him. + +His attention was caught by a lump of earth that sparkled at points In +the sun's rays, a mere clod composed of clay and mica, lying In the +dry bed of a bygone streamlet. Because it glittered he picked it up and +examined it. After a time he bethought him that he was yet two and a +half miles from town and very hungry. He arose, somewhat stiff, and put +the shining clod in his coat-tail pocket. On his way back to the road +he noticed other little earth lumps that shone. He resumed his walk +townward, his knees shaking regularly at every step, as was their wont. + +At three o'clock in the afternoon he had reached home, sold his +cherries, and dined on dried beef and bread in his little unpainted +wooden house on the edge of the creek at the back of the town. + +He owned his house and a small lot upon which it stood. Near it was a +flour-mill, whose owner held a mortgage upon Pop's house and lot. The +old negro had been compelled to borrow $200 to pay bills incurred during +the illness and subsequent funeral of the late Mrs. Thornberry, and thus +to avoid a sheriff's sale. Hence came the mortgage. It would expire +on the 10th of September. Pop was almost ready to meet that date. He +already had $192 hidden in his cellar, unknown to any one. + +He had heard rumours of the mill-owner's desire to build an addition +to his mill. To do this would necessitate the acquisition of contiguous +property. But Pop had not suspected any ulterior motive when the miller +had offered to lend him the money. + +“I kin soon lay by 'nuff t' pay off d' mohgage, w'en I ain't got no one +but m'se'f t' puvvide foh no moah,” he had said, after the loan had been +made. + +And, having dined on this June day, he took twenty cents from the amount +received for cherries and placed it in a cigar-box to be added to the +$192. He kept that sixteen cents with which to purchase provisions +for to-morrow, and then he walked down the quiet street to the railway +station. He often made a dime by carrying some one's satchel from the +station to the hotel. + +The railroad division superintendent, a well-fed and easy-going man, +came down from his office on the second floor of the station building +and saw Pop sitting on a baggage-truck. The old negro, forgetful of the +clod in his coat-tail pocket, had felt it when he sat down. He had taken +it out of his pocket and was now casually looking at it as he held it in +his hand. + +“Hello, Pop!” said the division superintendent, upon whose hand time was +hanging heavily. “What have you there?” + +“Doan' know, Mistah Monroe. Doan' know, sah. Looks like jes' a chunk o' +mud.” + +He held out the clod to Mr. Monroe. + +The spectacle of the division superintendent talking to the old negro +attracted a group of lazy fellows,--the driver of an express wagon, +the man who hauls the mail to the post-office, a boy who sold fruit to +passengers on the train, two porters, with tin signs upon their hats, +who solicited patronage from the hotels. + +“Why, Pop,” said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, “this +lump looks as though it contained gold.” + +“Yes,” put in the expressman, “that's how gold comes in a mine. I've +often handled it. That's the stuff, sure.” + +The fruit-selling boy and the mail-man grinned. Pop Thornberry opened +wide his mouth and eyes and softly repeated the word: + +“Goal!” + +“I'd be careful of it,” advised Mr. Monroe, handing the clod back to the +negro. + +Pop took it with a trembling hand and looked at it. Presently he asked: + +“W'at'll you give me foh dat air goal, Mistah Monroe.” + +“Oh, a piece like that would be no use to me. It has to be washed and it +wouldn't be worth while putting just one piece through the whole process +of cleaning. Now. If you have a lot of it, we might go into partnership +in the gold business.” + +Before the old man could answer to this pleasantry a whistle was heard +up the track, and Pop was forgotten in the excitement attending the +arrival of the train. + +Dislodged from the baggage-truck, the old man looked around for Mr. +Monroe, but the superintendent had disappeared. Pop did not seek to +carry any satchels that day. His mind was full of other matters. He went +behind the station and sat down beside the river. + +“Goal!” That meant proper tombstones for the graves of his wife and +children, a new pulpit for the African Methodist Church, equal to that +of the African Baptist Church, future ease for his somewhat weary legs +and arms and back. + +The next afternoon the division superintendent found himself awaited at +his office door by Pop Thornberry, who was very dusty and who carried +a basket heavy with clods of clay and mica. He had been out to the arid +field that morning. + +“H-sh!” whispered Pop. “Doan' say a word, Mistah Monroe! Hyah's a lot o' +dem air goal lumps, and I know weah dey's bushels moah,--plenty 'nuff to +go into pahtnehship on.” + +The superintendent, looked bewildered, then amused, then ashamed. +Embarrassed for a reply, he finally said: + +“I haven't time to talk to you now, Pop. Besides, I've made up my mind +not to go into the gold business. You see, I'm rich enough already. Good +day.” + +Thereafter Pop lay in wait for Mr. Monroe daily, but the superintendent +always avoided him. Pop neglected to earn his living and spent his +time going about town with his basket of clods in search of the +superintendent. Finally being openly ignored by Mr. Monroe when the two +met face to face, Pop became angry and took his secret to a jeweller +on Main Street. The jeweller laughed and told Pop that the gold in the +basket must be worth at least a thousand dollars, but he was not in a +position to buy crude gold. Then the jeweller made known to many that +Pop Thornberry was crazy over some lumps of mud and mica that he mistook +for gold. + +After that, people would stop Pop on the street and say: + +“Let's see a piece of the gold in your basket.” + +Pop, astonished that his secret was out, but somewhat proud at being +thought the possessor of a treasure, would hesitate and then comply. +The small boys soon recognized in Pop's delusion a new means of fun. +Observing the solicitude with which he watched his clod while out of his +own hands, they would innocently ask for a glimpse into his basket. This +granted, they would grasp a piece of his treasure and run away, greatly +annoying the old man, who was in a state of keen distress until he +recovered the abstracted clod. These affairs between Pop and the +boys were of hourly recurrence. They diverted barroom loungers and +passers-by. + +Pop called on one local capitalist after another, seeking one who would +buy his gold or aid into preparing it for the market. All laughed at +his delusion, deeming it harmless, and all gave him good reason for not +accepting his offer of business partnership. So he went from the bank +president to the baker, from the member of congress for whom he had +voted to the barber, from the hotel proprietor to the bartender. The +negroes of the town, feeling that their race was humiliated in Pop, +began to hold aloof from him. No serious-minded person who learned of +his delusion gave it a second thought. + +“Say Pop, where do you get this gold, anyhow?” asked a tobacco-chewing +gamin at the railroad station one day. + +“Dat's my business,” replied Thornberry, with some dignity. + +“Oh,” said his questioner, “I know. Tobe McStenger followed you out the +other day and saw where you got it. He'd a brung some in hisself, but it +wasn't on his property.” + +“Yes, Pop, you better look out,” put in a telegraph operator, “or you'll +be taken up for trespassing. 'Tisn't your land, you know, where you find +your gold.” + +There was no truth in the assertion of the gamin. No one had taken the +trouble to follow Pop in his semiweekly excursions to the barren field. +But the old man knew that the field was not his. A ludicrous expression +of overwhelming fright came over his face. + +Three days afterward, the farmer who owned the worthless field was +astonished when Pop offered to buy it. + +“But what on earth do you want that land fer?” asked the farmer, sitting +on his barnyard fence. + +Pop made a guilty attempt to appear guileless, and told the farmer that +he wished to build a shanty and raise potatoes. He was tired of living +in town and sought the quietude of the hills. + +“Bein' as dat ere fiel' ain't good foh much, I thought you might be +willin' to paht with it,” explained Pop. + +The farmer eventually agreed to build a shanty on the field and sell +it to Pop for $180. Pop desired immediate occupancy. There was a legal +hitch, owing to the badness of the land and the questionable condition +of Pop's mind. But the transfer of the property was finally recorded. + +Pop no longer had to fear arrest for trespass. His gold field was now +legally his. But he was still kept uneasy by his inability to make his +gold marketable. His uneasiness increased as September approached. He +had applied to the purchase of the field the sum saved to cancel the +mortgage upon his house at the rear end of the town. + +The three days before the foreclosure of the mortgage were days of +exquisite anguish to Pop. When the foreclosure came and he and his +goods were turned out on the banks of the creek to make room for the +mill-owner's improvements, his mental turmoil ended. He took the crisis +calmly. + +“Jes' wait,” he said to a neighbour who had stopped at sight of the +moving-out. “Wait till I get dat ere goal on de mahket. I'll bull' a +mill dat'll drive dis yer mill out o' d' business. Den I'll done buy +back dis yer ol' home.” + +But the next day, when the unexpected happened,--when builders began to +tear down his house,--the enormity of his deed dawned upon him. After a +day of moaning and staring, as he sat amidst his household goods on +the bank of the creek, he became animated by a deep rage against the +mill-owner. Now more than ever had he a special purpose for enriching +himself by means of his treasure across the hill. + +The coming of two circuses in succession had taken the interest of the +boys away from Pop during August and part of September. Now they turned +again to him for amusement. First they besieged the abandoned stable to +which he had conveyed his goods, and in which he slept,--for he had not +found will to betake himself from the town he had so long inhabited, and +his shanty in the field remained unoccupied. His purchase of the land +had betrayed to general knowledge the location of his treasure, of which +he continued to bring in new specimens. + +One October day he had just come from vainly attempting to induce the +postmaster to join him in the enterprise of exploiting his gold-field. +In front of the post-office, he was met by some boys coming noisily from +school. They surrounded him and demanded to see the gold in his basket. +As the town policeman was sauntering up the street, Pop felt safe in +refusing. The boys, also observing the officer of the law, contented +themselves with retaliating in words only, + +“Say, Pop,” cried one of them, “you'd better keep an eye on your +gold-field. Nick Hennessey knows where it is, and he's gittin' up a +diggin' party to take a wagon out some night and bring away all your +gold.” + +The boys, laughing at this quickly invented announcement, ran off after +a hand-organ. The old man stood perfectly still, or as nearly so as the +feebleness of his legs would permit. + +That evening Pop was missing from the town. And when Abraham Wesley, who +had often lent his shotgun to the old man, went to look for that weapon, +intending to shoot glass balls in the fairgrounds across the river, the +fowling-piece too was missing. + +Pop had gone out to protect his possession. Three nights passed and +three days. The few country folk and others who travelled that way +during this time saw the old man walking about in his field or sitting +in front of his shanty, his shotgun on his shoulders, his eyes fixed +suspiciously on all who might become intruders. Night and day he +patrolled his little domain. + +At dusk of the third day a lively party was returning to the town in +a wagon from a search for nuts. The full moon was rising and the +merrymakers were singing. One of the girls was thirsty. When she saw the +shanty in the rugged field, she asked a young man to get her a glass of +water at the hut. The wagon stopped and the youth climbed astride the +rail fence. Suddenly an unnaturally shrill and excited voice was heard: + +“Hyah, you, doan' come no farder! Dese yer's my premises!” + +From behind the empty shanty appeared the thin old negro, bareheaded, +his shotgun at his shoulder, a striking figure against the rising moon. + +The young man descended from the fence into the field. There came a +flash and a crack from Pop Thornberry's gun. The youth felt the sting of +a piece of birdshot in his leg. Howling and limping, he turned quickly +over the fence into the wagon, which made a hasty flight. + +The next morning some idlers went out from the town to the scene of the +adventure. They found the old man lying hatless in the middle of +the field, face downwards, upon the shotgun. He had died of sheer +exhaustion, on guard--and on his own land, as befit an honest citizen +who had never intruded upon the peace of other men. + + + + +XXI. -- AT THE STAGE DOOR + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_.Copyright, 1892, by J. B. +Lippincott Company.] + +First let me explain how I came to be sitting in so unsavoury a place as +Gorson's “fifteen cent oyster and chop house” that night. Most newspaper +men--the rank and file--receive remuneration by the week. Those not +given over to domesticity, those who enjoy that alluring regularity +identical with liberty, fare sumptuously, as a rule, on “pay-day.” + Thereafter the quantity and quality of the good things of life that they +enjoy diminish daily until the next pay-day. + +Pay-day with us was Friday. This was Thursday night. I having gone to +unusual lengths of good cheer in the early part of that week, had +now fallen low, and was duly thankful for what I could get--even at +Gorson's. + +As my glance wandered over my table, over the beer-bottles and the +oysters, beyond the crowd of ravenous and vulgar eaters and hurrying +waiters, to the street door, some one opened that door from the outside +and entered. An odd looking personage this some one. + +A person very tall and conspicuously thin. These peculiarities were +accentuated by the dilapidated frock coat that reached to his knees, and +thus concealed the greater portion of his gray summer trousers, which +“bagged” exceedingly and were picturesquely frayed at the bottom edges, +as I could see when he came nearer to me. He wore a faded straw hat, +which looked forlorn, as the month was January. His face, despite +its angularity of outline and its wanness, had that expression of +complacency which often relieves from pathos the countenances of +harmlessly demented people. His hair was gray, but his somewhat +formidable looking moustache was still dark. He carried an unadorned +walking-stick and under his left arm was what a journalistic eye +immediately recognized as manuscript. From the man's aspect of extreme +poverty, I deduced that his manuscripts were never accepted. + +As he passed the cashier's desk, he stopped, lowered his body, not by +stooping in the usual way, but by bending his knees, and with a quick +sweep of his eyes by way of informing himself whether or not he was +observed, he picked up a cigar stump that some one had dropped there. + +Then he walked with a rather shambling but self-important gait to the +table next mine, carefully placed his manuscript upon a chair, and +sat down upon it. He was soon lost in a prolonged contemplation of the +limited bill of fare posted on the wall, a study which resulted in +his ordering, through a hustling, pugnacious-looking waiter, a bowl of +oatmeal. + +A bowl of oatmeal is the least expensive item on the bill of fare at +Gorson's. When I hear a man ordering oatmeal in a cheap eating-house, my +heart aches for him. I had just the money and the intention to procure +another bottle of beer and another box of cigarettes. The sum required +to obtain these necessaries of life is exactly the price of a bowl of +oatmeal and a steak at Gorson's. So I hastily arose to go, and on my +way out I had a brief conversation with the bellicose-appearing waiter, +which resulted in my unknown friend's being overwhelmed with amazement +later when the waiter brought him a warm steak with his oatmeal and said +that some one else had already paid his bill. I did not wait to witness +this result, for the man looked one of the sort to put forth a show of +indignation at being made an object of charity. + +An hour later I saw him walking with an air of consequence up Broadway, +smoking what was probably the bit of cigar he had picked up in the +restaurant. He still carried his manuscript, which was wrapped in a +soiled blue paper. As I was hurrying up-town on an assignment for the +newspaper, I could not observe his movements further than to see that +when he reached Fourteenth Street he made for one of the benches in +Union Square. + +It was by the size, shape, and blue cover that I recognized that +manuscript two days later upon the desk of the editor of the Sunday +supplementary pages of the paper, as I was submitting to that personage +a “special” I had written upon the fertile theme, “Producing a +Burlesque.” + +“May I ask what that stuff is wrapped in blue?” + +“Certainly. A crank in the last stages of alcoholism and mental +depression brought it in yesterday. It's an idiotic jumble about +Beautiful Women of History, part in prose and part in doggerel.” + +“Of course you'll reject it?” + +“Naturally. I'll ease his mind by telling him the subject lacks +contemporaneousness. Have a cigarette? By the way, have you any special +interest in the rubbish?” + +“No; I only think I've seen it before somewhere. What's the writer's +name and address?” + +“It's to be called for. He didn't leave any address. From that fact and +his appearance, I infer that he doesn't have any permanent abode. Here's +his name,--Ernest Ruddle. Not half as much individuality in the name as +in the man. I remember him because he had a straw hat on.” + +The burlesque production which had served as material for my Sunday +article saw the light for the first time on the following Monday night. +There being no other theatrical novelty in New York that night, the +town--represented by the critics and the sporting and self-styled +Bohemian elements--was there. The performance was to have a popular +comedian as the central figure, and was to serve, also, to reintroduce +a once favourite comic-opera prima donna, who had been abroad for some +years. This stage queen had once beheld the town at her feet. She +had abdicated her throne in the height of her glory, having made the +greatest success of her career on a certain Monday night, and having +disappeared from New York on Tuesday, shortly afterward materializing in +Paris. + +There was abundant curiosity awaiting the appearance of Louise Moran, as +the playbills called her. It was whispered, to be sure, by some who had +seen her in burlesque in London, after her flight from America, that she +had grown a bit passée; but this was refuted by the interviewers who had +met her on her return and had duly chronicled that she looked “as rosy +and youthful as ever.” Brokers, gilded youth, all that curious lot +of masculinity classified under the general head of “men about town,” + crowded into the theatre that night, and when, after being heralded at +length by the chorus, the returned prima donna appeared, in shining drab +tights, she had a long and noisy reception. + +My friendly acquaintance with the leading comedian and the stage manager +had served to obtain for me an unusual privilege,--that of witnessing +the first night's performance from the wings. As I looked out across +the stage and the footlights, and saw the sea of faces in the yellowish +haze, a familiar visage held my eye. It was in the front row of the top +gallery, and was projected far over the railing, putting its owner in +some risk of decapitation. An intent look on the pale countenance at +once distinguished it from the terrace of uninteresting, monotonous +faces that rose back of it. The face was that of my man of the +restaurant and of the blue-covered manuscript. + +I stood, somewhat in the way of the light man, where my eye could +command most of the stage, and a brief section of the auditorium, from +parquet to roof. The star of the evening, having rattled off, with much +sang-froid and a London intonation, a few lines of thinly humourous +dialogue, came toward the footlights to sing. While the conductor of +the orchestra poised his baton and cast an apprehensive look at her, she +began: + + “I'm one of the swells + Whose accent tells + That we've done the Contenong.” + +When she had sung only to this point, people in the audience were +exchanging significant smiles. There was no doubt of it; Louise Moran's +voice had lost its beauty. The years and joys of life abroad had done +their work. We now knew why she had given up comic opera and had gone +into burlesque. The house was so taken by surprise that at the end of +her second stanza, where applause should have come, none came. There was +no occasion for her to draw upon her supply of “encore verses.” + +Unprepared for the chilling silence that followed her song, she bestowed +upon the audience a look of mingled astonishment, pain, and resentment. +But she recovered self-possession promptly and delivered the few spoken +lines preceding her exit gaily enough. Her face clouded as soon as she +was off the stage. She abused her maid in her dressing-room and sent the +comedian's “dresser” out for some troches. The state of her mind was +not improved by the sound of a hail-storm-like sound that came from +the direction of the stage shortly after,--the applause at the leading +comedian's entrance. + +As the newspapers said the next day, the only honours of that +performance were with the comedian. The star of Louise Moran had set. +Not only was her singing-voice a ruin, but the actress had grown coarse +in visage. The once willowy outlines of her figure had rounded vulgarly. +On the face, audacity had taken place of piquancy. Even the dark gray +eyes, which somehow seemed black across the footlights, had lost some +lustre. + +Why had the once lovely creature come back from Europe to disturb the +memories of her other radiant self, and to turn those dainty photographs +of her earlier person into lies? + +Every man in the house was thinking this question at the end of the +first act. + +She had another solo to sing in the second act. It was while she was +attempting this that my glance strayed to the man in the gallery. His +face this time surprised me. + +It wore a look of ineffable sympathy and sorrow. Surely tears were +falling from the sad eyes. + +This pity touched me. It was so solitary. The feeling of the rest of the +audience was plainly one of resentful derision at being disappointed. + +After the performance I waited for the comedian. He was called before +the curtain and a speech was extorted from him. There were but a few +faint cries for the actress, to which she did not respond. She had +summoned the manager to her dressing-room. While she hastily assumed +her wraps for the street, she was excitedly complaining of the musical +director “for not knowing his business,” the comedian for “interfering” + in her scenes, the composer for writing the music too high, and the +librettist for supplying such “beastly rubbish” in the way of dialogue. + +“Very well; I'll call a rehearsal to-morrow at ten,” the conciliatory +manager replied. “You talk to Myers” (the musical director) “yourself +about it. And you can introduce those two songs you speak of. Myers will +fix the other music to suit your voice.” + +“And you start Elliott to write over the libretto at once,” she +commanded, “and see that that song and dance clown” (the comedian) +“never comes on the stage when I'm on, if it can be helped, or I won't +go on at all. That's settled!” + +The comedian and I left the stage door together. The actress's cab was +waiting at the opposite side of the dark alley-like street upon which +the stage door opened. This street or court, stretching its gloomy way +from a main street, is a place of tall warehouses, rear walls, and bad +paving. The electric light at its point of junction with the main street +does not penetrate half-way to the stage entrance, and the blackness +thereabout is diluted with the rays of the lonely, indifferent gas-lamp +that projects above the old wooden door. Farther on, an old-fashioned +street-lamp marks the place where the alley turns to wind about until it +eventually reaches another main street. + +This dark region, the feeble lamp above the stage door, the shadows +opposite, have a peculiar charm, especially at night. One would not +think that within that door is a short corridor leading to the mystic +realm which the people “in front” idealize into a wonderful inaccessible +country, the playworld. Back here, especially on a rainy night and +before the playworld's inhabitants begin to sally forth to partake of +terrestrial beer and sandwiches, one seems millions of miles away from +the crowds of men and women in the theatre and from the illumined street +in front. + +The ordinary world, when passing this strange place, peers in curiously +from the main street. Sometimes folks wait at the corner of the street +to see the stage people come out. If the piece is a burlesque or a comic +opera, much life moves in the darkness back here. Light comes from the +up-stairs windows of the theatre, the dressing rooms of the subordinate +players being up there. Snatches of song from feminine throats, mere +trills sometimes, isolated fragments of melody, break into the silence. +These are always numerous during the half-hour after the performance and +before the actors have left the theatre. Chorus girls in ulsters emerge +in troops, usually by twos, from the door beneath the light, and it is +constantly opening and shutting. In the gloom opposite the door hover a +few bold youths, suddenly become timid, smoking cigarettes and trying +to look like men of the world. As the comedian and I came forth, one of +these young men struck a match to light a cigarette. The momentary flash +attracted my eye, and I saw in the farthest shadow, with his gaze upon +the stage door, my man of the restaurant, and the manuscript, and the +gallery. If possible, he looked more haggard than before, and, as it was +cold, he shivered perceptibly. + +“Whom can he be waiting for, I wonder?” I said, aloud. + +The comedian, thinking that I alluded to the cabman, half-asleep upon +his seat, replied, as he turned up the collar of his overcoat: + +“Oh, he's waiting for Miss Moran. She didn't always go home from the +theatre in a cab. She acquired the habit abroad, I suppose. How she's +changed. I knew her in other days.” + +“Really? I didn't know that. Tell me about her.” + +“It's a common story. She's the result of a mercenary mother's schemes. +She's not as old as people think, you know. Her career has been +eventful, which makes it seem long. But I was in the cast, playing a +small part in the first play she ever appeared in, and that was only +twelve years ago. She was about twenty-one then. She waited on customers +in her mother's little stationery store, until one day she eloped with a +poor young fellow whom she loved, in order to escape a rich old man whom +her mother had selected for a son-in-law. She could have endured +poverty well enough, if the mother hadn't done the +'I--forgive--and--Heaven--bless--you--my--children' act, after which she +succeeded in making the girl quarrel with her husband continually. She +was a schemer, that mother. A theatrical manager, whom she knew, was +introduced to the girl, who was more beautiful then than ever afterward. +The mother managed to have the girl's husband discharged from the bank +where he was employed on the same day that the manager made the girl an +offer to go on the stage. The boy naturally wanted to keep his wife with +him, but the mother told him he was a fool. + +“'I'll travel with her,' she said, 'and you stay here and get another +situation.' The wife, intoxicated at the prospects of stage triumphs, +urged, and the boy gave in. + +“A year or so after that, the girl had drifted completely out of the +husband's life, as they say in society plays, the mother managed to +bring about the estrangement so promptly. + +“The husband stayed at home and got work in a railroad office or +somewhere, so as to earn money with which to drink himself to death--I +say, let's go in here and eat. If we go to the club, I'll be bored to +death with congratulations.” + +We turned into a lighted vestibule and mounted the stairs to a modest +little café over a Broadway saloon. There, over the cigars and Pilsner +presently the comedian continued the story: + +“When the husband learned that to his charming mother-in-law's +machinations he owed the loss of his position and his wife, he bided his +time, like a sensible fellow, and one day he called upon the old lady at +her flat. Without a word, he proceeded to pull out much of her hair and +otherwise to disfigure her permanently, which, as she was a vain woman, +made her miserable the rest of her days. Then he disappeared, and has +not been heard of since. It seems strange the thing never got into the +newspapers. By the way, you won't print this story, my boy, until she or +I leave the profession.” + +“Why not? Are you the only man who knows it?” + +“No; it was general gossip in the profession at that time.” + +“How did you get it so straight?” + +“She told me. I knew her well in those days. Oh, use the story if you +like, only don't credit it to me. She's very mad because I made a hit +to-night and she didn't.” + +“But what was the name of her husband?” + +“Poor devil!--his name was--what was it, anyhow? By Jove, I can't think +of it! It'll come back to me, though, and I'll let you know later. He +had literary aspirations, by the way. She used to laugh at the poetry he +had written about her. Poor boy!” + +The next night, radical changes having been effected in the burlesque, +the prima donna made a more creditable showing. I happened to be at the +stage door again when she came out with her maid after the performance, +as I had under my guidance one of the newspaper's artists, who had been +making some sketches of life behind the scenes. She was in a gayer mood +than that in which she had been on the previous night. + +As she was entering the cab, I heard a muffled exclamation, which came +from the shadow opposite the stage door. Dimly in that shadow could +be seen a form with arms outstretched toward the woman, as in an +involuntary gesture. The cab rolled away. The form emerged from the +darkness and wearily strode by. It was that of my manuscript man. He had +the same straw hat, stick, and frock coat. + +“That queer old chap must be really in love with her,” I thought, +smiling. Such things often happen. I knew a gallery god--but that will +keep. Evidently here was an amusing case, not without its aspect of +pathos. + +Being in that vicinity on the following night, I strolled up to the +stage door, merely to see whether the straw hat would be there again. +There it was, patiently waiting, scourged by the most ferocious of +January winds. + +Doubtless the man came here every night to catch a glimpse of his +divinity. He was quite unobtrusive, and I was probably the only one who +noticed his constant attendance. I learned at the newspaper office that +he had called for the rejected manuscript bearing his name,--Ernest +Ruddle. Then for a time I neither saw nor thought of him. + +One night, in the last of January,--the coldest of that savage +winter,--I happened again to be in the corridor leading to the stage +door, having come from within the theatre in advance of my friend the +comedian, with whom I was to have supper at the Actors' Athletic Club. +The actress's cab was waiting. The dark little portion of the world back +there was deserted. + +Along the corridor, through which the sound of chorus girls' laughter +came, strolled the comedian, his cigar already lighted and behind it his +cheerful, hearty, smooth-shaven visage appearing ruddy from the recent +washing off of “make-up.” + +“Hello!” he began, thrusting his hand into his overcoat pockets. “By +the way, while I think of it, I just passed Miss Moran coming from the +dressing-room, and suddenly that name came back to me, the name of her +husband. It was a peculiar name,--Ernest Ruddle.” + +Ernest Ruddle! the name on the manuscript! The man of the restaurant and +the gallery, the tears, the waiting at the stage door, were explained +now. Ere we reached the stage door, the actress herself appeared in the +corridor, on the arm of her maid. She was laughing, rather coarsely. We +stepped aside to let her pass out into the night. + +“So the manager said he'd give me $50 more on the road,” she was saying, +“and I said he would have to make it $75 more--gracious! what's this?” + +She had stumbled over something just outside the threshold of the stage +door. Her companion stooped, while the actress jumped aside and looked +down at the large black object with both fright and curiosity. + +“It's a man,” said the maid; “drunk, or asleep, or dead. He looks +frozen. He's a tramp, I guess; hurry away! We'll tell the policeman on +the corner.” + +The actress passed on, with a final look of half-aversion, half-pity, at +the prostrate body. The comedian and I were both by that body within two +seconds. + +“Frozen or starved, sure!” said the comedian. “Poor beggar! Look at his +straw hat. Observe his death-clutch on the cane.” + +From down the alley came two sounds: one was a policeman's approaching +footsteps; the other, of a woman's laughter. What, to be sure, was the +dead or drunken body of an unknown vagabond to her? + +And it seems strange that I, who never exchanged speech with either the +woman or the man, was the only one in the world who might recognize in +the momentary contact of the living with the dead, a dramatic situation. + + + + +XXII. -- “POOR YORICK” + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_. Copyright, 1892, by J.B. +Lippincott Company.] + +The name by which he was indicated on the playbills was Overfield. His +real name was buried in the far past. By several members of the company +to which he belonged he was often called “Poor Yorick.” + +I asked the leading juvenile of the company--young Bridges, who was +supposed to attract women to the theatre, and for whose glorification +“The Lady of Lyons” was sometimes revived at matinées--how the old man +had acquired the nickname. + +“I gave it to him myself last season,” replied Bridges, loftily. “Can't +you guess why? You remember the graveyard scene in 'Hamlet.' The skull +of Yorick, you know, had lain in the earth three and twenty years. +Yorick had been dead that long. Well, the old man had been dead for +about the same length of time,--professionally dead, I mean. See?” + +It was true that, so far as being known by the world went, the old man +was as good, or as bad, as dead. He no longer played other than quite +unimportant parts. + +It was said by some one that he was the poorest actor and the noblest +man in the country; a statement commended by Jennison, an Englishman who +usually played villains, to this, that his were the worst art and best +heart in the profession. + +Poor Yorick was a thin man, with a smooth, gentle face, lamblike blue +eyes, and curling gray locks that receded gracefully from his forehead. +He had just an individualizing amount of the pomposity characteristic +of many old-time actors. He was not known to have any living kin. He +permitted himself one weakness, a liking for whiskey, an indulgence +which was never noticed to have brought appreciable harm upon him. + +Once I asked him when he had made his début. He answered, “When Joe +Jefferson was still young and before Billie Crane was heard of.” + +“In what rôle?” + +“As four soldiers,” he replied. + +“How could that be?” + +He explained that he had first appeared as a super in a military drama, +marching as a soldier. The procession, in order to create an illusion +of length, had passed across the stage and back, the return being made +behind the scenes four times continuously in the same direction. + +The old man took uncomplainingly to the name applied to him by Bridges. +He must have known what it implied, for surely he could not have +mistaken himself for “a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent +fancy.” His non-resentment was but an evidence of his good nature, for +he was aware that it was not a very general custom of actors to give +each other nicknames, and that his case was an exception. + +When he was playing the insignificant part of the old family servant of +a New York banker, in the most successful comedy of that season, he came +to know Bridges better than ever before. Poor Yorick had little more +to do in the play than to come on and turn up some light, arrange some +papers on a desk, go off, and afterward return and lower the light. +Bridges was doing the rôle of the bank clerk in love with the banker's +daughter. Yorick and Bridges, through some set of circumstances or +other, were sharers of the same dressing-room. + +Upon a certain Wednesday, and after a matinée, the two were in their +dressing-room, hastily washing up their faces and putting on their +street clothes. Said the old man: + +“Did you notice the pretty little girl in the upper box? She reminds me +of--” here his voice fell and took on suddenly a tone of sadness--“of +some one I knew once, long ago.” + +Bridges, drying his face with a towel before the big mirror, did not +observe the old man's change of voice, nor did he heed the last part of +the sentence. + +“Notice her?” he answered, with a touch of triumphant vanity in his +manner of speech. “I should say I did. She was there on my account. +I'm going to make a date with her for supper after the performance +to-night.” + +Old Overfield, sitting on a trunk, stared at Bridges in surprise. + +“Do you know her?” he asked. + +“No,” replied the leading juvenile. “That is, I have never met her, but +she's been writing me mash notes lately, asking for a meeting. In the +last one she said she could get away from her house this evening, as her +father's out of town and her mother is going over to Philadelphia this +afternoon. So she invited me to have supper with her to-night, and was +good enough to say she'd occupy that box this afternoon, so I could see +what she was like. Didn't you observe her embarrassment when I came on +the stage? I paid no attention to her first letter. But, having seen +her, you bet I'll answer the last one right away. Don't you wish you +were me, old fellow?” + +The old fellow stood up and looked at Bridges severely. + +“Yes, I do wish I were you,--just long enough to see that you don't +answer that girl's letter. Surely you don't mean to!” + +“Hello! What have you got to do with it? Do you know the young woman?” + +“No, I don't. But I can easily guess all about her. She's some romantic +little girl, still pure and good, afflicted with one of those idiotic +infatuations for an actor, which is sure to bring trouble to her if +you don't behave like a white man. You want to show her the idiocy of +writing those letters, by ignoring them. You know that actors who care +to do themselves and the profession credit make it a rule never to +answer a letter from a girl like that, unless to give her a word of +advice. Come, my boy, don't disgrace yourself and profession. Don't +spoil the life of a pretty but foolish girl who, if you do the right +thing, will soon repent her silliness, and make some square young fellow +a good wife.” + +Bridges had continued to dress himself during this long speech, assuming +a show of contemptuous indignation as it progressed. When Overfield, +astonished at his own eloquence, had subsided, the young man replied, in +a quiet but rather insolent tone: + +“Look here, old man, don't try to work the Polonius racket on me. I +don't like advice, and I'm going to meet that girl, see? She arranged +the whole thing herself; she's to be at a certain spot at eleven-thirty +P.M. with a cab. All I've got to do is to signify my assent in a single +line, which I'm going to write and send by messenger as soon as I get +out of here. Of course, if the girl was a friend of yours, it would be +different, but she isn't, and if you want to remain on good terms with +me, you won't put in your oar. Now that's all settled.” + +“Is it? Well, young man, I don't want to remain on good terms with +anybody I can't respect. I can't respect a man who would take advantage +of a love-struck girl's ignorance of life. If you meet her, you will +simply be obtaining favours on false pretences, anyhow, for you know +you're not really half the fascinating, romantic, clever youth that you +seem when you're on the stage speaking another man's thoughts. That girl +is probably good, and she looks like some one I used to know. If I can +save her, I will, by thunder!” + +“Really, old man, you're quite worked up. If you could act half that +well on the stage, you'd be doing lead, instead of dusting furniture +while the audience gets settled in its seats.” + +Old Yorick stood for a moment speechless, stung by the insult. Then he +took up his hat, excitedly, and left the dressing-room without a word. + +Some of the other members of the company wondered at the angry, flushed +look on his face when he hurried through the corridor to the stage door. +A few minutes later he was seen walking down the street, apparently much +heated in mind. When he reached a certain café he went in, sat down, and +called for whiskey. He remained alone in deep thought, mechanically +and unconsciously answering the salutations bestowed upon him by two or +three acquaintances who strolled in. Suddenly he nodded thrice, as if +denoting the acquiescence of his judgment in some plan of action +formed by his inventive faculty. He rose quickly, paid his bill at the +cashier's desk, and moved rapidly across the street to the ---- Hotel. +Passing in through a broad entrance, he turned aside to a writing-room, +where, without removing his soft hat, he sat down at a desk. + +He was soon immersed in the composition of a letter, which caused him +many contractions of the brow, many lapses during which he abstractedly +stared at vacancy, many fresh beginnings, and the whole of the two hours +allowed him before the evening's performance for dinner. + +When he had finished the letter, he carefully read it, and made a few +corrections. Then he folded it up, put it in an envelope, and placed +it unsealed in his inside coat pocket. He arose with an expression of +resolution about his eyes that was quite new there. + +Ascertaining by the clock in the thronged main corridor that the time +was ten minutes after seven, the old man rushed into the café, where he +devoured hastily a chicken croquette, and swallowed a cup of coffee +and a glass of whiskey before starting to the theatre. He was in his +dressing-room and in his shirt-sleeves, touching up his eyebrows, when +Bridges arrived. A cool greeting passed between the two. + +“You sent the note?” asked the old man. + +“What note?” gruffly queried Bridges, taking off his coat. + +“To that girl.” + +“Most certainly.” + +A curious look, unobserved by Bridges, shot from Poor Yorick's eyes. It +seemed to say, “Wait, things may happen that you're not looking for.” + +At about the time when Bridges and Yorick were dressing for the +performance, a newspaper reporter, wishing to make a few notes of an +interview that had been accorded him by a politician staying in the +hotel at which the old man had written his long letter, went into the +writing-room and made use of the desk where the actor had sat earlier in +the evening. Several sheets of blank paper were scattered over it. One +of them contained almost a page of writing. Yorick had negligently left +it there. It was a beginning made by him before he had succeeded in +obtaining a satisfactory wording for his thoughts. This rejected opening +read: + +“My DEAR, FOOLISH YOUNG LADY:--Something has happened which prevents Mr. +Bridges from keeping the appointment with you, and you're much better +off on that account, for nothing but unhappiness can come to you if you +allow yourself to be carried out of your senses by your infatuation for +a man who has neither the brains nor the manliness which he seems to +have when playing parts that call for the mere simulation of these +gifts. Never make an appointment with a man you do not know, especially +a young and vain actor who has once got the worst of it in a divorce +suit. You'll be thankful some day for this advice, for I know what I +speak of. I was once, years ago, just such an actor. The woman got +into all sorts of trouble because she wrote me such letters as you have +written Bridges, and brought to an early end a life that might have been +very happy and youthful. Looked like you, and it is a memory of what she +lost and suffered that makes me wish to save you. My dear young ----” + +There were yet two lines to spare at the foot of the page. The newspaper +man, interested by the fragment, thrust it into his pocket. + +When Poor Yorick had finished his final scene in the comedy at the +----Theatre that night, he made haste to dress and to leave the +playhouse. But he loitered near the stage entrance, keeping in the +shadow on the other side of the alley, out of the range of the light +from the incandescent globe over the door. + +Bridges was slightly surprised, on returning to his dressing-room, to +find that Yorick had already gone. But he attributed this to the ill +feeling that had arisen on account of the intended meeting with the girl +of the letters and the box. + +The leading juvenile attired himself for the conquest carefully but +rapidly. When he was ready he surveyed his reflection complacently in +the long mirror, assuming the slightly languid look that he intended to +maintain during the first half-hour of the supper. He retained the dress +suit which he wore in the second and third act of the play, and which +he rarely displayed outside of the theatre. He flattered himself that +he was quite irresistible, and wondered whether she would take him to +Delmonico's or to some quiet little place. He indulged, too, in some +vague speculation as to what the supper might result in. The girl was +evidently of a rich family, but her people would doubtless never hear of +her making a match with him, that divorce affair being in recent memory. +A marriage was probably out of the question. However, the girl was a +beauty and this meeting was at least worth the trouble. So he donned his +coat and hat and swaggered out of the theatre. He had no sooner turned +from the alley upon which the stage door opened than Yorick, unnoticed +by him, darted out in pursuit. Ten minutes' walking brought the leading +juvenile near the spot where he was to be awaited by the girl in the +cab. Yorick, whose only means of ascertaining the place of meeting was +to follow Bridges, kept as near the young actor as was compatible +with safety from discovery by the latter. Bridges, strutting along +unconscious of Yorick's presence a few yards behind, had half-traversed +the deserted block of tall brown stone residences, when he saw a cab +standing at the corner ahead of him. He quickened his pace in such a +way as to warn the old man that the eventful moment was at hand. The cab +stood under an electric light before an ivy-grown church. + +Yorick, with noiseless steps, accelerated his gait. Bridges, as he +neared the cab, deflected his course toward the curbstone and threw his +head back impressively. This little action, interpreted rightly by the +pursuer, was the old man's cue. Yorick suddenly rushed forward with +surprising agility. + +Before Bridges could be seen by the occupant of the cab for which he was +making, he was dazed by a blow on the side of the head, just beneath +the ear, and knocked off his feet by a sound thump on the same spot. He +reeled, clutched at the air, and fell heavily upon the sidewalk. There +he lay stunned and silent. + +Yorick, not waiting to see what became of the man whom he had felled, +dashed forward to the cab. Opening the door, he caught a momentary +vision of a white, round face, with big, scared eyes, above a +palpitating mass of soft silk and fur, and against a black background. +He thrust toward her the letter, which he had quickly drawn from his +pocket, and whispered, huskily: + +“Mr. Bridges couldn't come. Here's a note.” + +Then he slammed the cab door, and called out in a commanding tone: + +“Drive on there! Quick!” + +The cabman, who had evidently received directions in advance from the +girl, jerked his reins, and the cab moved forward, turned, and rattled +away, the horse at a brisk trot. + +Yorick speedily left the scene. At the next corner he met a policeman, +to whom he said: + +“There's a man lying on the sidewalk back there by the church. I don't +know whether he's drunk or not.” + +He was off before the officer could detain him. + +Bridges spent the night in a station-house, recovering from the effects +of a fall, which the police attributed to drunkenness. Assuming that he +had received his blows from some masculine relative or admirer of the +girl, he gave a false account of the bruises when the next night he +asked the manager for a few nights of rest and enabled his understudy to +obtain a chance long coveted. + +The leading juvenile manifestly thought best not to attempt a renewal of +a flirtation with a young woman who had so formidable a protector; and +the girl herself, whatever became of her, addressed him no more epistles +of adoration, or of any sort whatever. + +Yorick got from the stage manager permission to change his +dressing-room. Thereafter he and Bridges maintained a mutual coolness, +until one day the leading juvenile, warmed by cocktails, melted, and +addressed the old man familiarly by his nickname. + +“Old fellow,” said Bridges, over a café table, “when I come to play +Hamlet, I'll send for you to act Poor Yorick. You'd do it well. You're +always best, you know, in parts that don't require you to come on the +stage at all.” + +The old man smiled grimly and then shrugged his shoulders at this +pleasantry. When he died the other day, he left a curious will, in +which, after naming several insignificant legacies, he bequeathed his +skull “to a so-called actor, one Charles Bridges, to be used by him in +the graveyard scene when he shall have become able to play Hamlet,--if +the skull be not disintegrated by that time.” + + + + +XXIII. -- COINCIDENCE + +Max took us down into a German place into the bowels of the earth. It +was a bit of Berlin transplanted to Philadelphia and thriving beneath +a Teutonic eating-house. Imagine a great cellar, with stone floor, +ornamented ceiling, massive rectangular pillars of brown wood, +substantial tables, heavy mediaeval chairs, crossbeams bearing pictures +of peasant girls and lettered with sentiments of good cheer in German, +and walls covered with beer-mugs of every size and device. + +Scores of men sat talking at the tables, smoking, devouring sandwiches, +upturning their mugs of beer over the capacious receptacles provided by +nature. + +The mediaeval chairs appealed to the romanticism that lies beneath +Breffny's satirical exterior; and when Max called our attention to the +fact that the mugs of beer came through apertures from caves beneath the +street, we were content. + +For the hour, the problem of human happiness was solved for us three by +three foaming mugs, three sandwiches, and tobacco. + +Here communed we three, blown from various winds, to this local Bohemia: +Max, native of the free German City of Frankfort, operatic manager +in Rio Janeiro, musician in New York, Denver resident by adoption, +Philadelphia newspaperman by preference; Breffny, born in a Spanish +village, reared in Continental countries, professedly an Irishman, but +more than half-Latin in temperament and appearance, a cyclopedia for the +benefit of his friends, and myself. + +The talk ran to the imposture recently attempted by young Mr. Herdling, +who claimed that the dead body found at Tarrytown was that of his wife. + +“A very touching fake,” said Max. + +“Yes; thanks to the skill of the reporters who wrote up his story,” + cried Breffny. + +“We visited many morgues in search of her, Louise and I,” said I, +quoting the most effective passage of the narrative. + +“I did know of one case of a husband starting off at random to find his +runaway wife,” observed Breffny. + +“As there's yet an hour to midnight, we have time for one of your +stories.” + +“I can tell this in five minutes. All I know of the story is the +beginning. No one ever heard of the end. It was like this: + +“When I lived in Glasgow, I knew a young fellow there who was timekeeper +in a shipyard. He was a very quiet, pleasant boy, so bashful that I used +to wonder how he had ever summoned the courage to propose to the pretty +Scotch girl who was his wife. As I got to know more of the pair, I +divined the secret. Although poor, he was of good Glasgow parentage, +while the wife had been a country girl so eager to get to the city that +she had courted him while he was on a visit to the village in which she +had lived. She had merely used him as a means for finding the life for +which she had longed. + +“How much he really loved her was never suspected until he came home one +evening and found that she had run away with the youngest son of one of +the proprietors of the shipyard. + +“He learned within a week that they had sailed for America. He packed a +valise, took the money that he had saved, and started out. + +“'But where are you going to look for them?' I asked him. + +“'To America,' he said, turning toward me, his face drawn and gaunt with +the grief that he had survived. + +“'But America is a vast country.' + +“'I will hunt till I find her.' + +“'And when you find her--you will not kill her, surely!' + +“'I will try to get her to come back to me.' + +“He took passage in the steerage, and I do not know what happened to him +after that.” + +Each of us hid his emotions in his beer-mug. Then Max ordered fresh +mugs, and said that Breffny's story recalled a somewhat similar thing +that he had witnessed in Denver. + +“When I was a reporter out there, I was standing one evening in front +of a hotel. A crowd collected to see the body of a guest brought out and +placed upon an ambulance. + +“'Where are you taking him, and what is it?' I asked the driver. + +“'To the lazaretto. Smallpox.'” + +For a moment, while he was being lifted into the ambulance, the victim's +face was visible. A loud cry was heard in the crowd. It came from a +ragged, wild-looking man, whose unkempt beard made him look much older +than I afterward found him to be. As the ambulance hurried off, he ran +after it, shouting: + +“'I must see that man! Stop! I must ask him something!' + +“But he tripped upon a horse-car track, and when he had staggered to his +feet, the ambulance was out of sight. + +“I ran into the hotel and asked the clerk about the lazaretto patient. +He was a young European--an Englishman--they thought, who had +arrived from the East two days ago, and whose condition had just been +discovered. + +“Coming out, I went to the tramp who had cried out at the sight of the +ill man. I found him seated on the curbstone, weeping like a child. +I asked him why he wished to see the smallpox victim, and said that I +could get him admission to the lazaretto, if he would tell me what he +knew, and wouldn't let any other reporter have the story. + +“He jumped up eagerly. + +“'It's this,' he said. 'That man ran away with my wife, and I've hunted +them over sea and land. This is the first sight I've had of him.' + +“'Then,' I said, 'if you mean to harm him, I'm afraid I can't bring you +to him.' + +“'Him!' said the ragged man, disdainfully. 'I don't want to hurt him. +I only want to find out where she is. I swear I wouldn't harm either of +them.' + +“I accompanied him to the city physician, with whom he had a long talk. +That official finally promised to take him to the lazaretto. The doctor +led the man to the side of the iron bed where the smallpox patient lay. +The latter started like a frightened child at sight of his pursuer. + +“'Remember,' said the doctor to the sick man, 'you have scarcely a +chance for life. You would do well to tell the truth.' + +“'Only tell me where she is,' pleaded the husband, 'and I'll forgive you +all.' + +“The sick man gasped: + +“'I left her in Philadelphia--at the station. She had smallpox. It was +from her I got it. I was a coward--a cur. I left her to save myself. The +money I had brought from home was nearly all gone. Ask her to forgive +me.' + +“He was dead that evening. The husband was then upon an east-bound +freight-train. The newspaper telegraphed to Philadelphia, but nothing +could be found out about the woman. I've often wondered what became of +the man.” + +The loud hubbub of conversation,--nearly all in German,--the shouts +of the waiters, the noise of their footfalls upon the stone floor, the +sound of mugs being placed upon tables and of Max draining his “stein” + of beer, bridged the hiatus between the ending of Max's narrative and +the beginning of my own: + +“Your story reminds me of one to which the city editor assigned me on +one of my 'late nights.' I took a cab and went to the station-house. The +case had been reported by a policeman at Ninth and Locust Streets, who +had called for a patrol-wagon. From him I got the story. He had seen the +thing happen. + +“He was walking down Locust at half-past twelve that night, and was +opposite the Midnight Mission, when his attention was attracted to +the only two persons who were at that moment on the other side of the +street. One was a man of the appearance of a vagabond, coming from Ninth +Street. The other was a woman, who had come from Tenth Street, and who +seemed to walk with great difficulty, as if ready to sink at every step +from weakness. + +“The woman dropped her head as she neared the man. The man peered into +her face, in the manner of one who had acquired the habit of examining +the countenances of passers-by. + +“The two met under the gas-lamp that is so conspicuous a night feature +of the north side of Locust Street, between Ninth and Tenth. + +“The woman gave no attention to the man. So exhausted was she that she +leaned helplessly against the fence. The man ran forward, shrieking like +a lunatic. + +“'Jeannie!' + +“The woman lifted her eyes in a dull kind of amazement and whispered: + +“'Donald!' + +“She fell back, but he caught her in his arms and kissed her lips +a dozen times, with a half-savage gladness, crying and laughing +hysterically, as women do. + +“When the policeman had reached the pair, the woman had seen the last of +this world. + +“Afterward we found that she had been discharged from the municipal +hospital, where she had been in the smallpox ward two weeks before; and +we surmised that she had virtually had nothing to eat since then. + +“At the station-house the man explained that the woman was his runaway +wife. He had started in search of her two years before, with no other +clue as to her whereabouts than the knowledge that she had sailed for +America with a man named Ferriss--” + +“What?” cried Max. “Was the name Archibald Ferriss? That was the name of +the man who died in the Denver lazaretto--” + +But Max was stopped by Breffny, who almost shouted in excitement: + +“And the name of the son of McKeown & Ferriss, of Glasgow, in whose +shipyard was employed as timekeeper the Donald Wilson--” + +“Donald Wilson was the name of the man who met his wife that night in +front of the Midnight Mission,” said I, in further confirmation. + +It was remarkable. One of the three chapters of this tragic story had +entered into the experience of each of us three who sat there emptying +stone mugs. Now, for the first time, was the story complete to each of +us. + +“But what became of the man?” asked Breffny. + +“When the police lieutenant spoke of having her body interred in +Potter's Field, the husband spoke up indignantly. He brought forth two +gold pieces, saying: + +“'I have the money for her grave. I saved this through all my +wanderings, because I thought that when I should find her she might be +homeless and hungry and in need.' + +“So he had her buried respectably in the suburbs somewhere, and I was +too busy at that time to follow up his subsequent movements. It is +enough for the story that he found his wife.” + + + + +XXIV. -- NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN + +It was not his real name or his stage name, but it was the one under +which he was best known by those who best knew him. It had been thrown +at him in a café one night by a newspaper man after the performance, +and had clung to him. Its significance lay in the fact that his +“gags”--supposedly comic things said by presumably comic men in nominal +opera or burlesque--invariably were old. The man who bestowed the title +upon him thought it a fine bit of irony. + +Newgag received it without expressed resentment, but without mirth, and +he bore its repetition patiently as seasons went by. He was accustomed +to enduring calmly the jests, the indignities that were elicited by +his peculiar appearance, his doleful expression, his slow and bungling +speech and movement, his diffident manner. + +He was one of the forbearing men, the many who are doomed to continual +suffering of a kind that their sensitiveness and timidity make it the +more difficult for them to bear. + +Undying ambition burned beneath his undemonstrative surface; dauntless +courage lay under his lack of ability. + +He was an extremely spare man, of extraordinary height, and the bend of +his shoulders gave to his small head a comical thrust forward. His black +hair was without curl, and it would tolerate no other arrangement than +being combed back straight. It was allowed to grow downward until +it scraped the back of Newgag's collar, a device for concealing the +meagreness of his neck. + +He had a smooth, pale face, slanting from ears to nose like a wedge, +and the dimness of the blue eyes added to its introspective cast. He +blushed, as a rule, when he met new acquaintances or was addressed +suddenly. He had a gloomy look and a hesitating way of speech. An +amusing spectacle was his mechanical-looking smile, which, when he +became conscious of it, passed through several stages expressive of +embarrassment until his normal mournful aspect was reached. + +As he usually appeared in a sack coat when off the stage, the length of +his legs was divertingly emphasized. After the fashion of great actors +of a bygone generation, he wore a soft black felt hat, dinged in the +crown from front to rear. + +He had entered “the profession” from the amateur stage, by way of the +comic opera chorus, and to that chance was due his being located in +the comic opera wing of the great histrionic edifice. He had originally +preferred tragedy, but the first consideration was the getting upon +the stage by any means. Having industriously worked his way out of the +chorus, he had been reconciled by habit to his environment, and had +come to aspire to eminence therein. He had reached the standing of a +secondary comedian,--that is to say, a man playing secondary comic rôles +in the pieces for which he is cast. He was useful in such companies as +were directly or indirectly controlled by their leading comedians, +for there never could be any fears of his outshining those autocratic +personages. Only in his wildest hopes did he ever look upon the centre +of the stage as a spot possible for him to attain. + +His means of evoking laughter upon the stage were laborious on his part +and mystifying to the thoughtful observer. He took noticeable means to +change from his real self. It mattered not what was the nature of the +part he filled, he invariably assumed an unnatural, rasping voice; he +stretched his mouth to its utmost reach and lowered the extremities of +his lips; he turned his toes inward (naturally his feet described an +abnormal angle) and bowed his arms. Brought up in the school which +teaches that to make others laugh one must never smile one's self, +he wore a grotesquely lugubrious and changeless countenance. Such was +Newgag in his every impersonation. When he thought he was funniest, he +appeared to be in most pain and was most depressing. + +“My methods are legitimate,” he would say, when he had enlisted one's +attention and apparent admiration across a table bearing beer-bottles +and sandwiches. “The people want horse-play nowadays. But when I've got +to descend to that sort of thing, I'll go to the variety stage or circus +ring at once--or quit.” + +“That's a happy thought, old man,” said a comedian of the younger +school, one night, when Newgag had uttered his wonted speech. “Why don't +you quit?” + +Such a speech sufficed to rob Newgag of his self-possession and to +reduce him to silence. He could not cope with easy, offhand, +impromptu jesters. In truth, no one tried more than Newgag to excel in +“horse-play,” but his temperament or his training did not equip him for +excelling in it; he defended the monotony, emptiness, and toilsomeness +of his humour on the ground that it was “legitimate.” + +One night Newgag drank two glasses of beer in rapid succession and +looked at me with a touching countenance. + +“Old boy,” he said, in his homely drawl, “I'm discouraged! I begin to +think I'm not in it!” + +“Why, what's wrong?” + +“Well, I've dropped to the fact that, after all these years in the +business, I can't make them laugh.” + +I was just about to say, “So you've just awakened to that?” but pity and +politeness deterred me. Every one else had known it, all these years. +Newgag, to be sure, should naturally have been, as he was, the last to +discover it. + +Newgag thus went one step further than any comedian I have ever known. +Having detected his inability to amuse audiences, he confessed it. + +People who know actors and read this will already have said that it is +a fiction, and that Newgag's admission is false to life. Not so; I am +writing not about comedians in general, but about Newgag. + +That he had come to so exceptional a concession marked the depth of his +despair. I tried to cheer him. + +“Nonsense, my boy! They give you bad parts. Go out of comic opera. Try +tragedy.” + +I had spoken innocently and sincerely, but Newgag thought I was jesting. +Instead of his usual attempt at lofty callousness, however, he smiled +that dismal, marionette-like smile of his. That gave me an idea, of +which I said nothing at the time. + +Several months afterward, a manager, who is a friend of mine, was +suddenly plunged in distress because of the serious illness of an actor +who was to fill a part in a new American comedy that the manager was to +produce on the next night. + +“What on earth shall I do?” he asked. + +“Play the part yourself, as Hoyt does in such an emergency--or get +Newgag.” + +“Who's Newgag?” + +“He's a friend of mine, out of a position. I met him to-day very much +frayed.” + +“Bring him to me.” + +Newgag was overwhelmed when I told him of the opportunity. + +“I never acted in straight comedy,” he said. “I can't do it. I might as +well try to play Juliet.” + +“He wants you only to speak the lines, that's all. You're a quick study, +you know. Come on!” + +I had almost to drag the man to the manager. He allowed himself, in a +semistupefied condition, to be engaged. He took the part, sat up all +night in his boarding-house and learned it, went to rehearsal almost +letter-perfect in the morning, and nervously prepared to face the ordeal +of the evening. + +At six o'clock, he wished to go to the manager and give up the part. + +“I can never do it,” he wailed to me. “I haven't had time to form +a conception of it and to get up byplay. You see, it's an eccentric +character part,--a man from the country whom everybody takes for a fool, +but who shows up strong at the last. I can't--” + +“Oh, don't act it. You're only engaged in the emergency, you know. +Simply go on and say your lines and come off.” + +“That's all I can do,” he said, with a dubious shake of the head. “If +only I'd had time to study it!” + +American plays had taken foothold, and this premier of a new one by an +author of two previous successes drew a “typical first night audience.” + Newgag, having abandoned all idea of making a hit, or of acting the part +any further than the mere delivery of the speeches went, was no longer +inordinately nervous. When he first entered he was a trifle frightened, +and his unavoidable lack of prepared stage business made him awkward and +embarrassed for a time. The awkwardness remained, but the embarrassment +eventually passed away. He spoke in his natural voice and retained +his actual manner. When the action required him to laugh, he did so, +exhibiting his characteristic perfunctory smile. + +He received a special call before the curtain after the third act. He +had no thought that it was meant for him until the stage manager pushed +him out from the wings. He came back looking distressed. + +“Are they guying me?” he asked the stage manager. + +The papers agreed the next day that one of the hits of the performance +was made by Newgag “in an odd part which he had conceived in a +strikingly original way, and impersonated with wonderful finish and +subtle drollery.” + +“What does it mean?” he gasped. + +I enlightened him. + +“My boy, you simply played yourself. Did it never occur to you that +in your own person you're unconsciously one of the drollest men I ever +saw?” + +“But I didn't act!” + +“You didn't. And take my advice--don't!” + +And he doesn't. Upon the reputation of his success in that comedy he +arranged with another manager to appear in a play especially written for +him. He is a prosperous star now. Whatever his play or part he always +presents the same personality on the stage and he has made that +personality dear to many theatre-goers. He does not appear too +frequently or too long in any one place; hence he is warmly welcomed +wherever and whenever he returns. He is classed among leading actors, +and the ordinary person does not stop sufficiently long to observe that +he is no actor at all. + +“This isn't exactly art,” he said to me, the other night, with a tinge +of self-rebuke. “But it's success.” + +And the history of Newgag is the history of many. + + + + +XXV. -- AN OPERATIC EVENING + +I + +_A Desperate Youth_ + +The second act of “William Tell” had ended at the Grand Opera House. +The incandescent lights of ceiling and proscenium flashed up, showering +radiance upon the vast surface of summer costumes and gay faces in the +auditorium. The audience, relieved of the stress of attention, became +audible in a great composite of chatter. A host streamed along the +aisles into the wide lobbies, and thence its larger part jostled through +the front doors to the brilliantly illuminated vestibule. Many passed +on into the wide sidewalk, where the electric light poured its rays upon +countless promenaders whose footfalls incessantly beat upon the aural +sense. Scores of bicyclists of both sexes sped over the asphalt up and +down, some now and then deviating to make way for a lumbering yellow +'bus or a hurrying carriage. + +Men and women, young people composing the majority, strolled to and fro +in the roomy lobby that environs the auditorium on all sides save that +of the stage. A group of enthusiasts stood between the rear door of the +box-office and the wide entrance to the long middle aisle. + +“How magnificently Guille held that last note!” + +“What good taste and artistic sense Madame Kronold has!” + +“Del Puente hasn't been in better voice in years.” + +“But you know, Mademoiselle Islar is decidedly a lyric soprano.” + +These were some of the scraps of the conversation of that group. A +lithe, athletic-looking man of thirty stood mechanically listening +to them, as he stroked his black moustache. He was in summer attire, +evidently disdaining conventionalities, preferring comfort. + +Suddenly losing interest in the conversation in his vicinity, he started +toward the Montgomery Avenue side of the lobby, with the apparent +intention of breathing some outside air at one of the wide-barred exits, +where children stood looking in from the sidewalk, and catching what +glimpses they could of the audience through the doorways in the glass +partition bounding the auditorium. + +He by chance cast his glance up the unused staircase leading to the +balcony from the northern part of the lobby. He saw upon the third step +a young woman in a dark flannel outing-dress, her face concealed by a +veil. She seemed to be watching some one among those who stood or moved +near the Montgomery Avenue exits, which had wire barriers. + +“By Jove!” he said, within himself, “surely I know that figure! But I +thought she had gone to the Catskills, and I never supposed her capable +of wearing negligee clothes at the theatre. There can be no mistaking +that wrist, though, or that turn of the shoulders.” + +He stepped softly to her side and lightly touched one of the admired +shoulders. + +She turned quickly and suppressed an exclamation ere it was +half-uttered. + +“Why, Harry--Doctor Haslam, I mean! How did you know it was I?” + +“Why, Amy--that is to say, Miss Winnett! What on earth are you doing +here? Pardon the question, but I thought you were on the mountains. I'm +all the more glad to see you.” + +While he pressed her hand she looked searchingly into his eyes, a fact +of which he was conscious despite her veil. + +“I'm not here--as far as my people may know. I'm at the Catskills with +my cousins--except to my cousins themselves. To them I've come back home +for a week's conference with my dressmaker. Our house isn't entirely +closed up, you know. Aunt Rachel likes the hot weather of Philadelphia +all summer through, and she's still here. When I arrived here this +morning, I told her the dressmaker story. She retires at eight and she +thinks I'm in bed too. But I'm here, and nobody suspects it but you and +Mary, the servant at home, who knows where I've come, and who's to stay +up for me till I return to-night. That's all of it, and now, as you're a +friend of mine, you mustn't tell any one, will you?” + +“But I know nothing to tell,” said the bewildered doctor. “What does all +this subterfuge, this mystery mean?” + +Amy Winnett considered silently for a moment, while Doctor Haslam +mentally admired the slim, well-rounded figure, the graceful poise of +the little head with its mass of brown hair beneath a sailor hat of the +style that “came in” with this summer. + +“I may as well tell you all,” she answered, presently. “I may need your +assistance, too. I can rely upon you?” + +“Through fire and water.” + +“I've come to Philadelphia to prevent a suicide.” + +“Good gracious!” + +“Yes. You see, I've broken the engagement between me and Tom Appleton.” + +“What! You don't mean it?” + +There was a striking note of jubilation in the doctor's interruption. +Miss Winnett made no comment thereupon, but continued: + +“I finally decided that I didn't care as much for Tom as I'd thought I +did, and then I had a suspicion--but I won't mention that--” + +“No, you needn't. Your fortune--pardon me, I simply took the privilege +of an old friend who had himself been rejected by you. Go on.” + +“Don't interrupt again. As I said, I concluded that I couldn't be Tom's +wife, and I told him so. He went to the Catskills when we went, you +know, as he thought he could keep up his law studies as well there as +here. You can't imagine how he took it. I'd never before known how much +he--he really wished to marry me. But I was unflinching, and at last he +left me, vowing that he would return to Philadelphia and commit suicide. +He swore a terrible oath that my next message from him would be found +in his hands after his death. And he set to-night as the time for the +deed.” + +“But why couldn't he have done it there and then?” + +“How hard-hearted you are! Probably because he wanted to put his affairs +in order before putting an end to his life.” + +She spoke in all seriousness. Doctor Haslam succeeded with difficulty in +restraining a smile. + +“You don't imagine for a moment,” he said, “that the young man intended +keeping his oath.” + +“Don't I? You should have seen the look on his face when he spoke it.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, I couldn't sleep with the thought that a man was going to kill +himself on my account. It makes me shudder. I'd see his face in my +dreams every night of my life. Then if a note were really found in +his hands, addressed to me, the whole thing would come out in the +newspapers, and wouldn't that be horrible? Of course I couldn't tell +my cousins anything about his threat, so I invented my excuse quickly, +packed a small handbag, disguised myself with Cousin Laura's hat and +veil, and took the same train that Tom took. I've kept my eye on him +ever since, and he has no idea I'm on his track. The only time I lost +was in hurrying home with my handbag to see my aunt, but I didn't even +do that until I'd followed him on Chestnut Street to the down-town +box-office of this theatre and seen him buy a seat, which I later found +out from the ticket-seller was for to-night. So here I am, and there he +is.” + +“Where?” + +“Standing over there by that wire thing like a fence next the street.” + +The doctor looked over as she motioned. He soon recognized the slender +figure, the indolent attitude of Tom Appleton, the blasé young man whom +he was so accustomed to meeting at billiard-tables, in clubs, or hotels. +A tolerant, amiable expression saved the youth's smooth, handsome face +from vacuity. He was dressed with careful nicety. + +“But,” said Haslam, “a man about to take leave of this life doesn't +ordinarily waste time going to the opera.” + +“Why not? He probably came here to think. One can do that well at the +opera.” + +“Tom Appleton think?--I beg pardon again. But see, he's talking to a +girl now, Miss Estabrook, of North Broad Street. His smile to her is not +the kind of a smile that commonly lights up a man's face on his way to +death.” + +“You don't suppose he would conceal his intentions from people by +putting on his usual gaiety, do you?” she replied, ironically; adding, +rather stiffly, “He has at least sufficiently good manners to do that, +if not sufficient duplicity.” + +“I didn't mean to offend you. My motive was to comfort you with the +probability that he has changed his mind about shuffling off his mortal +coil.” + +“You're not very complimentary, Doctor Haslam. Perhaps you don't think +that being jilted by me is sufficient to make a man commit suicide.” + +“Frankly I don't. If I had thought so three years ago, I'd be dust or +ashes at this present moment. It can't be that you would feel hurt if +Tom Appleton there should fail to keep his oath and should continue to +live in spite of your renunciation of him?” + +“How dare you think me so vain and cruel, when I've taken all this +trouble and come all this distance simply to prevent him from keeping +his oath?” + +“But how in the world would you prevent him if he were honestly bent on +getting rid of himself?” + +“By watching him until the moment he makes the attempt, and then rushing +up and telling him that I'd renew our engagement. That would stop him, +and gain time for me to manage so that he'd fall in love with some other +girl and release me of his own accord.” + +“But think a moment. You can watch him until the opera is out and +perhaps for some time later. But if he means to die he certainly has a +sufficient share of good manners to induce him to die quietly in his own +home. So he'll eventually go home. When his door is locked, how are you +going to keep your eye on him, and how can you rush to him at the proper +moment?” + +“I never thought of that.” + +“No, you're a woman.” + +She proceeded to do some thinking there upon the stairs. + +“Oh,” she said, finally, “I know what to do. I'll follow him until he +does go home, to make sure he doesn't attempt anything before that time, +and then I'll tell the police. They'll watch him.” + +“You'll probably get Mr. Tom Appleton into some very embarrassing +complications by so doing.” + +“What if I do,” she said, heroically, “if I save his life? Now, will you +assist me to watch him? I'll need an escort in the street, of course.” + +“I put myself at your command from now henceforth, if only for the joy +of the time that I am thus privileged to pass with you.” + +She smiled pleasantly, and with pleasure, trusting to her veil to hide +the facial indication of her feelings. But Haslam's trained gray eye +noted the smile, and also what kind of smile it was, and the discovery +had a potent effect upon him. It deprived him momentarily of the power +of speech, and he looked vacantly at her while colour came and went in +his face. + +Then he regained control of himself and he sighed audibly, while she +dropped her eyes. + +They were still standing upon the stairs, heedless of the confusion of +vocal sounds that arose from the lobby strollers, from the boys selling +librettos, from the people returning from the vestibule in a thick +stream, from the musicians afar in the orchestra, tuning their +instruments, from the many sources that provide the delightful hubbub of +the entr'acte. + +“Hush!” said Amy to Haslam. “Stand in front of me, so that Tom won't see +me if he looks up here as he passes. He's coming this way.” + +Young Appleton, chaffing with the persons whom he had met at the exit, +was sharing in the general movement from the byways of the lobby to the +middle entrance of the parquet. The electric bell in the vestibule had +sounded the signal that the third act was to begin. Mr. Hinrichs had +returned to the director's stand in the orchestra and was raising his +baton. + +Arrived at the middle entrance, Appleton raised his hat to those with +whom he had been talking, as if not intending to go in just then. + +Mr. Hinrichs's baton tapped upon the stand, the music began, and the +curtain rose. + +“Why doesn't he go in?” whispered Amy, alluding to Appleton. + +But the young man yawned, looked at his watch, and departed from the +lobby--not to the auditorium, but out to the vestibule. + +“He's going to leave the theatre,” said Miss Winnett, excitedly. “We +must follow.” + +And she tripped hastily down the stairs, Haslam after her. + + +II + +_A Triangular Chase_ + +Tom Appleton sauntered out through the great vestibule, turning his eyes +casually from the marble floor up to the balconies that look down from +aloft upon this outer lobby. He was whistling an air from “Apollo” which +he had heard a few weeks before at the New York Casino. + +He hastened his steps when he saw a 'bus passing down Broad Street. A +leap down the Grand Opera House steps and a lively run enabled him to +catch the 'bus before it reached Columbia Avenue. He clambered up to +the top and was soon being well shaken as he enjoyed the breeze and the +changing view of the handsome residences on North Broad Street. + +Haslam's sharp eyes took note of Appleton's action. + +“He's on that 'bus,” said the doctor to Amy as she took his arm on the +sidewalk. “Shall we take the next one?” + +“No; for then we can't see where he gets off. Can't we find a cab?” + +“There's none in sight. We can have one called here, but we'll have to +wait for it at least ten minutes.” + +“That will never do. To think he could elude us so easily, without even +knowing that we're after him!” + +Vexation was stamped upon the dainty face, with its soft brown eyes, as +she raised her veil. + +“Ah! I have it,” said Haslam, who would have gone to great lengths to +drive that vexation away. + +“A bicycle! This section teems with bicycle shops. We can hire a tandem. +It's a good thing we're both expert bicyclists.” + +“And that I'm suitably dressed for this kind of a race,” replied Amy, as +the two hurried down the block. + +She stood outside the bicycle store and kept her gaze upon the 'bus, +which was growing less and less distinct to the eye as it rolled down +the street, while Haslam hastily engaged a two-seated machine. + +The 'bus had not yet disappeared in the darkness when the pursuers, +Amy upon the front seat, glided out from the sidewalk and down over +the asphalt. The passage became rough below Columbia Avenue, where the +asphalt gives away to Belgian block paving. Haslam's athletic training +and the acquaintance of both with the bicycle served to minimize this +disadvantage. + +The frequent stoppages of the 'bus made it less difficult for them to +keep in close sight of it. Conversation was not easy between them. +Both kept silence, therefore, their eyes fixed upon the 'bus ahead, and +carefully watching its every stop. + +“You're sure he hasn't gotten off yet?” she asked, at Girard Avenue. + +“Certain.” + +“He's probably going to his rooms down-town.” + +“Or to his club.” + +So they pressed southward. Before them stretched the lone vista of +electric lights away down Broad Street to the City Hall invisible in the +night. + +The difficulty of talking made thinking more involuntary. Haslam's mind +turned back three years. Was it, as he had dared sometimes to fancy, a +juvenile capriciousness that had impelled this girl in front of him +to reject him when she was seventeen, after having manifested an +unmistakable tenderness for him? And now that she was twenty, and had in +the meantime rejected several others, and broken one engagement, was it +too late to attempt to revive the old spark? + +His meditations were suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the +girl herself. + +“Look! He's left the 'bus. He's going into the Park Theatre.” + +So he was. His slim person was easily distinguishable in the wealth +of electric light that flooded the street upon which looked the broad +doorways and the allegorical facades of the Park. + +The second act of “La Belle Helene” was not yet over when Appleton +entered and stood at the rear of the parquet circle. He indifferently +watched the finale, made some mental comments upon the white flowing +gown of Pauline Hall, the make-up of Fred Solomon, and the grotesqueness +of the five Hellenic kings. Then he scanned the audience. + +Haslam and Amy dismounted near the theatre and entrusted the bicycle to +a small boy's care. When they had bought admission tickets and reached +the lobby, the gay finale of the second act was being given. The curtain +fell, was called up three times, and then people began to pour forth +from the entrance to drink, smoke, or enjoy the air in the entr'acte. + +Appleton was involved in the movement of those who resorted to the +little garden with flowers and fountain and asphalt paving, accessible +through the northern exits. He paused for a time by the fountain, +not sufficiently curious to join the crowd that stood gaping at +the apertures through which the members of the chorus could be seen +ascending the stairs to the upper dressing-rooms, many of them carolling +scraps of song from the opera as they went. + +Appleton soon reëntered the lobby and again surveyed the audience +closely. Haslam caught sight of him just in time to avoid him. Amy had +resumed the concealment of her veil. + +To the surprise of his watchers, Appleton left the theatre before the +third act opened. Again he jumped upon a 'bus, but this time it was upon +one moving northward. + +“It looks as if he were going back to the Grand Opera House,” suggested +Amy, as she and her companion started to repossess the bicycle. + +“His movements are a trifle unaccountable,” said Haslam, thoughtfully. + +“Ah! Now you admit he is acting queerly. Perhaps you'll see I was quite +right.” + +Again mounted upon the bicycle, the doctor and the young woman returned +to the chase. They were soon brought to a second stop by Appleton's +departure from the 'bus at Girard Avenue. + +“Where can he be going to now?” queried Amy. + +“He's going to take that east-bound Girard Avenue car.” + +“So he is. What can he mean to do in that part of town?” + +They turned down Girard Avenue. The car was half a block in advance of +them. + +“You're energetic enough in this pursuit,” Amy shouted back to the +doctor as the machine fled over the stones, “even if you don't believe +in it.” + +“Energetic in your service, now and always.” + +She made no answer. + +This time her reflections were abruptly checked--as his had been on +Broad Street--by the cry of the other. + +“See! He's getting off at the Girard Avenue Theatre.” + +Again they found a custodian for their bicycle and followed Appleton +into a theatre. + +The young man stopped at the box-office in the long vestibule, bought +a ticket, and had a call made for a coupé. Then he passed through the +luxurious little foyer, beautiful with flowers and soft colours, and +stood behind the parquet circle railing. + +Adelaide Randall's embodiment of “The Grand Duchess” held his attention +for a time. Haslam and Miss Winnett, to avoid the risk of being +discovered by him, sought the seclusion of the balcony stairs. + +“We had a few bars of Offenbach at the Park, and here we have Offenbach +again,” commented the doctor. + +“And again, only a few bars, for there goes our man.” + +Appleton, having given as much attention to the few spectators as to the +players, left the theatre and got into the cab that had been ordered for +him. + +Haslam, behind the pillar at the entrance to the theatre, overheard +Appleton's direction to the driver. It was: + +“To the Grand Opera House. Hurry! The opera will soon be over.” + +The cab rumbled away. + +“It's well we heard his order,” observed Haslam to Amy. “We couldn't +have hoped to keep up with a cab. He'll probably wait at the Grand Opera +House till we get there.” + +“But we mustn't lose any time, for, as he said, the performance will +soon be over.” + +“Oh, 'Tell' is a long opera and Guille will have an encore for the aria +in the last act. That will give us a few minutes more.” + + +III + +_A Telegraphic Revelation_ + +A boy walking down Girard Avenue, as Appleton got into the cab, had been +whistling the tune of “They're After Me,”--a thing that was new to the +variety stage last fall, but is dead this summer. The air, whistled by +the boy, clung to Appleton's sense, and he unconsciously hummed it to +himself as his cab went on its grinding way over the stones. + +The cabman was considerate of his horse, and he coolly ignored +Appleton's occasional shouts of, “Get along there, won't you?” + +It was, therefore, not impossible for the bicyclists to keep in sight of +the coupé. + +“All this concern about a man you say you don't care for,” said Haslam +to Amy, as the bicycle turned up Broad Street. “It's unprecedented.” + +“It's only humanity.” + +“You didn't bother about following me around like this when you threw me +over.” + +“You didn't threaten to kill yourself.” + +“No; if I had, I'd have carried out my threat. But for months I endured +a living death--or worse.” + +“Really? Did you, though?” + +Eager inquiry and sudden elation were expressed in this speech. + +“Of course I did. Why do you ask in that way?” + +“Oh--you took me by surprise. Why did you never tell me it affected you +so? I thought--I thought--” + +“What did you think?” + +“That if you really cared for me you would have--tried again.” + +“What? Then I was fatally ignorant! I thought that when you said a +thing, you meant it.” + +“I didn't know what I meant until it was too late.” + +“But is it too late--ah! see, he's getting out of the cab at the Grand +Opera House.” + +They quickly switched the bicycle from the street to the sidewalk, and +both dismounted. + +They were checked at the entrance to the theatre by the appearance of +Appleton. He was coming from within the building, and with him were two +women, one elderly and unattractive, the other a plump young person +with bright blue eyes in a saucy face that had more claim to piquant +effrontery than to beauty. She was simply dressed and was all smiles to +Appleton. + +Amy and Haslam quickly turned their backs, thus avoiding recognition, +and while they seemed to be looking through the glass front into +the vestibule, they overheard the following conversation between the +blue-eyed girl and Appleton. + +“I'm glad you found us at last, Tom. Three acts of grand opera are about +enough for me, thanks, and we'd have left sooner if your telegram that +you'd be in town to-night hadn't made me expect to see you.” + +“Well, I've been hunting for you in every open theatre in town where +there's grand opera. In your answer to my telegram from the Catskills, +you said merely you were going to the opera this evening. You didn't say +what opera, but I supposed it was this one, so I bought a ticket as soon +as I arrived in town at the down-town office. I got here after the first +act, and spent all the second act looking around for you.” + +“It's strange you didn't see us. We were in the middle of row K, right.” + +“Well, I missed you, that's all, and I kept a watch on the lobby after +the act, thinking you'd perhaps come out between the acts. Then I went +to the Park Theatre, and then to the Girard Avenue.” + +Amy and Haslam went into the vestibule. Amy was crimson with anger. +Haslam quietly said: + +“Do you wish to continue the pursuit?” + +Before she found time to answer, another matter distracted her +attention. + +“Look! There's Mary, the housemaid, who was to stay up for me till I got +home. She has come here for me.” + +The servant stood by the door leading into the lobby, in a position +enabling her to scan the faces of people coming out from the auditorium. + +“Oh, Miss Amy, are you here? I was waiting for you to come out. Here's +a telegram that came about a half-hour ago. I thought it might be +important.” + +Amy tore open the envelope. + +“Why,” she said to Haslam, “this was sent to-day from Philadelphia to +me at the Catskills, and my cousins have had it repeated back to me. And +look--it's signed by you.” + +“I surely didn't send it.” + +But there was the name beyond doubt, “Henry Haslam, M.D.” + +“This is a mystery to me, I assure you,” reiterated the doctor. + +“But not to me,” cried Amy. “Read the message and you'll understand.” + +He read these words: + +“Mr. Appleton is very ill. His life depends upon his will-power. He +tells me that you alone can say the word that will save him. Henry +Haslam, M.D.” + +Haslam smiled. + +“A clever invention to make you think he tried to execute his threat. +Now you know what he was doing while you were taking your handbag home. +He probably concocted the scheme on his journey. But why did he sign my +name, I wonder?” + +She dropped her eyes and answered in a low tone: + +“Because he knew that I would believe anything said by you.” + +“Would you believe that I love you still more than I did three years +ago?” + +“Yes; if it came from your own lips--not by telegraph.” + +She lifted her eyes now, and her lips, too; Mary the housemaid sensibly +looked another way. + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From Bohemia, by Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + +***** This file should be named 8869-0.txt or 8869-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/6/8869/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/8869-0.zip b/8869-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d95d264 --- /dev/null +++ b/8869-0.zip diff --git a/8869-8.txt b/8869-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bbeea12 --- /dev/null +++ b/8869-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7164 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales From Bohemia, by Robert Neilson Stephens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales From Bohemia + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8869] +This file was first posted on August 17, 2003 +Last Updated: May 18, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + +TALES FROM BOHEMIA + + +By Robert Neilson Stephens + + + + +ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS--A MEMORY + +One crisp evening early in March, 1887, I climbed the three flights of +rickety stairs to the fourth floor of the old "Press" building to begin +work on the "news desk." Important as the telegraph department was +in making the newspaper, the desk was a crude piece of carpentry. My +companions of the blue pencil irreverently termed it "the shelf." This +was my second night in the novel dignity of editorship. Though my rank +was the humblest, I appreciated the importance of a first step from "the +street." An older man, the senior on the news desk, had preceded me. He +was engaged in a bantering conversation with a youth who lolled at such +ease as a well-worn, cane-bottomed screw-chair afforded. The older man +made an informal introduction, and I learned that the youth with pale +face and serene smile was "Mr. Stephens, private secretary to the +managing editor." That information scarcely impressed me any more +than it would now after more than twenty years' experience of managing +editors and their private secretaries. + +The bantering continued, and I learned that the youth cherished literary +aspirations, and that he performed certain work in connection with the +dramatic department for the managing editor, who kept theatrical news +and criticisms within his personal control. + +Suddenly a chance remark broke the ice for a friendship between the +young man and me which was to last unbroken until his untimely death. +Stephens wrote the Isaac Pitman phonography! Here had I been for more +than three years wondering to find the shorthand writers of wide-awake +and progressive America floundering in what I conceived to be the +Serbonian bog of an archaic system of stenography. Unexpectedly a +most superior young man came within my ken who was a disciple of Isaac +Pitman. Furthermore, like myself, he was entirely self taught. No old +shorthand writer who can look back a quarter of a century on his own +youthful enthusiasm for the art can fail to appreciate what a bond of +sympathy this discovery constituted. From that night forward we were +chosen friends, confiding our ambitions to each other, discussing the +grave issues of life and death, settling the problems of literature. +Notwithstanding his more youthful appearance, my seniority in age +was but slight. Gradually "Bob," as all his friends called him with +affectionate informality, was given opportunities to advance himself, +under the kindly yet firm guidance of the managing editor, Mr. Bradford +Merrill. That gentleman appreciated the distinct gifts of his young +protg, journalistic and literary, and he fostered them wisely and +well. I remember perfectly the first criticism of an important play +which "Bob" was permitted to write unaided. It was Richard Mansfield's +initial appearance in Philadelphia as "Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde," at the +Chestnut Street Theatre on Monday, October 3, 1887. + +After the paper had gone to press, and while Mr. Merrill and a few of +the telegraph editors were partaking of a light lunch, the night editor, +the late R.E.A. Dorr, asked Mr. Merrill "how Stephens had made out." + +"He has written a very clever and very interesting criticism," Mr. +Merrill replied. "I had to edit it somewhat, because he was inclined to +be Hugoesque and melodramatic in describing the action with very short +sentences. But I am very much pleased, indeed." + +That was the beginning of Bob's career as a dramatic critic, a career +in which he gained authority and in which his literary faculties, his +felicity of expression and soundness of judgment found adequate scope. + +In the following two or three years the cultivation of the field of +dramatic criticism occupied his time to the temporary exclusion of his +ambition for creative work. He and I read independently; but our +tastes had much in common, though his preference was for imaginative +literature. Meanwhile I was writing short stories with plenty of plot, +some of which found their way into various magazines; but his taste lay +more in the line of the French short story writers who made an +incident the medium for portraying a character. Historical romance had +fascinations for me, but Alphonse Daudet attracted both of us to the +artistic possibilities that lay in selecting the romance of real life +for treatment in fiction as against the crude and repellent naturalism +of Zola and his school. This fact is not a little significant in view of +the turn toward historical romance which exercised all the activities of +Robert Neilson Stephens after the production of his play, "An Enemy to +the King," by E.H. Sothern. + +Still our intimacy had prepared me for the change. Through many a long +night after working hours we had wandered through the moonlit streets +until daybreak exchanging views freely and sturdily on historical +characters on the philosophy of history, on the character of Henry of +Navarre and his followers, and on the worthies of Elizabethan England, +in the literature of which we had immersed ourselves. Kipling had +recently burst meteor-like on the world, and Barrie raised his head with +a whimsical smile closely chasing a tear. Thomas Hardy was in the saddle +writing "Tess," and in France Daudet was yet active though his prime was +past. Guy de Maupassant continued the production of his marvellous +short stories. These were the contemporary prose writers who engaged our +attention. A little later we hailed the appearance of Stanley J. Weyman +with "A Gentleman of France," and the Conan Doyle of "The White +Company" and "Micah Clarke" rather than the creator of "Sherlock Holmes" +commended our admiration. We were by no means in accord on the younger +authors. Diversity of opinion stimulates critical discussion, however. I +had not yet become reconciled to Kipling, who provoked my resentment +by certain coarse flings at the Irish, but "Bob" hailed him with +whole-hearted enthusiasm. + +We were not the only members of the staff with literary aspirations. +Others, like the late Andrew E. Watrous, had achievements of no mean +order in prose and verse. Still others were sustaining the traditions of +"The Press" as a newspaper office which throughout its history had +been a stepping stone to magazine work and other forms of literary +employment. Richard Harding Davis was on the paper and "Bob" Stephens +was one of the two men most intimately in his confidence regarding his +ambitions. + +Finally Bob told me that "Dick" had taken him to his house and read to +him "A bully short story," adding, "It's a corker." + +I inquired the nature of the story. + +"Just about the 'Press' office," Bob replied, + +Among other particulars I asked the title. + +"'Gallegher,'" said Bob. + +Three years elapsed after our first acquaintance before Bob Stephens +began writing stories and sketches. The "Tales from Bohemia" collected +in this volume represent his early creative work. We were in the better +sense a small band of Bohemians, the few friends and companions who will +be found figuring in the tales under one guise or another. Many a merry +prank and many a jest is recalled by these pages. Of criticism I have no +word to say. Let the reader understand how they came into being and they +will explain themselves. "Bob" Stephens took his own environment, the +anecdotes he heard, the persons whom he met and the friends whom he +knew, and he treated them as the writers of short stories in France +twenty years ago treated their own Parisian environment. He made an +incident the means of illustrating a portrayal of character. Later he +was to construct elaborate plots for dramas and historical novels. + +"Bohemianism" was but a brief episode in the life of "R. N. S." It +ceased after his marriage. But his natural gaiety remained. Seldom was +his joyous disposition overcast, or his winning smile eclipsed. For six +months I was privileged to live in the house with his mother. If he +had inherited his literary predilections from his father,--a highly +respected educator of Huntington, Pa. from whose academy many eminent +professional men were graduated,--his gentleness, his cheerfulness, his +winning smile and the ingratiating qualities to which it was the key, as +surely came from his mother. + +I remember a time when he was inordinately grave for several days +and pursued a tireless course of special reading through the office +encyclopaedias and some books he had borrowed. At last he drew aside the +veil of reserve which concealed his family affairs from even his closest +friends and inquired if I could direct him to any recent authority on +cancer. I divined the sad truth that his tenderly beloved mother was +suffering from the dread disease. That was the day before serums, and +nothing that he found to read in books or periodicals gave him a faint +hope that his dear one could be cured. Thenceforward, mother and +son awaited the inevitable end with uncomplaining patience which was +characteristic of both. His cheerful smile returned, and while the blow +of bereavement was impending practically all these "Tales from Bohemia" +were written. + +To follow the career of "R.N.S." and trace his development after he gave +up newspaper work in the fall of 1893 is not required in this place. +"Tales from Bohemia" will be found interesting in themselves, apart from +the fact that they illustrate another phase of the literary gift of +a young writer who contributed so materially to the entertainment of +playgoers and novel readers for a period of ten years after the work in +this book was all done. + +J.O.G.D. + + + + +CONTENTS + +I. THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED + +II. A BIT OF MELODY + +III. ON THE BRIDGE + +IV. THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY + +V. OUT OF HIS PAST + +VI. THE NEW SIDE PARTNER + +VII. THE NEEDY OUTSIDER + +VIII. TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE + +IX. HE BELIEVED THEM + +X. A VAGRANT + +XI. UNDER AN AWNING + +XII. SHANDY'S REVENGE + +XIII. THE WHISTLE + +XIV. WHISKERS + +XV. THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + +XVI. THE SCARS + +XVII. "LA GITANA" + +XVIII. TRANSITION + +XIX. A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD + +XX. MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO + +XXI. AT THE STAGE DOOR + +XXII. "POOR YORICK" + +XXIII. COINCIDENCE + +XXIV. NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN + +XXV. AN OPERATIC EVENING + + + + +TALES FROM BOHEMIA + + + + + +I. -- THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED + +When Jack Morrow returned from the World's Fair, he found Philadelphia +thermometers registering 95. The next afternoon he boarded a Chestnut +Street car, got out at Front Street, hurried to the ferry station, and +caught a just departing boat for Camden, and on arriving at the other +side of the Delaware, made haste to find a seat in the well-filled +express train bound for Atlantic City. + +While he was being whirled across the level surface of New Jersey, past +the cornfields and short stretches of green trees and restful cottage +towns, he thought of the pleasure in store for him--the meeting with the +young person whom he had gradually come to consider the loveliest girl +in the world. Having neglected to read the list of "arrivals" in the +newspapers, he knew not at what hotel she and her aunt were staying. But +he would soon make the rounds of the large beach hotels, at one of which +she was likely to be found. + +She did not expect to see him. Therefore her first expression on +beholding him would betray her feelings toward him, whatever they were. +Should the indication be favourable, he would propose to her at the +first opportunity, on beach, boardwalk, hotel piazza, pavilion, yacht +or in the surf. Such were the meditations of Jack Morrow while the train +roared across New Jersey to the sea. + +The first sign of the flat green meadows, the smooth waters of the +thoroughfare, the sails afar at the inlet and the long side of the +sea-city stretching out against the sky at the very end of the earth is +refreshing and exhilarating to any one. It gave a doubly keen enjoyment +to Jack Morrow. + +"Within an hour, perhaps," he mused, as the reviving odour of the salt +water touched his nostrils, "I shall see Edith." + +When with the crowd he had made his way out of the train, and traversed +the long platform at the Atlantic City station, ignoring the stentorian +solicitations of the 'bus drivers, he started walking toward the ocean +promenade, invited by the glimpse of sea at the far end of the avenue. +Thus he crossed that wide thoroughfare--Atlantic Avenue--with its +shops and trolley-cars; passed picturesque hotels and cottages; crossed +Pacific Avenue where carriages and dog-carts were being driven rapidly +between the rows of pretty summer edifices, and traversed the famously +long block that ends at the boardwalk and the strand. + +He succeeded in getting a third-floor room on the ocean side of the +first hotel where he applied. He learned from the clerk that Edith was +not at this house. Sea air having revived his appetite, he decided to +dine before setting out in search of her. + +When, after his meal, he reached the boardwalk, the electric lights had +already been turned on and the regular evening crowd of promenaders was +beginning to form. He strolled along now looking at the beach and the +sea, now at the boardwalk crowd where he might perhaps at any moment +behold the face of "the loveliest girl in the world." He beheld instead, +as he approached the Tennessee pier, the face of his friend George +Haddon. + +"Hello, old boy!" exclaimed Morrow, grasping his friend's hand. "What +are you doing here? I thought your affairs would keep you in New York +all summer." + +"So they would," replied Haddon, in a tone and with a look whose +distress he made little effort to conceal. "But something happened." + +"Why, what on earth's the matter? You seem horribly downcast." + +Haddon was silent for a moment; then he said suddenly: + +"I'll tell you all about it. I have to tell somebody or it will split +my head. But come out on the pier, away from the noise of that +merry-go-round organ." + +Neither spoke as the two young men passed through the concert pavilion +and dancing hall out to a quieter part of the long pier. They sat near +the railing and looked out over the sea, on which, as evening fell, the +rippling band of moonlight grew more and more luminous. They could see, +at the right, the long line of brilliant lights on the boardwalk, and +the increasing army of promenaders. Detached from the furthest end of +the line of boardwalk lights, shone those of distant Longport. Above +these, the sky had turned from heliotrope to hues dark and indefinable, +but indescribably beautiful. Down on the beach were only a few people, +strolling near the tide line, a carriage, a man on horseback, and three +frolicking dogs. + +"It's simply this," abruptly began Haddon. "Six weeks ago I was married +to--" + +"Why, I never heard of it. Let me congrat--" + +"No, don't, I was married to a comic opera singer, named Lulu Ray. +I don't suppose you've ever heard of her, for she was only recently +promoted from the chorus to fill small parts. We took a flat, and lived +happily on the whole, for a month, although with such small quarrels +as might be expected. Two weeks ago she went out and didn't come back. +Since then I haven't been able to find her in New York or at any of the +resorts along the Jersey coast. I suppose she was offended at something +I said during a quarrel that grew out of my insisting on our staying +in New York all summer. Knowing her liking for Atlantic City--she was a +Philadelphia girl before she went on the stage--I came here at once to +hunt her up and apologize and agree to her terms." + +"Well?" + +"Well, I haven't found her. She's not at any hotel in Atlantic City. I'm +going back to New York to-morrow to get some clue as to where she is." + +"I suppose you're very fond of her still?" + +"Yes; that's the trouble. And then, of course, a man doesn't like to +have a woman who bears his name going around the country alone, her +whereabouts unknown." + +Morrow was on the point of saying: "Or perhaps with some other man," +but he checked himself. He was sufficiently mundane to refrain from +attempting to reason Haddon out of his affection for the fugitive, or +to advise him as to what to do. He knew that in merely letting Haddon +unburden on him the cause of anxiety, he had done all that Haddon would +expect from any friend. + +He limited himself, therefore, to reminding Haddon that all men have +their annoyances in this life; to treating the woman's offence as light +and commonplace, and to cheering him up by making him join in seeing the +sights of the boardwalk. + +They looked on at the pier hop, while Professor Willard's musicians +played popular tunes; returned to the boardwalk and watched the pretty +girls leaning against the wooden beasts on the merry-go-round while the +organ screamed forth, "Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow Wow;" experienced +that not very illusive illusion known as "The Trip to Chicago;" were +borne aloft on an observation wheel; made the rapid transit of the +toboggan slide, visited the phonographs and heard a shrill reproduction +of "Molly and I and the Baby;" tried the slow and monotonous ride on +the "Figure Eight," and the swift and varied one on the switchback. They +bought saltwater taffy and ate it as they passed down the boardwalk and +looked at the moonlight. Down on the Bowery-like part of the boardwalk +they devoured hot sausages, and in a long pavilion drank passable beer +and saw a fair variety show. Thence they left the boardwalk, walked to +Atlantic Avenue and mounted a car that bore them to Shauffler's, where +among light-hearted beer drinkers they heard the band play "Sousa's +Cadet March" and "After the Ball," and so they arrived at midnight. + +All this was beneficial to Haddon and pleasant enough in itself, but +it prevented Morrow that night from prosecuting his search for the +loveliest girl in the world. He postponed the search to the next day. +And when that time came, after Haddon had started for New York, occurred +an event that caused Morrow to postpone the search still further. + +He had decided to go up the boardwalk on the chance of seeing Edith in +a pavilion or on the beach. If he should reach the vicinity of the +lighthouse without finding her, he would turn back and inquire at every +hotel near the beach until he should obtain news of her. + +He had reached Pennsylvania Avenue when he was attracted by the white +tents that here dotted the wide beach. He went down the high flight +of steps from the boardwalk to rest awhile in the shade of one of the +tents. + +Although it was not yet 11 o'clock, several people in bathing suits were +making for the sea. A little goat wagon with children aboard was passing +the tents, and after it came the cart of the "hokey-pokey" peddler, +drawn by a donkey that wore without complaint a decorated straw +bathing hat. Morrow, looking at the feet of the donkey, saw in the sand +something that shone in the sunlight. He picked it up and found that it +was a gold bracelet studded with diamonds. + +He questioned every near-by person without finding the owner. He +therefore put the bracelet in his pocket, intending to advertise it. +Then he resumed his stroll up the boardwalk. He went past the lighthouse +and turned back. + +He had reached the Tennessee Avenue pier without having found the +loveliest girl in the world. His eye caught a small card that had just +been tacked up at the pier entrance. Approaching it he read: + +"Lost--On the beach between Virginia and South Carolina Avenues, a gold +bracelet with seven diamonds. A liberal reward will be paid for its +recovery at the ---- Hotel." + +The hotel named was the one at which Morrow was staying. He hurried +thither. + +"Who lost the diamond bracelet?" he asked the clerk. + +"That young lady standing near the elevator. Miss Hunt, I think her name +is," said the clerk consulting the register. "Yes, that's it, she only +arrived last night." + +Morrow saw standing near the elevator door, a lithe, well-rounded girl +with brown hair and great gray eyes that were fixed on him. She was +in the regulation summer-girl attire--blue Eton suit, pink shirtwaist, +sailor hat, and russet shoes. He hastened to her. + +"Miss Hunt, I have the honour to return your bracelet." + +She opened her lips and eyes with pleasurable surprise and reached +somewhat eagerly for the piece of jewelry. + +"Thank you ever so much. I took a walk on the beach just after breakfast +and dropped it somewhere. It's too large." + +"I picked it up near Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a curious coincidence +that it should be found by some one stopping at the same hotel. But, +pardon me, you're going away without mentioning the reward." + +She looked at him with some surprise, until she discovered that he +was jesting. Then she smiled a smile that gave Morrow quite a pleasant +thrill, and said, with some tenderness of tone: + +"Let the reward be what you please." + +"And that will be to do what you shall please to have me do." + +"Ah, that's nice. Then I accept your services at once. I am quite alone +here; haven't any acquaintances in the hotel. I want to go bathing and +I'm rather timid about going alone, although I'd made up my mind to do +so and was just going up after my bathing suit." + +"Then I am to have the happiness of escorting you into the surf." + +They went bathing together not far from where he had found the bracelet. +He discovered that she could swim as well as he; also that in her dark +blue bathing costume, with sailor collar and narrow white braid, she was +a most shapely person. + +She laughed frequently while they were breasting the breakers; and +afterwards, as in their street attire they were returning on the +boardwalk, she chatted brightly with him, revealing a certain cleverness +in off-hand persiflage. + +He took her into the tent behind the observation wheel to see the +Egyptian exhibition, and she was good enough to laugh at his jokes about +the mummies, although the mummies did not seem to interest her. Further +down the boardwalk they stopped at the Japanese exhibition, and on the +way out he caught himself saying that if it were possible, he would take +great pleasure in hauling her in a jinrikisha. + +"I'll remember that promise and make you push me in a wheel-chair," she +answered. + +When they were back at the hotel, she turned suddenly and said: + +"By the way, what's your name? Mine's Clara Hunt." + +He told her, and while she went up the elevator with her bathing suit, +he arranged with the head waiter to have himself seated at her table. + +He learned from the clerk that she had arrived alone with a letter of +introduction from a former guest of the house, and intended to stay at +least a fortnight. + +At luncheon he proposed that they should take a sail in the afternoon. +She said, with a smile: + +"As it is you who invites me, I'll give up my nap and go." + +They rode in a 'bus to the Inlet, and after spending half an hour +drinking beer and listening to the band on the pavilion, they hired a +skipper to take them out in his catboat. Six miles out the boat pitched +considerably and Miss Hunt increased her hold on Morrow's admiration +by not becoming seasick. At his suggestion they cast out lines for +bluefish. She borrowed mittens from the captain and pulled in four fish +in quick succession. + +"What an athletic woman you are," said Morrow. + +"Yes, indeed." + +"In fact, everything that's charming," he continued. + +She replied softly: "Don't say that unless you mean it. It pleases me +too much, coming from you." + +Morrow mused: "Here's a girl who is frank enough to say so when she +likes a fellow. It makes her all the more fascinating, too. Some women +would make me very tired throwing themselves at me this way. But it is +different with her." + +They gave the fish to the captain and returned from the Inlet by the +Atlantic Avenue trolley, just in time for dinner. She did not lament +her lack of opportunity to change her clothes for dinner, nor did she +complain about the coat of sunburn she had acquired. + +In the evening, they sat together for a time on the pier, took a turn +together at one of the waltzes, although neither cared much for dancing +at this time of year, walked up the boardwalk and compared the moon with +the high beacon light of the lighthouse. + +He bought her marshmallows at a confectioner's booth, a fan at a +Japanese store, and a queer oriental paper cutter at a Turkish bazaar. +They took two switchback rides, during which he was compelled to put his +arm around her. Finally, reluctant to end the evening, they stood for +some minutes leaning against the boardwalk railing, listening to the +moan of the sea and watching the shaft of moonlight stretching from +beach to horizon. + +It was not until he was alone in his room that Morrow bethought of his +neglect of the loveliest girl in the world. And remorseful as he was, he +did not form any distinct intention of resuming his search for her the +next day. He rather congratulated himself on not having met her while he +was with this enchanting Clara Hunt. + +And he passed next day also with the enchanting Clara Hunt. They sat on +the piazza together reading different parts of the same newspaper for +an hour after breakfast; went to the boardwalk and turned in at a +shuffle-board hall, where they spent another hour making the weights +slide along the sanded board and then took another ocean bath. + +After luncheon they walked up the boardwalk to the iron pier. + +Seeing the lifeboat there, rising and falling in the waves, Clara asked: + +"Would the lifeguard take us in his boat for a while, I wonder?" + +Morrow went down to the beach and shouted to the lifeguard, who was none +other than the robust and stentorian Captain Clark. The captain brought +the boat ashore and as there were no bathers in the water at this point, +he agreed to row the young people out to the end of the pier. + +"This is a great place for brides and grooms this summer," remarked the +captain in his frank and jocular way. + +Clara looked at Morrow with a blush and a laugh. Morrow was pleased at +seeing that she seemed not displeased. + +"We're not married," said Morrow to the captain. + +"Not yet, mebbe," said the captain with one of his significant winks, +and then he gave vent to loud and long laughter. + +That evening Morrow and Clara took the steamer trip from the Inlet +to Brigantine and the ride on the electric car along flat and sandy +Brigantine beach. On the return, they became very sentimental. They +decided to walk all the way from the Inlet down the boardwalk. He found +himself quite oblivious to the crowd of promenaders. The loveliest girl +in the world might have passed him a dozen times without attracting his +attention. He had eyes and ears for none but Clara Hunt. + +And that night, far from reproaching himself for his conduct toward +the loveliest girl, etc., he hardly thought of her at all, more than +to wonder by what good fortune he had avoided meeting her. Some of the +people at their hotel made the same mistake regarding Morrow and Clara +as Captain Clark had made; the two were seen constantly together. Others +thought they were engaged. + +Morrow spoke of this to her next morning as they were being whirled down +to Longport on a trolley car along miles of smooth beach and stunted +distorted pine trees. "I heard a woman on the piazza whisper that I was +your fianc," he said. + +"Well, what if you were--I mean what if she did?" + +At Longport they took the steamer for Ocean City. They rode through that +quiet place of trees and cottages on the electric car, returning to the +landing just in time to miss the 11.50 boat for Longport. They had to +wait an hour and a half and they were the only people there who were not +bored by the delay. They returned by way of Somers' Point. + +While the boat was gliding through the sunlit waters of Great Egg +Harbour Inlet, Clara's hand happened to fall on Morrow's, which was +resting on the gunwale. She let her hand remain there. Morrow looked at +it, and then at her face. She smiled. When the Italian violin player on +the boat came that way, Morrow gave him a dollar. Alas for the loveliest +girl in the world! + +They passed most of that evening in a boardwalk pavilion, ostensibly +watching the sea and the crowd. They went up the thoroughfare in a +catboat the next morning, and, strange as it seemed to them, were the +only people out who caught no fish. The captain winked at his mate, who +grinned. + +In the afternoon, while Morrow and Clara stood on the boardwalk looking +down at the Salvation Army tent, along came that innocent eccentric +"Professor" Walters in bathing costume and with his swimming machine. +The tall, lean whiskered, loquacious "Professor" had made Morrow's +acquaintance in a former summer and now greeted him politely. + +"How d'ye do?" said the "Professor." "Glad to see you here. You turn up +every year." + +"You're still given to rhyming," commented Morrow. + +"Yes, I have a rhyme for every time, in pleasure or sorrow. Is this Mrs. +Morrow?" + +"No." + +"You ought to be sorry she isn't," remarked the "Professor," taking his +departure. + +Morrow and Clara walked on in silence. At last he said somewhat +nervously: + +"Everybody thinks we're married. Why shouldn't we be?" + +She answered softly, with downcast eyes: + +"I would be willing if I were sure of one thing." + +"What's that?" + +"That you have never loved any other woman. Have you?" + +"How can you ask? Believe me, you are the only girl I have ever loved." + +That evening, after dinner, Morrow and Clara, the newly affianced, about +starting from the hotel to the boardwalk, were at the top of the hotel +steps when a man appeared at the bottom. + +Morrow uttered a cry of recognition. + +"Why, Haddon, old boy, I'm glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my +wife that is to be." + +Haddon stood still and stared. Clara, too, remained motionless. After a +moment, Haddon said very quietly: + +"You're mistaken. Let me introduce you to my wife that is." + +Morrow looked at Clara. She turned her gray eyes fearlessly on Haddon. + +"You, too, are mistaken," she said. "I had a husband before you married +me. He's my husband still. He's doing a song and dance act in a variety +theatre in Chicago. I'm sorry about all this, Mr. Morrow. I really like +you. Good-bye." + +She ran back into the hotel and arranged to make her departure on an +early train next morning. + +Haddon turned toward the boardwalk, and Morrow, quite dazed, +involuntarily followed him. After a period of silence, Morrow said: + +"This is astonishing. A bigamist, and a would-be trigamist. She came +here the night before you left. How did you find out she was here?" + +"I read it in the Atlantic City letter of _The Philadelphia Press_ that +one of the Comic Opera singers daily seen on the boardwalk is Miss Clara +Hunt, who is known to theatre-goers by her stage name, Lulu Ray. These +newspaper correspondents know some of the obscurest people. If I had +told you her real name, you would have known who she was in time to have +avoided being taken in by her." + +"Her having another husband lets you out." + +"Yes. I'm glad and sorry, for damn it, I was fond of the girl. Excuse me +awhile, old fellow. I want to go on the pier and think awhile." + +Haddon went out on the pier and looked down on the incoming waves and +thought awhile. He found it a disconsolate occupation, even with a cigar +to sweeten it. So he came back and mingled with the gay crowd on the +boardwalk and tried to forget her. + +Morrow had no sooner left Haddon than he felt his arm touched. Looking +around, he saw the smiling face of the loveliest girl in the world. + +"Well, by Jove, Edith," he said. "At last I've found you!" + +"Yes. I heard you were down here. You see, I've been up in town for the +last week. Gracious, but Philadelphia is hot! Here's Aunt Laura." + +Morrow spent the evening with Edith. One night a week later, he proposed +to her on the pier. + +"I will say yes," she replied, "if you can give me your assurance that +you've never been in love with any one else." + +"That's easily given. You know very well you're the only girl I've ever +loved." + + + + +II. -- A BIT OF MELODY + + +[Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker, and used by the courtesy +of the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_.] + +It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the lodging-house +for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians +coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They +belonged to the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, and were returning from a +dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on +the following night. + +Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded +to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and +passed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded +face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering +gaslight. + +The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in +disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he +stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the +danger of the icy pavements. "I'm t'ankful to be at last home," he said, +showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler from +his neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an +ample red beard. "Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay +warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera." + +"Thanks for your solicitude," I said, "but I must have my walk. Play +to your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into +geniality. Good night." + +The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the +taciturnity of his countryman and confrre, with a gesture and a look +of reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he +disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs. + +As I passed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my +footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas in +his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf. + +My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of +heart. Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, +while his practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second +violinist. When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a smile: + +"My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity +cofers a multitude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer." + +We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and +matine duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, +and because those of us who could remember his long German surname could +not pronounce it. + +One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his +friend Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival +from Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned +that he had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had +departed the day before. The professor took him home, clothed him and +cared for him until eventually another second violin was needed in the +---- Theatre orchestra. + +Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, +and he picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and +waltzes. + +All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk +in that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to +collide with my friend the doctor. + +"I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat," I said. "Won't you join +me? I know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where +devilled crabs are as good as the broiled oyster." + +"With pleasure," he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; "not for +your food, but for your society. But do you know what you did when you +ran against me at the corner? For a long time I've been trying to recall +a certain tune that I heard once. Three minutes ago, as I was walking +along, it came back to me, and I was whistling it when you came up. You +knocked it quite out of mind. I'm sorry, for interesting circumstances +connected with my first hearing of it make it desirable that I should +remember it." + +"I can never express my regret," I said. "But you may be able to catch +it again. Where were you when it came back to you three minutes ago?" + +"Two blocks away, passing a church. I think it was the shining of the +electric light upon the stained glass window that brought it back to +me, for on the night of the day when I first heard it in Paris a strong +light was falling upon the stained glass windows of the church opposite +the house in which I had apartments." + +"Perhaps, then," I suggested, "the law of association may operate again +if you take the trouble to walk back and repass the church in the same +manner and the same state of mind, as nearly as you can resume them." + +"By Jove," said the doctor, who likes experiments of this kind, "I'll +try it. Wait for me here." + +I stood at the corner while the doctor briskly retraced his steps. His +firmly built, comfortable-looking form passed rapidly away. Within five +minutes he was back, a triumphant smile lighting his face. + +"Success!" he said. "I have it, although whether from chance or as a +result of repeating my impression of light falling on a church window +I can't say. Certainly, after all these years, the tune is again mine. +Listen." + +As we proceeded up the street the doctor whistled a few measures +composing a rather peculiar melody, expressive, it seemed to me, of +unrest. I never forget a tune I have once heard, and this one was soon +fixed in my memory. + +"And the interesting circumstances under which you heard it?" I +interrogated. "Surely after the concern I've shown in the matter, you're +not going to deprive me of the story that goes with the tune?" + +"There is no reason why I should. But I hope you will not circulate the +melody. It is the music that accompanies a tragedy." + +"Indeed? You have written one, then? It must be brief, as there isn't +much of the music." + +"I refer to a tragedy which actually occurred. Tragedies in real life +are not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this +case music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in +Paris, apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife. +His name, as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he +came from Breslau. The wife, a very young and pretty creature, showed +herself, by her attire and manners, to be frivolous and vain, and +without having more than the slightest acquaintance with the pair, I +soon learned that she had no knowledge of or taste for music. He had +married her, I suppose, for her beauty, and had too late discovered the +incompatibility of their temperaments. But he loved her passionately +and jealously. One day I heard loud words between them, from which I +gathered unintentionally that something had aroused his jealousy. She +replied with laughter and taunts to his threats. The quarrel ended with +her abrupt departure from the room and from the house. + +"He did not follow her, but sat down at the piano and began to play +in the manner of one who improvises. Correcting the melody that +first responded to his touch, modifying it at several repetitions, he +eventually gave out the form that I have just whistled. + +"Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that +strain over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my +lamp light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the +way. Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you +dine?' I heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech +was plainly distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; +'you were with----.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I +know what she said in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only +a confused sound, which did not impress me at the time as indicating a +struggle, and which was followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or +a sullen truce had been restored in the household, and thought no more +about the affair. The next morning the wife was found dead, strangled. +The husband had disappeared, and has never, I believe, been heard of to +this day." + +We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the +account had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm caf, with +appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me +again the husband's name. + +"Heinrich Spellerberg." + +"And who had the woman been?" + +"I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little +blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. +She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique." + +"You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?" + +"No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong." + +"Do you remember the exact date of the murder?" + +"Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February +17, 187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and +on, ever since--forgotten, most of the time; a few times recalled--as +to-night." + +"And the man, what did he look like?" + +"Slim and of medium height. Very light complexion and eyes. His face +was entirely smooth. His hair, a bit flaxen in colour, was curly and +plentiful, especially about the back of his neck." + +"In your evidence did you say anything about the strain of music, which +was manifestly of the murderer's own composition?" + +"No, it did not recur to me until later." + +"And nothing was said about it by anybody?" + +"No one but myself knew anything about it--except the murderer; and +unless he afterward circulated it, he and you and I are the only men in +the world who have heard it." + +"But if he continued, wherever he went, to exercise his profession, he +doubtless made some use of that bit of melody. The tune is so odd--quite +too good for him to have wasted." + +"Still, neither of us has ever heard it, or anything like it. And if you +ever should come upon it, it would be interesting to trace the thing, +wouldn't it?" + +"Rather." + +I began to whistle the air softly. Presently two handsome girls, with +jimp raiment and fearless demeanour, came in and took possession of an +adjacent table. + +"What'll it be, Nell?" + +"I'll take a dozen panned. I'm hungry enough to eat all the oysters that +ever came out of the sea. A rehearsal like that gives one an appetite." + +"A dozen panned, and lobster salad for me, and two bottles of beer," was +the order of the first speaker to the waiter. + +I recognized the faces as pertaining to the chorus of the opera company +at the ---- Theatre. I stopped whistling while I watched them. + +Suddenly, like a delayed and multiplied echo of my own whistling, came +in a soft hum from one of the girls the notes of the doctor's tragically +associated strain of music. + +The doctor and I exchanged glances. The girl stopped humming. + +"I think that's the prettiest thing in the piece, Maude," said she. + +Undoubtedly it was the comic opera to be produced at the ---- Theatre to +which she alluded as "the piece." + +"Amazing," I said to the doctor. "Millocker composed the piece she's +talking about. Millocker never killed a wife in Paris. Nor would he +steal bodily from another. Perhaps the thing has been interpolated by +the local producer. It doesn't sound quite like Millocker, anyhow. I +must see about this." + +"Where are you going?" + +"To the Actors' Club, or a dozen other places, until I find Harry +Griffiths. He's one of the comedians in the company at the ---- Theatre, +and he has a leading part in that piece to-morrow night. He'll know +where that tune came from." + +"As you please," said the amiable doctor. "But I must go home. You +can tell me the result of your investigation to-morrow. It may lead to +nothing, but it will be interesting pastime." + +"And again," I said, putting on my overcoat, "it may lead to something. +I'll see you to-morrow. Good night." + +I found Griffiths at the Actors' Club, telling stories over a +mutton-chop and a bottle of champagne. When the opportunity came I drew +him aside. + +"I have bet with a man about a certain air in the new piece. He says +it's in the original score, and I say it's introduced, because I don't +think Millocker did it. This is it," and I whistled it. + +"Quite right, my boy. It's not in the original. Miss Elton's part was +so small that she refused to play until the manager agreed to let her +fatten it up. So Weinmann composed that and put--" + +"This Weinmann," I interrupted, abruptly, "what do you know about him? +Who is he?" + +"He's Gustav Weinmann, the new musical director. I don't know anything +about him. He's not been long in the country. The manager found him in +some small place in Germany last summer." + +"How old is he? Where does he live?" + +"Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you +want to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?" + +"Good idea, this. Good night." + +I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German +town. I would go to him and bluntly say: + +"Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it +is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?" + +Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed. + +All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I +began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour +down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The +only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. +The latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We +all were used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy +caprices, the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent +house. + +I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room +but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains +that used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys +took touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor. + +Suddenly the musical summonings of the player assumed a familiar +aspect,--that of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for +the past hour. + +Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in +the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, would doubtless know more about the +antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able to +tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come +from Germany. + +I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking +through the open door, beheld the professor at the piano. + +The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept +grandly in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's +head in soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of +the opposite wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined +Schaaf, who had fallen asleep listening while the professor played. + +The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain--so often +mutual companions--were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break the +spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, +however, I began quietly: + +"Professor." + +The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to +face me, smiling pleasantly. + +"Pardon me," I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the +moonshine that he might recognize me, "but I was attracted by the +air you were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was +composed by your new conductor at the ----" + +The professor answered with a laugh: + +"Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn't +matter." + +"Ah, then it isn't his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?" + +"Me." + +"You?" + +"Ja. And I have many oder to gif sheap, too." + +"But where did you get it?" + +"I make it." + +"When?" + +"Long 'go. I forget. I have make so many. Dey go away from my mindt an' +come again back long time after." + +"Professor, what would you give me to tell you where and when you +composed that tune?" + +He looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression. It was with an +effort that I continued, as I looked straight into his eyes: + +"I will hazard a guess. Could it have been in Paris--one day twelve +years ago--" + +"I neffer be in Paris," he interrupted, with a start which shocked and +convinced me, slight evidence though it may seem. So I spoke on: + +"What, never? Not even just that night--that 17th of February? Try to +recall it, Heinrich Spellerberg. You remember she came in late, and--who +would think that those soft white fingers had been strong enough?" + +"Hush, my friendt! I not touch her! She kill herself--she try to hang +and she shoke her neck. No, no, to you I vill not lie! You speak all +true! Mein Gott! Vat vill you do?" + +The man was on his knees. I thought of the circumstances, the persons +concerned, the high-strung, sensitive lover of music, the coarse, +derisive, perhaps faithless woman, and I replied quickly: + +"What will I do? Nothing to-night. It's none of my business, anyhow. +I'll sleep over it and tell you in the morning." + +I left him alone. + +In the morning the professor's door stood ajar. I looked in. Man, +clothes, violin case, and valise had gone. Whither I have not tried to +ascertain. + +When the new opera was produced that evening the ---- Theatre +orchestra was unexpectedly minus two of its second violins, for Schaaf, +half-distracted, was wandering the cold streets in search of his friend. + + + + +III. -- ON THE BRIDGE + +When I tell you, my only friend, to whom I so rarely write and whom +I more rarely see, that my lonely life has not been without love for +woman, you will perhaps laugh or doubt. + +"What," you will say, "that gaunt old spectre in his attic with his +books, his tobacco, and his three flower-pots! He would not know that +there is such a word as love, did he not encounter it now and then in +his reading." + +True, I have divided my days between the books in a rich man's +counting-room and those in my attic. True, again, I have never been more +than merely passable to look at, even in my best days. + +Yet I have loved a woman. + +During the five years when my elder brother lay in a hospital across +the river, where he died, it was my custom to visit him every Sunday. +I enjoyed the afternoon walk to the suburbs, when the air has more of +nature in it, especially that portion of the walk which lay upon the +bridge. More life than was usual upon the bridge moved there on Sunday. +Then the cars were crowded with people seeking the parks. Many crossed +on foot, stopping to look idly down at the dark and sluggish water. + +One afternoon, as I stood thus leaning over the parapet, the sound of +woman's gentle laugh caused me to turn and ocularly inquire its source. +The woman and a man were approaching. At the side of the woman walked +soberly a handsome dog, a collie. There was that in their appearance +and manner which plainly told me that here were husband and wife, of +the middle class, intelligent but poor, out for a stroll. That they were +quite devoted to each other was easily discoverable. + +The man looked about thirty years of age, was tall, slender, and was +neither strong nor handsome, but had an amiable face. He was doubtless a +clerk fit to be something better. The woman was perhaps twenty-four. She +was not quite beautiful, yet she was more than pretty. She was of good +size and figure, and the short plush coat that she wore, and the manner +in which she kept her hands thrust in the pockets thereof, gave to her +a dauntless air which the quiet and affectionate expression of her face +softened. + +She was a brunette, her eyes being large and distinctly dark brown, her +face having a peculiar complexion which is most quickly affected by any +change in health. + +The colour of her cheek, the dark rim under her eyes, and the other +indefinable signs, indicated some radical ailment. In the quick glance +that I had of that pair, while the woman was smiling, a feeling of pity +came over me. I have never detected the exact cause of that emotion. +Perhaps in the woman's face I read the trace of past bodily and mental +suffering; perhaps a subtle mark that death had already set there. + +Neither the woman nor her husband noticed me as they passed. The dog +regarded me cautiously with the corner of his eye. I probably would +never have thought of the three again had I not seen them upon the +bridge, under exactly the same circumstances, on the next Sunday. + +So these young and then happy people walked here every Sunday, I +thought. This, perhaps, was an event looked forward to throughout the +week. The husband, doubtless, was kept a prisoner and slave at his desk +from Monday morning until Saturday night, with respite only for eating +and sleeping. Such cases are common, even with people who can think +and have some taste for luxury, and who are not devoid of love for the +beautiful. + +The sight of happiness which exists despite the cruelty of fate and +man, and which is temporarily unconscious of its own liabilities to +interruption and extinction, invariably fills me with sadness, and the +sadness which arose at the contemplation of these two beings begat in me +a strange sympathy for an interest in them. + +On Sundays thereafter I would go early to the bridge and wait until +they passed, for it proved that this was their habitual Sunday walk. +Sometimes they would pause and join those who gazed down at the black +river. I would, now and again, resume my journey toward the hospital +while they thus stood, and I would look back from a distance. The bridge +would then appear to me an abrupt ascent, rising to the dense city, and +their figures would stand out clearly against the background. + +It became a matter of care to me to observe each Sunday whether the +health of either had varied during the previous week. The husband, +always pale and slight, showed little change and that infrequently. +But the fluctuations of the woman as indicated by complexion, gait, +expression and otherwise, were numerous and pronounced. Often she looked +brighter and more robust than on the preceding Sunday. Her face would be +then rounded out, and the dark crescents beneath her eyes would be less +marked. Then I found myself elated. + +But on the next Sunday the cheeks had receded slightly, the healthy +lustre of the eyes had given way to an ominous glow, the warning of +death had returned. Then my heart would sink, and, sighing, I would +murmur inaudibly: + +"This is one of the bad Sundays." + +There came a time when every Sunday was a bad one. + +What made me love this woman? Simply the unmistakable completeness and +constancy of her devotion to her husband,--the absorption of the woman +in the wife. Had the strange ways of chance ever made known to her my +feelings, and had she swerved from that devotion even to render me back +love for love, then my own adoration for her would surely have departed. + +Yes, I loved her,--if to fill one's life with thoughts of a woman, if in +fancy to see her face by day and night, if to have the will to die for +her or to bear pain for her, if those and many more things mean love. + +My richest joy was to see her content with her husband, and the darkest +woe of my life was to anticipate the termination of their happiness. + +So the Sundays passed. One afternoon I waited until almost dusk, yet the +couple did not appear. + +For seven Sundays in succession I did not meet them upon their wonted +walk. + +On the eighth Sunday I saw the dog first, then the man. The latter was +looking over the railing. The woman was not with him. Apprehensively I +sought with my eyes his face. Much grief and loneliness were depicted +there. + +Was he or I the greater mourner? I wondered. + +I suppose two years passed after that day ere I again beheld the +widower--whose name I did not and probably never shall know--upon +the bridge. The dog was not with him this time. It was a fine, sunny +afternoon in May. Grief was no longer in his face. By his side was a +very pretty, animated, rosy little woman whom I had never seen before. +They walked close to each other, and she looked with the utmost +tenderness into his face. She evidently was not yet entirely accustomed +to the wedding-ring which I observed on her finger. + +I think that tears came to my eyes at this sight. Those great brown +eyes, the plush sack, the lovely face that had borne the impress of +sorrow so speedily, had felt death--those might never have existed, so +soon had they been forgotten by the one being in the world for whom that +face had worn the aspect of a perfect love. + +Yet one upon whom those eyes never rested has remembered. And surely the +memory of her is mine to wed, since he, whose right was to cherish it, +has allowed himself to be divorced from it in so brief a time. + +The memory of her is with me always, fills my soul, beautifies my life, +makes green and radiant this existence which all who know me think cold, +bleak, empty, repellent. + +You will not laugh, then, my friend, when I tell you that love is not to +me a thing unknown. + + * * * * * + +So runs a part of the last letter to my father that the old bookkeeper +ever wrote. + + + + +IV. -- THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_.Copyright, 1892, by J.B. +Lippincott Company.] + +Mr. Mogley was an actor of what he termed the "old school." He railed +against the prevalence of travelling theatrical troupes, and when he +attitudinized in the barroom, his left elbow upon the brass rail, his +right hand encircling a glass of foaming beer, he often clamoured for +a return of the system of permanently located dramatic companies, and +sighed at the departure of the "palmy days." + +A picturesque figure, typical of an almost bygone race of such figures, +was Mogley at these moments, his form being long and attenuated, +his visage smooth and of angular contour, his facial mildness really +enhanced by the severity which he attempted to impart to his countenance +when he conversed with such of his fellow men as were not of "the +profession." + +Like Mogley's style of acting, his coat was old. But, although neither +he nor any of his acquaintances suspected it, his heart was young. He +still waited and hoped. + +For Mogley's long professional career had not once been brightened by +a distinct success. He had never made what the men and women of his +occupation designate a hit, or even what the dramatic critics wearily +describe as a "favourable impression." This he ascribed to lack of +opportunity, as he was merely human. Mr. and Mrs. Mogley eagerly sent +for the newspapers on the morning after each opening night and sought +the notices of the performance. These records never contained a word of +either praise or censure for Mogley. + +Mrs. Mogley had first met Mogley when she was a soubrette and he a +"walking gentleman." It was his Guildenstern (or it may have been his +Rosencrantz) that had won her. Shortly after their marriage there came +to her that life-ailment which made it impossible for her to continue +acting. She had swallowed her aspirations, shedding a few tears. She +lived in the hope of his triumph, and, as she had more time to think +than he had, she suffered more keenly the agony of yearning unsatisfied. + +She was a little, fragile being, with large pale blue eyes, and a face +from which the roses had fled when she was twenty. But she was very much +to Mogley: she did his planning, his thinking, the greater part of his +aspiring. She always accompanied him upon tours, undergoing cheerfully +the hard life that a player at "one-night stands" must endure in the +interest of art. + +This continued through the years until last season. Then when Mogley was +about to start "on the road" with the "Two Lives for One" Company, +the doctor said that Mrs. Mogley would have to stay in New York or +die,--perhaps die in any event. So Mogley went alone, playing the +melodramatic father in the first act, and later the secondary villain, +who in the end drowns the principal villain in the tank of real water, +while his heart was with the pain-racked little woman pining away in the +small room at the top of the dingy theatrical boarding-house on Eleventh +Street. + +The "Two Lives for One" Company "collapsed," as the newspapers say, +in Ohio, three months after its departure from New York; this +notwithstanding the tank of real water. Mogley and the leading actress +overtook the manager at the railway station, as he was about to flee, +and extorted enough money from him to take them back to New York. + +Mogley had not returned too soon to the small room at the top of the +house on Eleventh Street. He turned paler than his wife when he saw her +lying on the bed. She smiled through her tears,--a really heartrending +smile. + +"Yes, Tom, I've changed much since you left, and not for the better. I +don't know whether I can live out the season." + +"Don't say that, Alice, for God's sake!" + +"I would be resigned, Tom, if only--if only you would make a success +before I go." + +"If only I could get the chance, Alice!" + +As the days went by, Mrs. Mogley rapidly grew worse. She seemed to fail +perceptibly. But Mogley had to seek an engagement. They could not live +on nothing. Mrs. Jones would wait with the daily increasing board-bill, +but medicine required cash. Each evening, when Mogley returned from his +tour of the theatrical agencies of Fourteenth Street and of Broadway, +the ill woman put the question, almost before he opened the door: + +"Anything yet?" + +"Not yet. You see this is the bad part of the season. Ah, the profession +is overcrowded!" + +But one Monday afternoon he rushed up the stairs, his face aglow. In the +dark, narrow hallway on the top floor he met the doctor. + +"Mrs. Mogley has had a sudden turn for the worse," said the physician, +abruptly. "I'm afraid she won't live until midnight." + +Doctors need not give themselves the trouble to "break news gently" in +cases where they stand small chances of remuneration. + +Mogley staggered. It was cruel that this should occur just when he had +such good news. But an idea occurred to him. Perhaps the good news would +reanimate her. + +"Alice," he cried, as he threw open the door, "you must get well! My +chance has come. The tide, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune, +is here." + +She sat up in bed, trembling. "What is it, Tom?" + +"This. Young Hopkins asked me to have a drink at the Hoffman this +afternoon, and, while I was in there, Hexter, who managed the 'Silver +King' Company the season I played Coombe, came in all rattled. 'Why this +extravagant wrath?' Hopkins asked, in his picturesque way. Then Hexter +explained that his revival of Wilkins' old burlesque on 'Faust' couldn't +be put on to-night, because Renshaw, who was to be the Mephisto, was too +sick to walk. 'No one else knows the part,' Hexter said. Then I told him +I knew the part; how I'd played Valentine to Wilkins' Mephisto when the +piece was first produced before these Gaiety people brought their 'Faust +up-to-date' from London. You remember how, as Wilkins was given to late +dinners and too much ale, he made me understudy his Mephisto, and if the +piece had run more'n two weeks, I'd probably had a chance to play it. +Well, Hexter said, as everything was ready to put on the piece, if +I thought I was up in the part, he'd let me try it. So we went to +Renshaw's room and got the part and here it is." + +"But, Tom, burlesque isn't in your line." + +"Isn't it? Anything's in my line. 'Versatility is the touchstone +of power.' That's where we of the old stock days come in! Besides, +burlesque is the thing now. Look at Leslie, and Wilson, and Hopper, and +Powers. They're the men who draw the salaries nowadays. If I make a hit +in this part, my fortune is sure." + +"But Hexter's Theatre is on the Bowery." + +"That doesn't matter. Hexter pays salaries." + +Objections like this last one had often been made, and as often overcome +in the same words. + +"And then besides--why, Alice, what's the matter?" + +She had fallen back on the bed with a feeble moan. He leaned over her. +Slowly she opened her eyes. + +"Tom, I'm afraid I'm dying." + +Then Mogley remembered the doctor's words. Alice dying! Life was hard +enough even when he had her to sustain his courage. What would it be +without her? + +The typewritten part had fallen on the bed. He pushed it aside. + +"Hexter and his Mephisto be d----d!" said Mogley. "I shall stay at home +with you to-night." + +"No, no, Tom: your one chance, remember! If you should make a hit before +I die, I could go easier. It would brighten the next world for me until +you come to join me." + +Mogley's weaker will succumbed to hers. So, with his right hand around +Mrs. Mogley's wrist, turning his eyes now and then to the clock in the +steeple which was visible through the narrow window, that he might know +when to administer her medicine, he held his "part" in his left hand and +refreshed his recollection of the lines. + +At seven o'clock, with a last pressure of her thin fingers, a kiss upon +her cheek where a tear lay, he left her. He had thought she was asleep, +but she murmured: + +"May God help you to-night, Tom! My thoughts will be at the theatre with +you. Good-bye." + +Mrs. Jones's daughter had promised to look in at Mrs. Mogley now and +then during the evening, and to give her the medicine at the proper +intervals. + +Mogley reported to the stage manager, who showed him Renshaw's +dressing-room and gave him Renshaw's costume for the part. His mind ever +turning back to the little room at the top of the house and then to the +words and "business" of his part, he got into Renshaw's red tights and +crimson cape. Then he donned the scarlet cap and plume and pasted the +exaggerated eyebrows upon his forehead, while the stage manager stood +by, giving him hints as to new "business" invented by Renshaw. + +"You have the stage to yourself, you know, at that time, for a +specialty." + +"Yes, I'll sing the song Wilkins did there. I see it's marked in the +part and the orchestra must be 'up' in it. In the second act I'll do +some imitations of actors." + +At eight he was ready to go on the stage. + +"May God be with you!" rechoed in his ear,--the echo of a weak voice +put forth with an effort. + +He heard the stage manager in front of the curtain announcing that, +"owing to Mr. Renshaw's sudden illness, the talented comedian, Mr. +Thomas Mogley, had kindly consented to play Mephisto, at short notice, +without a rehearsal." + +He had never heard himself called a talented comedian before, and +he involuntarily held his head a trifle higher as the startling and +delicious words reached his ears. + +The opening chorus, the witless dialogue of secondary personages, then +an almost empty stage, old Faust alone remaining, and the entrance of +Mephisto. + +Some applause that came from people that had not heard the preliminary +announcement, and whose demonstration was intended for Renshaw, rather +disconcerted Mogley. Then, ere he had spoken a word, or his eyes +had ranged over the hazy lighted theatre on the other side of the +footlights, there sounded in the depths of his brain: + +"My thoughts will be at the theatre with you!" + +There were many vacant seats in the house. He singled out one of them on +the front row and imagined she was in it. He would play to that vacant +seat throughout the evening. + +In all burlesques of "Faust" the rle of Mephisto is the leading comic +figure. The actor who assumes it undertakes to make people laugh. + +Mogley made people laugh that night, but it was not his intentional +humourous efforts that excited their hilarity. It was the man himself. +They began by jeering him quietly. Then the gallery grew bold. + +"Ah there, Edwin Booth!" sarcastically yelled an urchin aloft. + +"Oh, what a funny little man he is!" ironically quoted another from +a song in one of Mr. Hoyt's farces, alluding to Mogley's spare if +elongated frame. + +"He t'inks dis is a tragedy," suggested a Bowery youth. + +But Mogley tried not to heed. + +In the second act some one threw an apple at him. Mogley laboured +zealously. The ribald gallery had often been his foe. Wait until such +and such a scene! He would show them how a pupil of the old stock +companies could play burlesque! Song and dance men from the varieties +had too long enjoyed undisputed possession of that form of drama. + +But, one by one, he passed his opportunities without capturing the +house. Nearer came the end of the piece. Slimmer grew his chance +of making the longed-for impression. The derision of the audience +increased. Now the gallery made comments upon his personal appearance. + +"He could get between raindrops," yelled one, applying a recent speech +of Edwin Stevens, the comic opera comedian. + +And at home Mogley's wife was dying--holding to life by sheer power of +will, that she might rejoice with him over his triumph. Tears blinded +his eyes. Even the other members of the company were laughing at his +discomfiture. + +Only a little brunette in pink tights who played Siebel, and whom he had +never met before, had a look of sympathy for him. + +"It's a tough audience. Don't mind them," she whispered. + +Mogley has never seen or heard of the little brunette since. But he +anticipates eventually to behold her ranking first after Alice among the +angels of heaven. + +The curtain fell and Mogley, somewhat dazed in mind, mechanically +removed his apparel, washed off his "make-up," donned his worn street +attire and his haughty demeanour, and started for home. + +Home! Behind him failure and derision. Before him, Alice, dying, waiting +impatiently his return, the news of his triumph. + +"We won't need you to-morrow night, Mr. Mogley," said the stage manager +as he reached the stage door. "Mr. Hexter told me to pay you for +to-night. Here's your money now." + +Mogley took the envelope as in a dream, answered not a word, and +hastened homeward. He thought only: + +"To tell her the truth will kill her at once." + +Mrs. Mogley was awake and in a fever of anticipation when Mogley entered +the little room. She was sitting up in bed, staring at him with shining +eyes. + +"Well, how was it?" she asked, quickly. + +Mogley's face wore a look of jubilant joy. + +"Success!" he cried. "Tremendous hit! The house roared! Called before +the curtain four times and had to make a speech!" + +Mogley's ecstasy was admirably simulated. It was a fine bit of acting. +Never before or since did Mogley rise to such a height of dramatic +illusion. + +"Ah, Tom, at last, at last! And, now, I must live till morning, to read +about it in the papers!" + +Mogley's heart fell. If the papers would mention the performance at all, +they would dismiss it in three or four lines, bestowing perhaps a word +of ridicule upon him. She was sure to see one paper, the one that the +landlady's daughter lent her every day. + +Mogley looked at the illuminated clock on the steeple across the way. A +quarter to twelve. + +"My love," he said, "I promised Hexter I would meet him to-night at the +Five A's Club, to arrange about salary and so forth. I'll be gone only +an hour. Can you do without me that long?" + +"Yes, go; and don't let him have you for less than fifty dollars a +week." + +Shortly after midnight the dramatic editor of that newspaper Miss Jones +daily lent to Mrs. Mogley, having sent up the last page of his notice of +the new play at Palmer's, was confronted by the office-boy ushering +to the side of his desk a tall, spare, smooth-faced man with a sober +countenance, an ill-concealed manner of being somewhat over-awed by his +surroundings, and a coat frayed at the edges. + +"I'm Mr. Thomas Mogley," said this apparition. + +"Ah! Have a cigarette, Mr. Mogley?" replied the dramatic editor, +absently, lighting one himself. + +"Thank you, sir. I was this evening, but am not now, the leading +comedian of the company that played Wilkins's 'Faust' at the ---- +Theatre. I played Mephisto." (He had begun his speech in a dignified +manner, but now he spoke quickly and in a quivering voice.) "I was a +failure--a very great failure. My wife is extremely ill. If she knew I +was a failure, it would kill her, so I told her I made a success. I have +really never made a success in my life. She is sure to read your paper +to-morrow. Will you kindly not speak of my failure in your criticism +of the performance? She cannot live later than to-morrow morning, and I +should not like--you see--I have never deigned to solicit favours from +the press before, sir, and--" + +"I understand, Mr. Mogley. It's very late, but I'll see what I can do." + +Mogley passed out, walking down the five flights of stairs to the +street, forgetful of the elevator. + +The dramatic editor looked at his watch. "Half-past twelve," he said; +then, to a man at another desk: + +"Jack, I can't come just yet. I'll meet you at the club. Order devilled +crabs and a bottle of Bass for me." + +He ran up-stairs to the night editor. "Mr. Dorney, have you the theatre +proofs? I'd like to make a change in one of the theatre notices." + +"Too late for the first edition, my boy. Is it important?" + +"Yes, an exceptional case. I'll deem it a personal favour." + +"All right. I'll get it in the city edition. Here are the proofs." + +"Let's see," mused the dramatic editor, looking over the wet proofs. +"Who covered the ---- Theatre to-night? Some one in the city department. +I suppose he 'roasted' Gugley, or whatever his name is. Ah, here it is." + +And he read on the proof: + +"The revival of an ancient burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last +night was without any noteworthy feature save the pitiful performance +of the part of Mephisto by a doleful gentleman named Thomas Mogley, who +showed not the faintest of humour and who was tremendously guyed by +a turbulent audience. Mr. Mogley was temporarily taking the place of +William Renshaw, a funmaker of more advanced methods, who will appear in +the rle to-night. There are some pretty girls and agile dancers in the +company." + +Which the dramatic editor changed to read as follows: + +"The revival of a familiar burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last +night was distinguished by a decidedly novel and original embodiment +of Mephisto by Thomas Mogley, a trained and painstaking comedian. His +performance created an abundance of merriment, and it was the manifest +thought of the audience that a new type of burlesque comedian had been +discovered." + +All of which was literally true. And the dramatic editor laughed over it +later over his bottle of white label at the club. + +By what power Mrs. Mogley managed to keep alive until morning I do not +know. The dull gray light was stealing into the little room through the +window as Mogley, leaning over the bed, held a fresh newspaper close +to her face. Her head was propped up by means of pillows. She laughed +through her tears. Her face was all gladness. + +"A new--comedian--discovered," she repeated. "Ah, Tom, at last! That is +what I lived for! I can die happy now. We've made a--great--hit--Tom--" + +The voice ceased. There was a convulsion at her throat. Nothing stirred +in the room. From the street below came the sound of a passing car and a +boy's voice, "Morning papers." Mogley was weeping. + +The dead woman's hand clutched the paper. Her face wore a smile. + + + + +V. -- OUT OF HIS PAST + +This is no fable; it is the hardest kind of fact. I met Craddock not +more than a week ago. His inebriety prevented his recognizing me. + +What a joyous, hopeful man he was upon the day of his marriage! He +looked toward the future as upon a cloudless spring dawn one looks +forward to the day. + +He had sown his wild oats and had already reaped a crop of knowledge. +"I have put the past behind me," he said. And he thought it would stay +there. + +He married one of the sweetest and best of women. The match was an ideal +one--exceptionally so. His wife's mother objected to it and moved away +on account of it. "That's a detail," said Craddock. + +There are details and details. The importance of any one of them depends +on circumstances. + +Craddock had all the qualities and attributes requisite to make him a +son-in-law to the liking of his mother-in-law--lack of money. + +So she went to live in Boston, maintained a chilly correspondence with +her daughter, and bided her time. + +Craddock had had his old loves, a fact that he did not attempt to +conceal from his wife. She insisted upon his telling her about them, +although the narration put her into manifest vexation of mind. Such is +the way of young wives. + +There was one love about which Craddock said less than about any of the +others, because it had encroached more upon his life than any of them. +It had nearly approached being a serious affair. He had a delicacy +concerning the mention of it, too, for he flattered himself that the +flame, although entirely extinguished upon his own side, yet smouldered +deep in the heart of the woman. Therefore, he spoke of that episode in +vague and general terms. + +Strange as it seemed to Craddock, clear as it is to any student of men +and women, it was this amour that excited the most curiosity in the mind +of his wife. + +"What was her name?" asked the latter. + +"Agnes Darrell." + +"I don't think she has a pretty name, at all events." + +"Oh, that was only her stage name. I really don't remember what her real +name was." + +This was a judicious falsehood. + +"Well, I'm sorry that you ever made love to actresses. I'm afraid I +can't think as much of you after knowing--" + +"After knowing that the first sight of you drove the memory of all +actresses and other women in the world out of my head," cried Craddock, +with a merry fervour that made his speech irresistible. + +So they persisted in being extremely happy together for three years, to +the grinding chagrin of Craddock's mother-in-law in Boston. + +One July Friday, Craddock's wife was at the seashore, while Craddock, +who ran down each Saturday to remain with her until Monday, was battling +with his work and the heat and the summer insects, in his office in the +city. Mrs. Craddock received her mail, two letters addressed to her at +the seaside, two forwarded from the city whither they had first come. + +Of the latter one was a milliner's announcement of removal. The other +was in a large envelope, and the address was in a chirography unknown to +her. The large envelope contained a smaller one. + +This second envelope was addressed to Miss Agnes Darrell, ---- Hotel, +Chicago, in the handwriting of Craddock. + +The feelings of Craddock's wife are imaginable. She took from this +already opened second envelope the letter that it contained. It also was +in Craddock's penmanship. She succeeded in a semistupefied condition in +reading it to the end. + +"May 13. + +"My Dearest Agnes:--I have just a moment in which to tell you the old +story that one heart, thousands of miles east of you, beats for you +alone. With what joy do I anticipate the early ending of the season, +when, like young Lochinvar, you will come out of the West. I shall +contrive to be with you as often as possible this summer. With renewed +vows of my unalterable devotion, I must hastily say good night. + +"Yours always, + +"Jack." + +Any who seek a new emotion would ask for nothing more than Craddock's +wife then experienced. It was not until the first shock had given away +to a calm, stupendous indignation that she began to comment upon the +epistle in detail. + +"May 13th--at that very time Jack was sighing at the thought of my being +away from him during the hot weather and telling me how he would miss +me. All deception! His heart at that very time was beating for her +alone. And he would contrive to see her as often as possible this +summer--during my absence!" + +It was then that Craddock's wife learned the great value of pride +and anger as a compound antidote to overwhelming grief in certain +circumstances. + +When Craddock, quite unarmed, rushed to meet her at the seashore upon +the next evening, she was en route for Boston. + +In several ensuing years, Craddock's wife's mother took care that every +communication from him, every demand for an explanation, every piteous +plea for enlightenment, for one interview, should be ignored. The mother +sent the girl to relatives in Europe; and after Craddock had spent three +years and all the money that he had saved toward the buying of a house +for his wife and himself, in trying to cross her path that he might have +a moment's hearing, he came back home and went to the dogs. + +He would have killed himself had not hope remained--the hope that some +chance turn of events would bring him face to face with her, that he +might know wherefore his punishment. He would have proudly resolved to +forget her, and he would have striven day and night to make a name that +some day would reach her ears whereever she might go, had he not felt +that some terrible mistake had taken her from him; time would eventually +rectify matters. As hope bade him live and as his inability to forget +her made it impossible for him to put his thoughts upon work, he became +a drunkard. + +He might not have done so had he been you or I; but he was only +Craddock, and whether or not you find his offence beyond the extent of +palliation, the fact is that he drank himself penniless and entirely +beyond the power of his own will to resume respectability. + +Naturally his friends abandoned him. + +"Craddock is making a beast of himself," said one who had formerly sat +at his table. "To give him money merely accelerates the process." + +"When a man loses all self-respect, how can he expect to retain the +sympathy of other people?" queried a second. + +"I never thought much of a man who would go to the gutter on account of +a woman. It shows a lack of stamina," observed a third. + +All of which was true. But particular cases have exceptionally +aggravating circumstances. Special combinations may produce results +which, although seemingly under human control, are almost, if not quite, +inevitable. + +One day Craddock's wife came back to him. In Paris she had made a +discovery. She had kept the letter from Jack to the actress in a box +that always accompanied her. Opening this box suddenly, her eye fell +upon the postmark, stamped upon the envelope. She had never noticed +this before. She knew that the date written above the letter itself was +incomplete, the year not being indicated. According to the postmark, the +year was 1875. + +That was four years before Jack married her; two years before he first +saw her. + +She had always supposed the sending of the letter to her to be the act +of some jealous rival of Jack's for the actress's affection. Now she +knew not to what it might have been attributable. + +When she arrived at the hospital where Craddock was recovering from the +effects of an unconscious attempt at suicide, she was ten years older, +in fact, than when she had left him; twenty years older in appearance. +She took him home and has been trying to make a man of him. She +manifests toward him limitless patience and tenderness, and she +tolerates uncomplainingly his bi-weekly carousals. But she can afford +to, having come into possession of a small fortune at her mother's +recent death. + +Craddock is amiably content with her. He cannot bring himself to regard +her as the beautiful young bride of his youth. So little remains of her +former charm, her former vivacity and girlishness, that it seems as if +Craddock's wife of other times had died. + +A few days ago, I met at the Sheepshead Races a _passe_ actress who was +telling about the conquests of her early career. + +"There was one young fellow awfully infatuated with me," she said, "who +used to write me the sweetest letters. I kept them long after he stopped +caring for me, until he was married; then I destroyed them. I found one +short one, though, in an old handbag some years after, and, just for a +joke I mailed it to his wife at his old address. I don't suppose it ever +reached her, though, or he would have acknowledged it, for the sake of +old times. I wonder whatever became of Jack Craddock. People used to say +he had a bright future--I say, tell that messenger-boy to come here! I'm +going to put five on Tenny for this next race. And you'll lend me the +five, won't you?" + + + + +VI. -- THE NEW SIDE PARTNER + +A chance in life is like worldly greatness--to which, indeed, it is +commonly a requisite preliminary. Some are born with it, some achieve +it, and some have it thrust upon them. + +There is a youth who has had it thrust upon him. What he will do with it +remains to be seen. Know the story, which is true in every detail save +in two proper names: + +The midnight train from New York, which crawls out of the Jersey City +ferry station at 12:25, is usually doleful, especially in the ordinary +cars. One who cannot sleep easily therein has a weary two or three +hours' time to Philadelphia. Almost any equally wakeful companion is +then a source of joy. + +A girl of medium size, wearing a veil, and being rather carelessly +attired in dark clothes which fitted a charming figure, walked jauntily +up the aisle, saw that no seat was entirely vacant, and therefore, after +a hasty glance at me, sat down beside me. + +Had not the two very young men in the seat behind us drunk too much +wine that night in New York, the girl and I might never have exchanged a +word. But the conversation of the youths was such as to cause between us +the intercommunication of smiles, and eventually of speeches. + +Then casual observations about the fulness of the car, the time of the +train, and our respective destinations,--mine being Philadelphia, +hers being Baltimore, led to the revelation that she was a constant +traveller, because she was an actress. She had been a soubrette in +musical farce, but lately she had belonged to a variety and burlesque +company. She had gone upon the stage when she was thirteen, and she was +now twenty. + +"What kind of an act do you do?" I asked, in the language of the variety +"profession." + +"Oh, I can do almost anything," she said, in a tone of a self-possessed, +careless, and vivacious woman. "I sing well enough, and I can dance +anything, a skirt dance, a clog, a Mexican fandango, a Carmencita kind +of step, anything at all. I don't know when I ever learned to dance. I +didn't learn, it just came to me; but the best thing I do is whistling. +I'm not afraid of any man in the business when it's a case of whistling. +There's no fake about my whistle; it's the real thing. I can whistle any +sort of music that goes." + +"Your company appears in Baltimore this week?" + +"Oh, no! I've left the company. You see, I've been off for six weeks on +account of illness, and now I'm going over to Baltimore to my father's +funeral. He is to be buried to-morrow. See, here's the telegram. I've +been having hard lines lately. I've not had any sleep for three days, +and I won't get to Baltimore till daylight. I want to start back to New +York to-morrow night, if I can raise the stuff. I had just enough money +to get a ticket to Baltimore, and now I'm dead broke." + +Then she laughed and got me to untie her veil. When it was removed, I +saw a frank young face with an abundance of soft brown hair. About the +light blue eyes were the marks of fatigue, and the colour of the cheeks +further confirmed her account of loss of sleep. + +Her feet pattered softly upon the floor of the car. + +"I'm doing a single shuffle," she said, in explanation of the movement +of her feet. "If you could do one too, we might do a double." + +"Do you do your act alone on the stage?" I asked, "or are you one of a +team?" + +"We're a team. My side partner's a man. It pays better that way. We +get $40 a week and transportation. I used to get only $12 except when +I stood around and posed, then I got $35 and had to pay my own railroad +fare. You can bet I have a good figure, when I get $35 for that alone! +I handle the money of the team and I divide it even between us. I don't +believe in the man getting nine-tenths of the stuff, do you? Besides, +I'm older than my partner is. I put him in the business." + +"How was that?" + +"Oh, I picked him up on the street in New York. I saw that he had a good +voice and was a bright kid, so I took him for my partner." + +"But tell me how it came about." + +She was quite willing to do so. And the rumbling of the wheels, the rush +of the train over the night-swathed plains of New Jersey, accompanied +her voice. All the other passengers were sleeping. To the following +effect was her narrative: + +At evening a crowd of boys had gathered at the corner of Broadway and +a down-town street. One of them--ragged, unkempt, but handsome--was +singing and dancing for the diversion of the others. That way came the +variety actress, then out of an engagement. She stopped, heard the boy +sing, and saw him dance. She pushed through the crowd to him. + +"How did you learn to dance?" she asked. + +"Didn't ever learn," he said, with impudent sullenness. + +"Who taught you to sing?" + +"None o' yer business." + +"But who did teach you?" + +"Nobody." + +"What's your name?" + +"None of your business." + +"Will you come along with me into the restaurant over there?" + +"No." + +But presently he was induced to go, although he continued to answer her +questions in the savage, distrustful manner of his class. They went into +a cheap eating-house and saloon, through the "Ladies' Entrance," and +while they sat at a table there, she learned by means of resolute and +patient questions that the boy earned his living by blacking shoes now +and then, and that he did not know who his parents were, as he had been +"put" with a family whose ill-usage he had fled from to live in the +street. He began to melt under her manifestations of interest in him, +and with pretended reluctance he gave his promise to wash his face and +hands and to call upon her that evening at the theatrical boarding-house +on Twenty-seventh Street where she was living. Then she left him. + +When he called, she took him to her room and induced him to allow her to +comb his hair. A deal of persuasion was necessary to this. Then she +took him out and bought him a cheap suit of clothes on the Bowery. A +half-hour later he was standing with her in the wings at Miner's Variety +Theatre. A man and woman were doing a song and dance upon the stage. + +"Watch that man," the actress said to the boy of the streets. "I want +you to do that sort of an act with me one of these days." + +When he had thus received his first lesson, she led him back to the +theatrical boarding-house, and in her room he showed her what ability he +had picked up as a singer and dancer. She secured a room for him in the +house, and she had the precaution to lock him in lest he should take +fright at his novel change of surroundings and flee in the night. When +she released him on the next morning she found him docile and cheerful. + +She escorted him into the big dining-room to breakfast. + +"Who's your friend, Lil?" asked a certain actor whose name is known from +Portland to Portland. + +"He's my new side partner," she said, looking at the boy, who was not in +the least abashed at the bold gaze of the negligently dressed soubrettes +and the chaffing comedians who sat at the tables. + +Everybody laughed. "What can he do?" was the general question. + +"Get out there and show them, young one," she said, pointing to the +centre of the dining-room. + +The boy obeyed without timidity. When he had sung and danced, there was +hilarious applause. + +"Good for the kid," said the well-known actor. "What are you going to do +with him, Lil?" + +"I'm going to try to get an engagement for us together in Rose St. +Clair's Burlesque Company." + +"I'll help you," said the actor. "I know Rose. I'll go and see her right +away, and you come there with the kid about 11 o'clock." + +When the girl and her protg arrived at the boarding-house of the fat +manageress they found that the actor had so far kept his promise as to +have inveigled her into a condition of alcoholic amiability. She asked +them what they could do. Each one sang and danced, and the girl, who +also whistled, outlined to the manageress her idea of an "act" in which +the two should appear. There was a hitch when the question of salary +arose. The girl fixed upon $40. Rose thought that amount was too large. +Lil adhered to her terms, and was about to leave without having made +an agreement, when the manageress called her back, and a contract for a +three weeks' engagement was signed at once. + +The period between that day and the beginning of the engagement, +which subsequently opened at Miner's Theatre, was spent by the girl +in coaching her protg. He was a year younger than she, a fact which +tended to increase the influence that she promptly obtained over him. +His sullenness having been overcome, he became a devoted and apt +pupil. Having beheld himself in neat clothes and acquired habits +of cleanliness, he speedily developed into a handsome youth of soft +disposition and good behaviour. + +The new song and dance "team" was successful. The boy quickly gained +applause, and especially did he easily win the liking of such women as +he met or appeared before. A new world was open to him. Naturally he +enjoyed the easy conquests that he made in the curious, careless circle +into which he had been brought. + +He is still having his "fling." But he has been from the first most +obedient and unquestioning to his benefactress. He goes nowhere, does +nothing, without previously obtaining permission from her. + +She is proud of the advancement that he has accomplished already, and +she is determined to make him a conspicuous figure upon the stage. + +What is it that actuates this girl in her endeavour to elevate this boy +in the world? What the mystery that brought to the gamin this guardian +angel in the form of a variety actress who mingles bright sayings with +lack of grammar, who tells Rabelaisian anecdotes in one minute and +philosophizes in slang about the issues of life the next? + +"You're in love with him, aren't you?" I said, as the train plunged on +through the darkness. + +"I don't know whether I am or not. He's just a kid, you know. I suppose +the proper end of such a romance is that we should marry. But then I +wouldn't be married to a man that I couldn't look up to." + +"But women don't invariably love that way. I'm sure you're in love with +the boy. Have you never thought as to whether you were or not?" + +"Have I? I should smile! I thought of it even on the first night, +after I picked him up, when I locked him in his room. But I have always +regarded him in a sort of motherly way, although only a year older. It +seems kind of unnatural for me to love him as a woman loves a man. If he +was only older!" + +"Ah, that wish is sure evidence that you love him!" + +"One thing I do know is that, though he always obeys me, he doesn't care +as much for me as I do for him." + +"How do you know that?" + +"He wouldn't think so much of other girls if he did. He doesn't look +upon me as a woman for him to fall in love with. He regards me as +an older sister. Why, he never even takes a girl to supper after the +performance without asking my permission." + +"And you give it?" + +"Yes; but he never knows how I feel when I do." + +"And how do you feel then?" + +"The first time he asked me, it was like a knife going through me. I +haven't got used to it yet." + +She paused for a time before adding: + +"But, anyhow, he's going to make a name for himself some day. He has it +in him. I'm not the only one that thinks so. I'm trying now to get him +to go to a school of acting, but he thinks variety is good enough for +him. He'll get over that, though." + +She spoke so tenderly and yet so proudly of him, that I could not +without a pang of pity meditate upon the probable outcome of this +attachment, which, according to the logic of realists, will be the boy's +eventual success in life, long after he will have forgotten the hand +that lifted him out of the depth in which he first opened his eyes. + +He knows nothing of his parentage. His benefactress once sought, by +means of Inspector Byrnes's penetrating eye, to pierce the clouds +surrounding his origin, but the inspector smiled at the hopelessness of +the attempt. + +"Where is he now?" I asked. + +"I left him in New York," she said. "I suppose he'll blow in all his +money as soon as he can possibly manage to do so." + +And she laughed and did another "shuffle" with her feet upon the floor +of the car. + + + + +VII. -- THE NEEDY OUTSIDER + +There was animation at the Nocturnal Club at three o'clock in the +morning. The city reporters who had been dropping in since midnight were +now reinforced by telegraph editors, for the country editions of the +big dailies were already being rushed in light wagons over the sounding +stones to the railroad stations. + +The cheery and urbane African--naturally called Delmonico by the +habitus of the Nocturnal Club--found his time crowded in serving +bottled beer, sandwiches, or boiled eggs to the groups around the +tables. + +To a large group in the back room Fetterson related how he had once +missed the last car at the distant extremity of West Philadelphia, and, +failing to find a cab west of Broad Street, had walked fifty blocks +after midnight and had still succeeded in getting his report in the +second edition and thus making a "beat on the town." + +Then spoke up a needy outsider whom Fetterson had brought in at one +o'clock. + +I neglected to mention Fetterson's penchant for queer company. It is +quite right that reporters know policemen, are on chaffing terms with +night cabmen, and have large acquaintance with pugilists and even +with "crooks." But Fetterson picks up the most remarkable and +out-of-the-way--not to speak of out-at-elbows--specimens of mankind, +craft in distress on the sea of humanity. The needy outsider was his +latest acquisition. + +It is enough to say of this destitute acquaintance of Fetterson's that +he was a ragged man needing a shave. In daylight, in the country, you +would have termed him a tramp. Hitherto he had sat in our group in +silence. When he opened his mouth to discourse, it was natural that he +should have a prompt and somewhat curious hearing. + +"Speaking of walking," he said, "I have walked a bit in my time. Mostly, +though, I've rode--on freight-cars. The longest straight tramp I ever +made was from Harrisburg to Philadelphia once when the trains weren't +running. The cold weather made walking unpleasant. But what do you think +of a woman--no tramp woman, either--starting from Pittsburg to walk to +Philadelphia?" + +"Oh, there is a so-called actress who recently walked from San Francisco +to New York," put in some one. + +"Yes, but she took her time, and had all the necessaries of life on the +way. She walked for an advertisement. The woman I speak of walked in +order to get there. She walked because she hadn't the money to pay her +fare. Her husband was with her, to be sure. He was a pal o' mine. +You see, it was a hard winter, years ago, and work was so scarce in +Pittsburg that the husband had to remain idle until the two had begun +to starve. He had some education, and had been an office clerk. At that +time of his life he couldn't have stood manual labour. Still he tried to +get it, for he was willing to do anything to keep a lining to his skin. +If you've never been in his predicament, you can't realize how it is +and you won't believe it possible. But I've known more than one man to +starve because he couldn't get work and wouldn't take public charity. +Starvation was the prospect of this young fellow and his wife. So they +decided to leave Pittsburg and come to Philadelphia, where they thought +it would be easier for the husband to get work. + +"'But how can we get there?' the husband asked. + +"She was a plucky girl and had known hardship, although she was frail to +look at. + +"'Walk,' she replied. + +"And two days later they started." + +The outsider paused and lighted a forbidding-looking pipe. + +When he resumed his narrative he spoke in a lower tone. The +recollections that he called up seemed to stir him within, although he +was calm enough of exterior. + +"I won't describe the experience of my pal on that trip. It was his +first tramp. He knew nothing of the art of vagabondage. Of course they +had to beg. That was tough, although he got used to it and to many +tricks in the trade. They slept in barns and they ate when and where +they could. It cut him to the heart to see his wife in such hunger +and fatigue. But her spirits kept up better than his--or at least they +seemed to. Often he repented of having started upon such a trip. But he +kept that to himself. + +"When the wife did at last give in to the cold, the hunger, and the +weariness, it was to collapse all at once. It happened in the mountain +country. In the evening of a cold, dull day they were trudging along on +the railroad ties, keeping on the west-bound track so they could face +approaching trains and get off the track in time to avoid being run +down. + +"'We'll stop in the town ahead,' the husband said. 'We can get warm in +the station, and you shall have supper if we have to knock at every door +in the town.' + +"And the wife said: + +"'Yes, we'll stop, for I feel, Harry, as if--as if I couldn't--go any +fur--Harry, where are you?' + +"She fell forward on the track. When the man picked her up she was +unconscious. Clasping her in his arms, he set his teeth and fixed his +eyes on the lights of the town ahead and hurried forward. + +"But before he reached the town, he found it was a dead body he was +carrying. + +"You see she had kept up until the very last moment, in the hope of +reaching the town before dark. + +"What the man did, how he felt when he discovered that her heart had +ceased to beat, there in the solitude upon the mountains, with the town +in sight at the foot of the slope in the gathering night, I can leave to +the vivid imaginations of you newspaper men. For four hours he mourned +over her body by the side of the track, and those in the train that +passed could not see him for the darkness. + +"Then my pal took the body in his arms and started up the mountain, for +the track at that point passed through what they call a cut, and the +hills rise steep on each side of it. He had his prejudices against +pauper burial, my pal had, and he shrunk from going to the town and +begging a grave for her. He didn't need a doctor's certificate to tell +him that life had gone for ever from her fragile body. He knew that she +had died of cold and exhaustion. + +"As he turned the base of the hill to begin to descend it, he saw in the +clouded moonlight a deserted railroad tool-house by the track. In front +of it lay a broken, rusty spade. He shouldered this and proceeded up the +mountain. It was a long walk, and he had to stop more than once to rest, +but he got to the top at last. There was a little clearing in the woods +here, where some one had camped. The ruins of a shanty still remained. + +"My pal laid down the body of her who had been his wife, with the dead +face turned toward the sky, which was beginning to be cleared of its +clouds. Then he started to dig. + +"It was a longer job than he had expected it to be, for my pal was tired +and numb. But the grave was made at last, upon the very summit of the +mountain. + +"He lifted up the body of that brave girl, he kissed the cold lips, and +he took off his coat and wrapped it carefully about the head, so that +the face would be protected from the earth. He stooped and laid the body +in the shallow grave, and he knelt down there and prayed. + +"He filled the grave up with earth with the broken spade that he had +used in digging it. All these things required a long time. He didn't +observe how the night was passing, nor that the sky became clear and the +stars shone and the moon crossed the zenith and began to descend in the +west. He didn't notice that the stars began to pale. But he worked on +until he had finished, and then he stopped and prayed again. + +"When he arose, his face was toward the east, and over the distant +hilltops he saw the purple of the dawn." + +The outsider ceased to speak. + +"What then?" + +"That's all. My pal walked down the mountain, jumped upon the first +freight-train that passed, and has been a wanderer on the face of the +earth ever since." + +There were various opinions expressed of this narrative. I quietly asked +the needy outsider as we left the club at sunrise: + +"Will you tell me who your pal was--the man who buried his wife on the +mountain-top?" + +There was contemptuous pity in the outsider's look as it dwelt a moment +upon me before he replied: "The man was myself." + +And then he condescended to borrow a quarter from me. + + + + +VIII. -- TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE + +Tommy McGuffy was growing old. The skin of his attenuated face was so +shrunk and so stretched from wrinkle to wrinkle that it seemed narrowly +to escape breaking. About the pointed chin and the cheekbones it had the +colour of faded brick. + +Old Tommy had become so thin that he dared not venture to the top of the +hill above his native village of Rearward on a windy day. + +His knees bent comically when he walked. + +For some years the villagers had been counting the nephews and nieces to +whom the savings of the old retired dealer in dry-goods would eventually +descend. + +Ten thousand dollars and a house and lot constituted a heritage worth +anticipating in Rearward. + +The innocent old man was not upon terms of intimacy with his prospective +heirs. Having remained unmarried, his only close associates were two +who had been his companions in that remote period which had been his +boyhood. One of these, Jerry Hurley, was a childless widower, a very +estimable and highly respected man who owned two farms. The other, like +himself a bachelor, was Billy Skidmore, the sexton of the church, and, +therefore, the regulator of the town clock upon the steeple. + +There came a great shock to Tommy one day. As old Mrs. Sparks said, +Jerry Hurley, "all sudden-like, just took a notion and died." + +The wealth and standing of Jerry Hurley insured him an imposing funeral. +They laid his body beside that which had once been his wife in Rearward +cemetery. His heirs possessed his farm, and time went on--slowly as it +always does at Rearward. Tommy went frequently to Hurley's grave and +wondered when his heirs would erect a monument to his memory. It is +necessary that your grave be marked with a monument if you would stand +high in that still society that holds eternal assembly beneath the pines +and willows, where only the breezes speak, and they in subdued voices. + +Years passed, and the grave of Tommy's old friend, Jerry, remained +unmarked. Jerry's relatives had postponed the duty so long that they +had grown callous to public opinion. Besides, they had other purposes to +which to apply Jerry's money. It was easy enough to avoid reproach; they +had only to refrain from visiting the graveyard. + +"Jerry never deserved such treatment," Tommy would say to Billy the +sexton, as the two met to talk it over every sunny afternoon. + +"It's an outrage, that's what it is!" Billy would reply, for the +hundredth time. + +It was, in their eyes, an omission almost equal to that of baptism or +that of the funeral service. + +One day, as Tommy was aiding himself along the main street of Rearward +by means of a hickory stick, a frightful thought came to him. He turned +cold. + +What if his own heirs should neglect to mark his own grave? + +"I'll hurry home at once, and put the money for it in a stocking foot," +thought Tommy, and his knees bent more than usually as he accelerated +his pace. + +But as he tied a knot in the stocking, came the fear that even this +money might be misapplied; even his will might be ignored, through +repeated postponement and the law's indifference. + +Who, save old Billy Skidmore, would care whether old Tommy McGuffy's +last resting-place were designated or not? Once let the worms begin +operations upon this antique morsel, what would it matter to Rearward +folks where the banquet was taking place? + +Tommy now underwent a second attack of horror, from which he came +victorious, a gleeful smile momentarily lifting the dimness from his +excessively lachrymal eyes. + +"I'll fix 'em," he said to himself. "I'll go to-day to Ricketts, the +marble-cutter, and order my own tombstone." + +Three months thereafter, Ricketts, the marble-cutter, untied the knot +in the stocking that had been Billy's and deposited the contents in the +local savings-bank. + +In the cemetery stood a monument very lofty and elaborate. Around it was +an iron fence. Within the enclosure there was no grave as yet. + +"Here," said the monument, in deep-cut-letters, but bad English, "lies +all that remains of Thomas McGuffy, born in Rearward, November 11, 1820; +died----. Gone whither the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are +at rest." + +This supplementary information was framed in the words of Tommy's +favourite passage in his favourite hymn. His liking for this was mainly +on account of its tune. + +He had left the date of his death to be inserted by the marble cutter +after its occurrence. + +Rearward folks were amused at sight of the monument, and they ascribed +the placing of it there to the eccentricity of a taciturn old man. + +Tommy seemed to derive much pleasure from visiting his tombstone on +mild days. He spent many hours contemplating it. He would enter the iron +enclosure, lock the gate after him, and sit upon the ground that was +intended some day to cover his body. + +He was a familiar sight to people riding or walking past the +graveyard,--this thin old man leaning upon his cane, contentedly +pondering over the inscription on his own tombstone. + +He undoubtedly found much innocent pleasure in it. + +One afternoon, as he was so engaged, he was assailed by a new +apprehension. + +Suppose that Ricketts, the marble-cutter, should fail to inscribe the +date of his death in the space left vacant for it! + +There was almost no likelihood of such an omission, but there was at +least a possibility of it. + +He glanced across the cemetery to Jerry Hurley's unmarked mound, and +shuddered. + +Then he thought laboriously. + +When he left the cemetery in such time as to avoid a delay of his +evening meal and a consequent outburst of anger on the part of his old +housekeeper, he had taken a resolution. + +"Threescore years and ten, says the Bible," he muttered to himself as he +walked homeward. "The scriptural lifetime'll do for me." + +A week thereafter old Tommy gazed proudly upon the finished inscription. + +"Died November 11, 1890," was the newest bit of biography there +engraved. + +"But it's two years and more till November 11, 1890," said a voice at +his side. + +Tommy merely cast an indifferent look upon the speaker and walked off +without a word. + +The whole village now thought that Tommy had become a monomaniac upon +the subject of his tombstone. Perhaps he had. No one has been able +to learn from his friend, Billy Skidmore, what thoughts he may have +communicated to the latter upon the matter. + +Tommy now lived for no other apparent purpose than to visit his +tombstone daily. He no longer confined his walks thither to the pleasant +days. He went in weather most perilous to so old and frail a man. + +One of his prospective heirs took sufficient interest in him to advise +more care of his health. + +"I can easily keep alive till the time comes," returned the antique; +"there's only a year left." + +Rapidly his hold upon life relaxed. A week before November 11, 1890, he +went to bed and stayed there. People began to speculate as to whether +his unique prediction--or I should say, his decree--would be fulfilled +to the very day. + +Upon the fifth day of his illness Death threatened to come before the +time that had been set for receiving him. + +"Isn't this the tenth?" the old man mumbled. + +"No," said his housekeeper, who with one of his nieces, the doctor, and +Billy Skidmore, attended the ill man, "it's only the 9th." + +"Then I must fight for two days more; the tombstone must not lie." + +And he rallied so well that it seemed as if the tombstone would lie, +nevertheless, for Tommy was still alive at eleven-thirty on the night +of November 11. Moreover he had been in his senses when last awake, and +there was every likelihood that he would look at the clock whenever his +eyes should next open. + +"He can't live till morning, that's sure," said the doctor. + +"But, good Lord! you don't mean to say that he'll hold out till after +twelve o'clock," said Billy Skidmore, whose anxiety only had sustained +him in his grief at the approaching dissolution of his friend. + +"Quite probably," replied the doctor. + +"Good heavens! Tommy won't rest easy in his grave if he don't die on the +11th. The monument will be wrong." + +"Oh, that won't matter," said the niece. + +Billy looked at her in amazement. Was his old friend's sacred wish to +miscarry thus? + +"Yes, 'twill matter," he said, in a loud whisper. "And if time won't +wait for Tommy of its own accord, we'll make it. When did he last see +the clock?" + +"Half-past nine," said the housekeeper. + +"Then we'll turn it back to ten," said Skidmore, acting as he spoke. + +"But he may hear the town clock strike." + +Billy said never a word, but plunged into his overcoat, threw on his +hat, and hurried on into the cold night. + +"Ten minutes to midnight," he said, as he looked up at the town clock +upon the church steeple. "Can I skin up them ladders in time?" + +Tommy awoke once before the last slumber. Billy was by his bedside, +as were the doctor, the housekeeper, and the niece. The old man's eyes +sought the clock. + +"Eleven," he murmured. Then he was silent, for the town clock had begun +to strike. He counted the strokes--eleven. Then he smiled and tried to +speak again. + +"Almost--live out--birthday--seventy--tombstone--all right." + +He closed his eyes, and, inasmuch as the town clock furnishes the +official time for Rearward, the published report of Tommy McGuffy's +going records that he passed at twenty-five minutes after eleven P.M., +November 11, 1890. + +Very few people know that time turned back one hour and a half in order +that the reputation of Tommy McGuffy's tombstone for veracity might be +spotless in the eyes of future generations. + +Billy Skidmore, the sexton, arranged to have Rearward time ready for the +sun when it rose upon the following morning. + + + + +IX. -- HE BELIEVED THEM + +He was a bachelor, and he owned a little tobacco store in the suburbs. +All the labour, manual and mental, requisite to the continuance of the +establishment, however, was done by the ex-newsboy, to whom the old +soldier paid $4 per week and allowed free tobacco. + +He had come into the neighbourhood from the interior of the state +shortly after the war, and for a time there were not ten houses within +a block of his shop. The shop is now the one architectural blemish in a +long row of handsome stores. Miles of streets have been built up around +it. + +The old soldier used to sit in an antique armchair in the rear of his +shop, smoking, from meal to meal. + +"I l'arnt the habit in the army," he would say. "I never teched tobacker +till I went to the war." + +People would look inquiringly at his empty sleeve. + +"I got that at Gettysburg in the second day's fight," he would explain, +complacently. + +He was often asked whether he was a member of the Grand Army of the +Republic. + +"No; 'tain't worth while. I done my fightin' in '63 and '64--them times. +I don't care about doin' it over again in talk. Talk's cheap." + +This made folks smile, for he was continually fighting his battles over +again in conversation. Every regular customer had been made acquainted +with the part that he had taken in each contest, where he had stood when +he received his wound, what regiment had the honour of possessing him, +and how promptly he had enlisted against the wishes of parents and +sweetheart. + +"Of course you get a pension," many would observe. + +He would shake his head and answer, in a mild tone of a man consciously +repressing a pardonable pride. + +"I never 'plied, and as long as the retail tobacker trade keeps up like +this, I reckon I won't make no pull on the gover'ment treash'ry." + +And he would puff at his cigar vigorously, beam upon the group +that surrounded his chair, and start on one of his long trains of +reminiscences. + +He was an amiable old fellow, with gray hair carefully combed back from +his curved forehead, a florid countenance, boyish blue eyes, puffed +cheeks, a smooth chin, and very military-looking gray moustache. He was +manifestly a man who ate ample dinners and amply digested them. He would +glance contentedly downward at his broad, round body, and smilingly +remark: + +"I didn't have that girth in my fightin' days. I got it after the war +was over." + +All who knew him admired him. He would tell with simple frankness how, +after distinguishing himself at Antietam, he chose to remain a private +rather than take the lieutenancy that was placed within his reach. He +would frequently say: + +"I ain't none o' them that thinks the country belongs to the soldiers +because they saved it. No, sir! If they want the country as a reward, +where's the credit in savin' it?" + +How could one help exclaiming: "What a really noble old man!" + +Finally some of the young men who received daily inspiration from his +autobiographical narratives arranged a surprise for the old soldier. +They presented him with a finely framed picture of the battle of +Gettysburg, under which was the inscription: + +"To a True Patriot. Who Fought and Suffered Not for Self-Interest or +Glory, but for Love of His Country." + +This hung in his shop until the day of his death. Then his brother came +from his native village to attend to his burial. The brother stared at +the picture, inquired as to the meaning of the inscription, and then +laughed vociferously. + +In the old soldier's trunk was found a faded newspaper that had been +published in his village in 1865. It contained an account of an accident +by which a grocer's clerk had lost his arm in a thrashing-machine. The +grocer's clerk and the old soldier were one person. + +He had never seen a battle, but so often had he told his war stories +that in his last days he believed them. + + + + +X. -- A VAGRANT + +On a July evening at dusk, two boys sat near the crest of a grass-grown +embankment by the railroad at the western side of a Pennsylvania town. +They talked in low tones of the sky's glow above where the sun had set +beyond the low hills across the river, and also of the stars, and of the +moon, which was over the housetop behind them. Then there was noise of +insects chirping in the grass and of steam escaping from the locomotive +boilers in the engine shed. + +A rumble sounded as from the north, and in that direction a locomotive +headlight came into view. It neared as the rumble grew louder, and +soon a freight-train appeared. This rolled past at the foot of the +embankment. + +From between two grain cars leaped a man, and after him another. So +rapidly was the train moving that they seemed to be hurled from it. +Both alighted upon their feet. One tall and lithe, led the way up the +embankment, followed by the other, who was short and stocky. + +"Bums," whispered one of the boys at the top of the embankment. + +The tramps stood still when they reached the top. Even in the half-light +it could be seen that their clothes were ill-fitting, frayed, and torn. +They wore cast-off hats. The tall man, whose face was clean-cut and +made a pretence of being smooth-shaven, had a pliable one; the other was +capped by a dented derby. + +"Here's yer town at last! And it looks like a very jay place at that," +said the short tramp to the tall one, casting his eyes toward the house +roofs eastward. + +The boys sitting twenty feet away became silent and cautiously watched +the newcomers. + +"Yep," replied the tall tramp, in a deep but serious and quiet voice, +"and right about here is the spot where I jumped on a freight-train +fifteen years ago, the night I ran away from home. That seems like +yesterday, though I've not been here since." + +"Skipped a good home because the old lady brought you a new dad! You +wouldn't catch me being run out by no stepfather. Billy, you was rash." + +"Mebby I was. But, on the dead, Pete, it was mostly jealousy. I thought +my mother couldn't care for me any more if she could take a second +husband. My sister thought so too, but she wasn't able to get away like +me. Of course I was strong. It was boyish pique that drove me away. I +didn't fancy having another man in my dead father's place, either. And +I wanted to get around and see the world a bit. After I'd gone I often +wished I hadn't. I'd never imagined how much I loved mother and sis. +But I was tougher and prouder in some ways than most kids. You can't +understand that sort of thing, Pete. And you can't guess how I feel, +bein' back here for the first time in fifteen years. Think of it, I was +just fifteen when I came away. Why, I spent half my life here, Petie!" + +"Oh, I've read somewhere about that,--the way great men feel when they +visit their native town." + +The short tramp took a clay pipe from his coat pocket and stuffed into +it a cigar-end fished from another pocket. Then he inquired: + +"And now you're here, Billy, what are you go'n to do?" + +"Only ask around what's become o' my folks, then go away. It won't take +me long." + +"There'll be a through coal-train along in about an hour, 'cordin' to +what the flagmen told us at that last town. Will you be back in time to +bounce that?" + +"Yes. We needn't stay here. There's little to be picked up in a place +like this." + +"Then skin along and make your investigations. I'll sit here and smoke +till you come back. If you could pinch a bit of bread and meat, by the +way, it wouldn't hurt." + +"I'll try," answered the tall tramp. "I'm goin' to ask the kids yonder, +first, if any o' my people still live here." + +The tall tramp strode over to the two boys. His companion shambled down +the embankment to obtain, at the turntable near the locomotive shed +across the railroad, a red-hot cinder with which to light his pipe. + +"Do you youngsters know people here by the name of Kershaw?" began the +tall tramp, standing beside the two boys. + +Both remained sitting on the grass. One shook his head. The other said, +"No." + +The tramp was silent for a moment. Then it occurred to him that his +mother had taken his stepfather's name and his sister might be married. +Therefore he asked: + +"How about a family named Coates?" + +"None here," replied one of the boys. + +But the other said, "Coates? That's the name of Tommy Hackett's +grandmother." + +The tramp drew and expelled a quick, audible breath. + +"Then," he said, "this Mrs. Coates must be the mother of Tommy's mother. +Do you know what Tommy's mother's first name is?" + +"I heard Tom call her Alice once." + +The tramp's eyes glistened. + +"And Mr. Coates?" he inquired. + +"Oh, I never heard of him. I guess he died long ago." + +"And Tommy Hackett's father, who's he?" + +"He's the boss down at the freight station. Agent, I think they call +him." + +"Where does this Mrs. Coates live?" + +"She lives with the Hacketts. Would you like to see the house? Me and +Dick has to go past it on the way home. We'll show you." + +"Yes, I would like to see the house." + +The boys arose, one of them rather sleepily. They led the way across the +railway company's lot, then along a sparsely built up street, and around +the corner into a more populous but quiet highway. At the corner was a +grocery and dry-goods store; beyond that were neat and airy two-story +houses, fronted by a yard closed in by iron fences. One of these houses +had a little piazza, on which sat two children. From the open half-door +and from two windows came light. + +"That's Hackett's house," said one of the boys. + +"Thanks, very much," replied the tramp, continuing to walk with them. + +The boys looked surprised at his not stopping at the house, but they +said nothing. + +At the next corner the tramp spoke up: + +"I think I'll go back now. Good night, youngsters." + +The boys trudged on, and the tramp retraced his steps. When he reached +the Hacketts' house, he paused at the gate. The children, a boy of eight +and a girl of six, looked at him curiously from the piazza. + +"Are you Mr. Hackett's little boy and girl?" he asked. + +The girl stepped back to the hall door and stood there. The boy looked +up at the tramp and answered, "Yes, sir." + +"Is your mother in?" + +"No, she's across the street at Mrs. Johnson's." + +"Grandmother's in, though," continued the boy. "Would you like to see +her?" + +"No, no! Don't call her. I just wanted to see your mother." + +"Do you know mamma?" inquired the girl. + +"Well--no. I knew her brother, your uncle." + +"We haven't any uncle--except Uncle George, and he's papa's brother," +said the boy. + +"What! Not an uncle Will--Uncle Will Kershaw?" + +"O--h, yes," assented the boy. "Did you know him before he died? That +was a long time ago." + +The tramp made no other outward manifestation of his surprise than to +be silent and motionless for a time. Presently he said, in a trembling +voice: + +"Yes, before he died. Do you remember when he died?" + +"Oh, no. That was when mamma was a girl. She and grandmother often talk +about it, though. Uncle Will started West, you know, when he was fifteen +years old. He was standing on a bridge out near Pittsburg one day, and +he saw a little girl fall into the river. He jumped in to save her, but +he was drowned, 'cause his head hit a stone and that stunned him. They +didn't know it was Uncle Will or who it was, at first, but mamma read +about it in the papers and Grandpa Coates went out to see if it wasn't +Uncle Will. Grandpa 'dentified him and they brought him back here, but, +what do you think, the doctor wouldn't allow them to open his coffin, +and so grandma and mamma couldn't see him. He's buried up in the +graveyard next Grandpa Kershaw, and there's a little monument there that +tells all about how he died trying to save a little girl from drownin'. +I can read it, but Mamie can't. She's my little sister there." + +The tramp had seated himself on the piazza step. He was looking vacantly +before him. He remained so until the boy, frightened at his silence, +moved further from him, toward the door. Then the tramp arose suddenly. + +"Well," he said, huskily, "I won't wait to see your mamma. You needn't +tell her about me bein' here. But, say--could I just get a look at--at +your grandma, without her knowing anythin about it?" + +The boy took his sister's hand and withdrew into the doorway. Then he +said, "Why, of course. You can see her through the window." + +The tramp stood against the edge of the piazza upon his toes, and craned +his neck to see through one of the lighted windows. So he remained +for several seconds. Once during that time he closed his eyes, and the +muscles of his face contracted. Then he opened his eyes again. They were +moist. + +He could see a gentle old lady, with smooth gray hair, and an expression +of calm and not unhappy melancholy. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, +her hands resting on the arms, her look fixed unconsciously on the paper +on the wall. She was thinking, and evidently her thoughts, though sad, +perhaps, were not keenly painful. + +The tramp read that much upon her face. Presently, without a word, he +turned quickly about and hurried away, closing the gate after him. + +When the two children told about their visitor later, their mother said: + +"You mustn't talk to strange men, Tommy. You and Mamie should have come +right in to grandma." + +Their father said: "He was probably looking for a chance to steal +something. I'll let the dog out in the yard to-night." + +And their grandmother: "I suppose he was only a man who likes to hear +children talk, and perhaps, poor fellow, he has no little ones of his +own." + +The tramp knew the way to the cemetery. But first he found the +house where he had lived as a boy. It looked painfully rickety and +surprisingly small. So he hastened from before it and went up by a +back street across the town creek and up a hill, where at last he stood +before the cemetery gate. It was locked; so he climbed over the wall. He +went still further up the hill, past tombstones that looked very white, +and trees that looked very green in the moonlight. At the top of the +hill he found his father's grave. Beside it was another mound, and at +the head of this, a plain little pillar. The moon was high now and the +tramp was used to seeing in the night. Word by word he could slowly read +upon the marble this inscription: + +"William Albert, beloved son of the late Thomas Kershaw and his wife +Rachel; born in Brickville, August 2, 1862; drowned in the Allegheny +River near Pittsburg, July 27, 1877, while heroically endeavouring to +save the life of a child." + +The tramp laughed, and then uttered a sigh. + +"I wonder," he said, aloud, "what poor bloke it is that's doin' duty for +me under the ground here." + +And at the thought that he owed an excellent posthumous reputation to +the unknown who had happened to resemble him fifteen years before, he +laughed louder. Having no one near to share his mirth, he looked up at +the amiable moon, and nodded knowingly thereat, as if to say: + +"This is a fine joke we're enjoying between ourselves, isn't it?" + +And by and by he remembered that he was being waited for, and he strode +from the grave and from the cemetery. + +By the railroad the short tramp, having smoked all the refuse tobacco in +his possession, was growing impatient. Already the expected coal-train +had heralded its advent by whistle and puff and roar when his associate +had joined him. + +"Found out all you wanted to know?" queried the stout little vagabond, +starting down the embankment to mount the train. + +"Yep," answered the tall vagrant, contentedly. + +The small man grasped the iron rod attached to the side of one of the +moving coal-cars and swung his foot into the iron stirrup beneath. His +companion mounted the next car in the same way. + +"Are you all right, Kersh?" shouted back the small tramp, standing safe +above the "bumpers." + +"All right," replied the tall tramp, climbing upon the end of a car. +"But don't ever call me Kersh any more. After this I'm always Bill +the Bum. Bill Kershaw's dead--" and he added to himself, "and decently +buried on the hill over there under the moon." + + + + +XI. -- UNDER AN AWNING + +For ten minutes we had been standing under the awning, driven there at +two o'clock at night by a shower that had arisen suddenly. + +"A pocket umbrella is one of the unsupplied necessities of the age," +said my companion. + +"Yes, and the peculiarity of the age is that while such luxuries as +the phonograph and the kinetograph multiply day by day, important +necessities remain unsupplied." + +My friend mused for a time, while he watched the reflection of the +electric light in the little street pools that were agitated by the +falling fine drops of rain. + +He looked from the reflection to the light itself, and thus his eyes +turned upward. + +An expression of surprise changed to mirth, and then dropping his glance +until it met mine, he said: + +"Have you noticed anything peculiar about this awning?" + +"No, what is it?" + +"Simply that there is no awning. Look up and see. Here are the posts +and there is the framework, but only the sky is above, and we've been +getting rained upon for the past ten minutes in blissful ignorance." + +It was as he said, so we ran to the next awning, which was a fact, not a +figment of fancy. + +"That reminds me," resumed my friend, "of Simpkins. He was a young man +who used to catch cold at the slightest dampness. His being out in the +rain without an umbrella never failed to result in his remaining in the +house for two or three subsequent days. + +"One night, Simpkins, surprised by an unexpected shower, took refuge +beneath the framework of an awning, which framework lacked the awning +itself. He waited for an hour, until the shower had passed, and then +joyously took up again his homeward way, without having observed his +mistake. He told me on the next day of his narrow escape from the rain. +I happened to know that the awning to which he alluded had been removed +a few weeks before. But I did not tell him so until there no longer +seemed to exist any likelihood of his catching cold from that wetting. +You see, his imagination had saved him." + +"That tale is singularly reminiscent of those dear old stories about the +man who took cold through sitting at a window that was composed of one +solid sheet of glass, so clean that he thought it was no glass at all; +and the men who, awaking in the night, stifling for want of fresh air, +broke open the door of a bookcase which they took to be a window, and +immediately noticed a pleasant draught of pure outside air." + +"There is a likeness, which simply goes toward proving the truth of all +three accounts. But the remarkable thing about Simpkins' case is that +when he once learned that there had been nothing over his head during +that rain, he immediately caught cold, although two weeks had passed +since the night of the shower. Wonderful, wasn't it?" + +"Astonishing, indeed." + +Silence ensued and we meditated for awhile. Evidently the same thought +came simultaneously into the minds of both of us, for while I was +mentally commenting upon the deserted and lonely condition of the city +streets at two o'clock on a rainy night, my friend spoke: + +"A man is alone with his conscience, the electric lights, the shadows +of the houses, and the sound of the rain at a time and place like this, +isn't he? Standing as we stand now, under an awning, during a persistent +rainfall, at this hour, with no other human being in sight, a man is for +the time upon a desert island. Which reminds me: + +"One night, at a later hour than this, when the rain was heavier than +this, I was alone under an awning that was smaller than this. Being +without umbrella and overcoat, I saw at least a quarter of an hour +waiting for me. The thought was dismal. + +"Happy idea! I would smoke. I had a cigar in my mouth in an instant. + +"Horrors! I had no matches. + +"The desire to smoke instantly increased tenfold. I puffed despairingly +at my unlit cigar. No miracle occurred to ignite it. I looked longingly +at the electric lights and the gas-lamps in the distance. + +"Like a sailor cast upon an island and straining his eyes on the lookout +for a ship, I stood there scanning the prospect in search of a man with +a light. I was Enoch Arden; the awning was my palm-tree. + +"Ten minutes passed. No craft hove in sight. + +"Suddenly uncertain footsteps were heard. I looked. Some one came +that way. It was a squalid-looking personage--a professional beggar, +half-drunk. He landed upon my island, beneath my awning. + +"'For charity's sake, give me a match!' I cried. + +"He looked at me--'sized me up,' in the technical terminology of his +trade. Intelligence began to illumine his countenance. He saw that the +opportunity of his life had come. He held out a match. + +"'I'll sell it to you for fifty cents,' he said, with a grin. + +"I had erred in revealing the depth of my want, the extent of my +distress. + +"I compromised by promising to give him a half-dollar if I should +succeed in lighting my cigar with his solitary match. We did succeed. He +took the fifty and started back for the saloon from whence he had come. + +"Oh, my boy, the irony of fate--that same old oft-quoted irony! + +"I hadn't blown three mouthfuls of smoke from that cigar when a friend +came along with a lighted cigar, an umbrella, and a box full of matches. + +"The whole effect of this story lies in the value that fifty cents +possessed for me at that time. It was my last fifty cents, and two days +stood between that night and salary day. + +"I had another experience--" + +But a night car came in view from around a corner, my friend ran for it, +and his third tale remains untold. + + + + +XII. -- SHANDY'S REVENGE + +He was old enough to know better, and a superficial observer might have +thought that he did. But a severe and haughty manner in repose is not +any indication of knowledge, nor is a well-kept beard, even when it is +turning gray. Melrose Welty, the possessor of these and other ways and +features symbolical of wisdom, had no higher occupation in life than +to sit in club-houses and cafs, telling of conquests won by him over +women, chiefly over soubrettes and chorus girls. + +Of his means of livelihood, no one had certain knowledge. He always +dressed well, but he abode in a lodging-house, to which he never invited +any of his associates. He affected the society of newspaper men, some of +whom pronounced him a good fellow until they discovered that he was an +ass; and he never refused an invitation to have a drink. + +When he had you at a table in a quiet corner of a caf, or in front of +a bar, or in the lobby of a theatre between the acts, no matter how the +conversation began, he would invariably turn it into that realm to which +his thoughts were confined. + +"I've got a supper on hand to-night after the performance," he would +probably say, "with a blonde in the ---- Company. A lovely girl, too! +It's curious, old man, how I happened to meet her. I've talked to her +only twice, but I made a hit with her in the first five minutes. I'll +tell you how it was--" + +Whereupon, if you were polite, and did not know Welty sufficiently to +flee on a pretext, he would tell you how it was, inflicting upon you the +wearisome minute details of the most commonplace thing in the world, the +birth and growth of an acquaintance between a man about town and a silly +young woman, not fastidious as to who pays for her food and drink as +long as the food and drink are adequate. + +If you were a newspaper man, Welty was apt to supplement his story with +something like this: + +"By the way, old fellow, if you have any pull with your dramatic editor, +can't you give her a line or two? She hasn't much to do in the piece, +but she does it well, and she's clever. She may get a good part one of +these days. Have something nice said about her, won't you?" + +And if you ever gave another thought to this plea, you determined to use +whatever influence you had with the dramatic editor to this effect, that +the young woman would have to exhibit very decided cleverness indeed ere +she should have "something nice" said about her in the paper. + +Welty was not wont to retain one divinity on the altar of his +conversation longer than a week. But he did so once. He talked about the +same girl every day for a month. And thereby came his undoing. + +She was a slender little girl who was singing badly a small rle in a +certain comic opera at the time of these occurrences. She had a babyish +manner across the footlights, and she was thought to be a blonde, for +she was wearing a yellow wig over her own short black hair that season. +Her first name was Emily. + +Welty managed to be introduced to her by thrusting himself upon a little +party of which she was a member, and in which was one acquaintance of +his, at a restaurant one night. He called upon her at her boarding house +the next day, where she received him with some surprise, and left most +of the conversation to him. When he visited there again, she caused him +to be told that she was out, and this took place a half dozen times. +Their real acquaintance never went any further, but an imaginary +acquaintance between them, growing from Welty's wish, made great +progress in his fancy and in the stories told by him at his club to +groups of men, some of whom doubted and looked bored, while others +believed and grinned and envied. + +It was at the point where Emily had quite forgotten Welty, and Welty's +stories portrayed her as recklessly adoring him and seeking him in cabs +at all hours, that Barry McGettigan, a despised young reporter, "doing +police," heard one of Welty's accounts of an alleged interview with +Emily; and Barry, who had a way of knowing human nature and observing +people, suspected. + +Now Barry cherished a deep-rooted grudge against Welty, all the more +dangerous because Welty was unaware of it. Its exact cause has never +been torn from Barry's breast. Some have ascribed it to Welty's having +mimicked Barry's brogue before a crowd in a saloon one night. Others +have laid it to the following passage of words, which is now a part of +the ancient history of the Nocturnal Club. + +"Spakin' of ancestors," Barry began, "I'd loike to bet--" + +"I'd like to bet," broke in Welty, "that your own ancestry leads +directly to the Shandy family." + +There was a general laugh, which Barry, whose nose was as flat as +any Shandy's could have been but who had never read Sterne, did not +understand. + +"What did he mane?" Barry asked a friend. The friend told him to read +"Tristram Shandy." He spent two hours in a public library next day and +learned how his facial peculiarity had been used by Welty to create a +laugh and incidentally to insult him. + +This he never forgave. And he bided his time. + +Now, having heard Welty boast of being the object of this Emily's +infatuation, Barry McGettigan deflected his mind from the contemplation +of murders, infanticides, fires, and other matters of general interest, +and gave his best thoughts and skill to investigating this talked-of +love affair of Welty's. + +He discovered the true situation within three days. He found that Emily +was engaged to be married to a college football player who came to the +city once a week to see her. + +He borrowed money, made himself very agreeable to Welty, and also got +himself introduced to the football player. The latter was a tall, lithe, +heavy-shouldered, brown-faced, thick-knuckled youth, who practiced all +kinds of athletic diversions. + +Barry McGettigan sounded the football man in one brief interview one +night, between the acts of the comic opera, at the saloon next door. He +found a means of fastening himself upon the football player's esteem. +The collegian expressed a mild desire to see something of police-station +life. Barry invited him to spend an evening with him on duty at Central +Station. The collegian accepted. Barry appointed a time and named a +certain caf as a meeting place. + +Then Barry invited Welty to dine with him at the same caf on the +same evening at the same hour. By means of his borrowed money, he had +lavished costly drinks upon Welty of late, and Welty had reason to +anticipate a dinner worth the accepting. Barry told Welty nothing of the +collegian and he told the collegian nothing more of Welty. + +When the evening came, Barry found Welty awaiting him at the caf. The +two sat down at a table. The preliminary cocktail had only arrived when +in walked the collegian. Barry saluted him as if the meeting had only +occurred by chance. He made the collegian and Welty known to each other +by name only. And then he ordered dinner. + +When a bottle had been drunk, Barry innocently turned the current of the +conversation to women. He spoke modestly of a mythical conquest he +had recently made. The football player listened without showing much +interest. Presently Barry paused. + +Welty took a drink and began: + +"No, my boy," said he to Barry, "you're wrong there. It's like you +youngsters to think you know all about the sex, but the older you grow +the less you think you know about them, until you get to my age." + +Barry made no answer, but looked at Welty with becoming deference. + +The football man's eyes were wandering about the caf, showing him to be +indifferent to the theme of discussion. + +"I know," continued Welty, "that many more or less writers have said, +as you say, that women must be sought and pursued to be won. They deduce +that theory from the habits of lower animals and of barbarous nations, +in which the man obtains the woman by chase and force. But it's all +a theory, and simply shows that the learned writers study their books +instead of their fellow men and women." + +The collegian looked restless, as if the conversation had gotten beyond +his depth. + +Barry remained silent, and with a flattering aspect of great interest in +Welty's observations. + +"Now," went on Welty, striking the table with the bottom of his glass, +"I've had a little experience of this sort of thing in my time, and +I can say that in nine cases out of ten, once you've attracted the +attention of your game, let it alone and it will chase you. That's how +to win women." + +The collegian looked bored. + +"Just to illustrate," said Welty, "I'll tell of a little conquest of my +own. I use it because it is the first that comes to my mind, not that +I'm given to bragging about my success in these matters. I suppose +you've seen the opera at the ---- Theatre?" + +The collegian ceased looking bored. Barry McGettigan sat perfectly, +unnaturally still. + +"And," pursued Welty, "you've doubtless noticed the three girls who +appear as the queen's maids of honour?" + +The collegian looked somewhat concerned. Barry stopped breathing. + +"Well," continued Welty, "you mayn't believe it, for we've kept it +really quiet, one of them girls is really dead gone on me." + +The collegian opened his mouth wide, and Barry began to nervously tap +his hand upon the table. + +"It's the one," said Welty, "who wears the big blond wig. Her name's +Emi--" + +There was the noise of upsetting plates, bottles, and glasses, of +a man's feet rapping up against the bottom of a table and his head +thumping down against the floor. There was the sight of an agile youth +leaping across an overturned table and alighting with one foot at each +side of the prostrate form of an astonished man, whose gray whiskers +were spattered with blood. There was the quick gathering of a crowd, an +excited explanation on the part of the collegian, a slow recovery on +the part of the man on the floor, and Barry McGettigan's vengeance was +complete. + +For, by one of those incredible coincidences that have the semblance of +fatality, the football player's fist had reduced Melrose Welty's nose to +a flatness which the nose of no imaginable Shandy ever has surpassed. + + + + +XIII. -- THE WHISTLE + +She was the wife of a railway locomotive engineer, and the two lived +in the newly built house to which he had taken her as a bride a year +before. + +Many other people in the country railroad town used to laugh at a thing +which she had once said to a gossiping neighbour: + +"I can tell the sound of the whistle on Tom's engine from all other +whistles. Every afternoon when his train gets to the crossing at the +planing-mill, I hear that whistle, and then I know it's time to get +Tom's supper." + +The gossips found something humourous in the fact that the engineer's +wife recognized the whistle of her husband's engine and knew by it when +to begin to prepare his supper. So are the small manifestations of love +and devotion regarded by coarse minds. You frequently observe this in +the conduct of certain people at the theatre when tender sentiments are +uttered upon the stage. + +Perhaps the men were envious of the engineer. He had a prettier wife, +they said, when he was not present, than was deserved by a mere freight +engineer, very recently elevated from the post of fireman. Perhaps, +also, the petty malevolence of the women was due to the wife's superior +comeliness. Be that as it may, each afternoon at half-past four or +thereabouts, when Tom's whistle was blown at the crossing by the +planing-mill, loungers in the grocery store and wives in their kitchens +smiled knowingly and said: + +"Time to begin to get Tom's supper, now." + +But the engineer was careless and his wife was disdainful of their +neighbours. She loved the sound of that whistle. In the earliest days of +their married life it even sent the crimson to her cheeks. The engineer +could make it as expressive as music. It began like a sudden glad cry; +it died away lingeringly, tenderly. Virtually it said to one pair of +ears: + +"My darling, I have come back to you." + +Whenever the engineer pulled the rope for that particular signal, he +pictured his wife arising from her work-basket in their little parlour +with a thrill of pleasure and affection, and passing out to the kitchen. + +She, likewise, at the signal, made a mental image of Tom, seated in the +engine cab, his one hand fixed upon the shining lever, his eyes fixed +upon the glistening tracks ahead. + +At six o'clock, usually, supper was hot, and Tom arrived through +the front gateway, glancing at the flower-bed in the centre of the +diminutive grass plot, carrying his dinner-pail, having divested himself +of his grimy, greasy blouse and overalls at the great repair shops, +where his engine had already begun, with much panting, to spend the +night. + +In a small railroad town on the main line, one is continually hearing +locomotive whistles. All the inhabitants know that one long moan of +the steam is the signal of the train's swift approach; that two short +shrieks of the whistle direct the trainmen to tighten the brakes; that +four, given when the train is still, are intended for the flagman, who +has gone away to the rear to warn back the next train, and that they +tell him to return to his own train as it is about to start; that +five whistles in succession announce a wreck and command the immediate +attendance of the wreck crew. + +In the town many cheeks blanch when those five long, ominous wails of +the escaping steam cleave the air. A husband, a son, a father who has +gone forth blithely in the morning, with his dinner-pail full, may be +brought out of the wreck, mangled or dead. And until complete details +are known there is a tremor in the whole community. Some hearts beat +faster, others seem to stand still. People speak in hushed tones. + +One afternoon, the engineer's wife, observing the altitude of the sun, +looked at the clock and saw that the time was a few minutes before five. + +Tom's whistle had not yet blown. + +At five-fifteen came the sound of another whistle. It was prolonged and +then repeated. The engineer's wife stood still and counted. + +Five! + +The most docile and apparently cheerful patient in the ---- Asylum for +the Insane is a widow, still young, who spends the greater time of each +day sewing and humming tunes softly to herself. Every afternoon at +about half-past four she assumes a listening attitude, suddenly hears +an inaudible whistle, smiles tenderly, starts up and places invisible +dishes and impalpable viands upon an imaginary table, and then loses +herself in a reverie which ends in slumber. + +No striking clock is allowed within her hearing. It was long ago noticed +that the stroke of five or any series of five similar sounds would cause +her to moan piteously. + +The people afar in the country town do not laugh now when they talk +of Tom and the whistle which was shrieking madly as he and his engine +plunged down the bank together on that day when the huge boulder rolled +from the hillside stone quarry and lay upon the tracks, just on this +side of the curve above the town. + + + + +XIV. -- WHISKERS + +The facts about the man we called "Whiskers" linger in my mind, asking +to be recorded, and though they do not make much of a story, I am +tempted to unburden myself by putting them on paper. It was mentally +noted as a sure thing by everybody who saw him go into the managing +editor's room, to ask for a position on the staff of the paper, that if +he should obtain a place and become a fixture in the office, he would +be generally known as Whiskers within twenty-four hours after his +instalment. + +What tale he told the managing editor no one knew, but every one in the +editorial rooms deduced later that it must have been something a trifle +out of the common, for the managing editor, who had gone through the +form of taking the names of three previous applicants that afternoon and +telling them that he would let them know when a vacancy should occur on +the staff, told the man whom we eventually christened Whiskers that he +might come around the next day and write whatever he might choose to in +the way of Sunday "specials," comic verses, or editorial paragraphs, on +the chance of their being accepted. + +The next day the hairy-faced man took possession of a desk in the room +occupied by the exchange editor and one of the editorial writers, and +began to grind out "copy." + +He was a slim, figure, with what is commonly denominated a "slight +stoop." His trousers were none too long for his thin legs, his tightly +fitting frock coat, threadbare, shiny, and unduly creased, was hardly of +a fit for his slender body and his long arms. It was his face, however, +that mostly individualized his appearance. + +The face was pale, the outlines symmetrical, but rather feeble, and the +countenance would have seemed rather lamblike but for the fact that it +was framed with thick, long hair and a luxuriant beard, which caressed +his waistcoat. + +These made him impressive at first sight. + +On the first day of his presence, he said little to the men with whom he +shared his room in the office. On the second day he grew communicative +and talked rather pompously to the exchange editor. He prated of his +past achievements as a newspaper man in other cities. He had a cheerful +way of talking in a voice that was high but not loud. His undaunted +manner of uttering self-praise caused the exchange editor to wink at the +editorial writer. It engendered, too, a small degree of dislike on the +part of these worthies; and the exchange editor made it a point to watch +for some of the new man's work in the paper, that he might be certain +whether the new man's ability was equal to the new man's opinion of it. + +The exchange editor found that it was not. The new man had been in the +office four days before any of his contributions had gone through the +process of creation, acceptance, and publication. Some verses and some +alleged jokes were his first matter printed. They were below mediocrity. +The exchange editor ceased to dislike the whiskered man and thereafter +regarded him as quite harmless and mildly amusing. + +This view of him was eventually accepted by every one who came to know +him, and he was made the object of a good deal of gentle chaffing. + +He earned probably $15 or $20 at space rates, a lamentably small amount +for so intellectual looking a man, but a very large amount considering +the quality of work turned out by him. + +Doubtless he would not have made nearly so much had not the managing +editor whispered something in the ears of the assistant editor-in-chief, +whose duty it was to judge of the acceptability of editorial matter +offered, the editor of the Sunday's supplement, and other members of +the staff who might have occasion to "turn down" the new man's +contributions, or to wink at the deficiencies in his work. + +One day Whiskers, with many apologies and much embarrassment, asked +the exchange editor to lend him a quarter, which request having been +complied with, he put on his much rubbed high hat and hurried from the +room. + +"It's funny the old man's hard up so soon," the exchange editor said +to the editorial writer at the next desk, "It's only two days since +pay-day." + +"Where does he sink his money?" asked the editorial writer. "His +sleeping-room costs him only $3 a week, and, eating the way he does, at +the cheapest hash-houses, his whole expenses can't be more than $8. No +one ever sees him spend a cent. He must sink it away in a bank." + +"Hasn't he any relatives?" + +"He never spoke of any, and he lives alone. Wotherspoon, who lodges +where he does, says no one ever comes to see him." + +"He certainly doesn't spend money on clothes." + +"No; and he never drinks at his own expense." + +"He's probably leading a double life," said the exchange editor, +jestingly, as he plunged his scissors into a Western paper, to cut out a +poem by James Whitcomb Riley. + +Without making many acquaintances, Whiskers, by reason of his hirsute +peculiarity, became known throughout the building, from the business +office on the ground floor to the composing-room on the top. When he +went into the latter one day and passed down the long aisle between the +long row of cases and type-setting machines, with a corrected proof +in his hand, a certain printer, who was "setting" up a clothing-house +advertisement, could not resist the temptation to give labial imitation +of the blowing of wind. The bygone joke concerning whiskers and the wind +was then current, and a score of compositors took up the whistle, so +that all varieties of breeze were soon being simulated simultaneously. +Whiskers coloured sightly, but, save a dignified straightening of his +shoulders, he showed no other sign that he was conscious of the rude +allusion to his copious beard. + +Whiskers chose Tuesday for his day off. + +It was on a certain Tuesday evening that one of the reporters came into +the exchange editor's room and casually remarked: + +"I saw your anti-shaving friend, who sits at that desk, riding out to +the suburbs on a car to-day. He was all crushed up and carried a bouquet +of roses." + +"That settles it," cried the editorial writer to the exchange editor, +with mock jubilation. "There can be no doubt the old man was leading a +double life. The bouquet means a woman in the case." + +"And his money goes for flowers and presents," added the exchange +editor. + +"Some of it, of course," went on the editorial writer, "and the rest +he's saving to get married on. Who'd have thought it at his age?" + +"Why, he's not over forty. It's only his whiskers that make him look +old. One can easily detect a sentimental vein in his composition." + +"That accounts for his fits of abstraction, too. So he's found favour in +some fair one's eyes. I wonder what she's like." + +"Young and pretty, I'll bet," said the exchange editor. "He's impressed +her by his dignified aspect. No doubt she thinks he's nothing less than +an editor-in-chief." + +The next day Whiskers was taciturn, as his office associates now +recalled that he was wont to be after "his day off." Doubtless his +thoughts dwelt upon his visits to his divinity. He did not respond to +their efforts to involve him in conversation. + +He was observed upon his next day off to take a car for the suburbs and +to have a bouquet in his hand and a package under his arm. The theory +originated by the editorial writer had general acceptance. It was passed +from man to man in the office. + +"Have you heard about the queer old duck with the whiskers, who writes +in the exchange room? He's engaged to a young and pretty girl up-town, +and eats at fifteen-cent soup-shops so that he can buy her flowers and +wine and things." + +"What! Old Whiskers in love! That's a good one!" + +One day while Whiskers' pen was busily gliding across the paper, the +exchange editor broke the silence by asking him, in a careless tone: + +"How was she, yesterday, Mr. Croydon?" + +Whiskers looked up almost quickly, an expression of almost pained +surprise on his face. + +"Who?" he inquired. + +"Ah, you thought because you didn't tell us, it wouldn't out. But you've +been caught. I mean the lady to whom you take roses every week, of +course." + +Whiskers simply stared at the exchange editor, as if quite bewildered. + +"Oh, pardon me," said the exchange editor, somewhat abashed. "I didn't +mean to offend you. One's affairs of the heart are sacred, I know. But +we all guy each other about each other's amours here. We're hardened to +that sort of pleasantry." + +A look of enlightenment, a blush, a deep sigh, and an "Oh, I'm not +offended," were the only manifestations made by Whiskers after the +exchange editor's apology. + +It was inferred from his manner that he did not wish to make confidences +or receive jests about his love-affairs. + +A time came when Whiskers seemed to have something constantly on his +mind. Not content with one day's vacation each week, he would go off for +periods of three or four hours on other days. + +"Do you notice how queerly the old man behaves?" said the editorial +writer to the exchange editor thereupon. "Things are coming to a +crisis." + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"Why, the wedding, of course." + +This inference received a show of confirmation afterward when Whiskers +had a private interview with the managing editor, received an order on +the cashier for all the money due him, and for a part of the managing +editor's salary as a loan, and quietly said to the exchange editor that +he would be away for a week or so. The editorial writer happened to be +at the cashier's window when Whiskers had his order cashed. So when the +editorial writer and the exchange editor compared notes a few minutes +later, the latter complimented the former upon the correctness of his +prediction that Whiskers' marriage was imminent. + +"He didn't invite us," said the exchange editor, "but then I suppose the +affair is to be a very quiet one, and we can't take offence at that. The +old man's not a bad lot, by any means. Let's do something to please him +and to flatter his bride. What do you say to raising a fund to buy them +a present, in the name of the staff?" + +"I'm in for it," said the editorial writer, producing a half-dollar. + +They canvassed the office and found everybody willing to contribute. The +managing editor and the assistant editor-in-chief had gone home, but as +they had shown kindness to Whiskers, and were, in fact, the only two men +on the staff who knew anything about his private affairs, the exchange +editor took his chances and put in a dollar for each of them. + +"And now, what shall we get--and where shall we send it?" said the +exchange editor. + +"Not to his lodging-house, certainly. He'll probably be married at the +residence of his bride's parents, as the notices say. We'd better get it +quick, and rush it up there--wherever that is--somewhere up-town." + +"But say," interposed the city editor, who was present at this +consultation, "maybe the ceremony has already come off. I saw the old +man giving in a notice for advertisement across the counter at the +business office an hour ago." + +"Well, we may be able to learn from that where the bride lives, anyhow, +and some one can go there and find out something definite about the +happy pair's present and future whereabouts," suggested the editorial +writer. + +"That's so," said the city editor. "The notice is in the composing-room +by this time. I'll run up and find it." + +The city editor left the editorial writer and the exchange editor alone +together in the room, each sitting at their own desk. + +"What shall we get with this money?" queried the former, touching the +bills and silver dumped upon his desk. + +"Something to please the woman. That'll give Whiskers the most pleasure. +He evidently loves her deeply. These constant visits and gifts speak the +greatest devotion." + +"Of course, but what shall it be?" + +The two were battling with this question when the city editor returned. +He came in and said quietly: + +"I found the notice. At least, I suppose this is it. What is the old +man's full name?" + +"Horace W. Croydon." + +"This is it, then," said the city editor, standing with his back to the +door. "The notice reads: 'On March 3d, at the Arlington Hospital for +Incurables, Rachel, widow of the late Horace W. Croydon, Sr., in her +59th year. Funeral services at the residence of Charles--'" + +"Why," interrupted the editorial writer, in a hushed voice, "that is a +death notice." + +"His mother," said the exchange editor. "The Hospital for +Incurables--that is where the flowers went." + +The editorial writer's glance dropped to the desk, where the money lay +for the intended gift. The exchange editor sat perfectly still, gazing +straight in front of him. The city editor walked softly to the window +and looked out. + + + + +XV. -- THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + +"I'm a bad man," said Tobit McStenger, after three glasses of whiskey. +And he was. In making the declaration, he echoed the expression of the +community. + +He looked it. Not only in the sneering mouth above the half-formed chin, +and in the lowering eyes of undecided colour beneath the receding brow, +but also in every shiftless attitude and movement of his great gaunt +body, and even in the torn coat and shapeless felt hat--both once black, +but both now a dirty gray--his aspect proclaimed him the preeminent +rowdy of his town. + +When out of jail he was engaged in oyster opening at Couch's saloon, or +selling fresh fish, caught in the river, or vagrancy in the streets +of Brickville. He lived in a log house containing two rooms, by Muddy +Creek, an intermittent stream that flowed--sometimes--through a corner +of the town. He was a widower and had a son nine years old, little Tobe, +who went to school occasionally, but gave most of his day to carrying a +paper flour-sack around the town and begging cold victuals, in obedience +to paternal commands, and throwing stones at other boys, who called him +"Patches," a nickname descended from his father. + +Little Tobe's face was always black, from the dust of the bituminous +coal that he was compelled to steal at night from the railroad +companies' yard. His attire was in miniature what his father's was in +the large, as his character was in embryo what the elder Tobit's was in +complete development. With long, entangled hair, a thin, crafty face, +and stealthy eyes, he was a true type of malevolent gamin, all the more +uncanny for the crudity due to his semirustic environments. + +Such were Tobit and little Tobe, the most conspicuous of the village +"characters" of Brickville, a Pennsylvania town deriving sustenance from +its brick-kiln, its railroads, and its contiguous farming interests. + +It was town talk that Tobit McStenger was a hard father; drunk or sober, +he chastised little Tobe upon the slightest occasion. + +"But," said Tobit McStenger, after admitting his severity as a parent +before the bar in Couch's saloon, "let any one else lay a finger on that +kid! Just let 'em! They'll find out, jail or no jail, I'm ugly!" And he +went on to repeat for the thousandth time that when he was ugly he was a +bad man. + +Whereupon the other loungers in Couch's saloon, "Honesty Tom Yerkes," +the hauler, Sam Hatch, the bill-poster, and the rest, agreed that a +man's manner of governing his household was his own business. + +Tobit McStenger had his word to say upon all village topics. When +in Couch's saloon one night he learned that the school directors had +decided to take the primary school from the tutorship of a woman and +to put a man over it as teacher, Tobit pricked up his ears and had many +words to say. He was working at the time, and he spoke in loud, coarse +tones, as he wielded his oyster-knife, having for an audience the usual +dozen barroom tarriers. + +"I know what that means," cried Tobit McStenger. "It means they ain't +satisfied with having our children ruled with kindness. It means Miss +Wiggins, who's kep' a good school, which I know all about, fer my son's +one of her scholars--it means she don't use the rod enough. They've made +up their minds to control the kids by force, and they went and hired a +man to lick book learnin' into 'em. Who is the feller, anyway?" + +"Pap" Buckwalder read the answer to Tobit's question from the current +number of the Brickville _Weekly Gazette_. + +"The new teacher is Aubrey Pilling, the adopted son of farmer Josiah +Pilling, of Blair Township. He has taught the school of that township +for three winters, and is a graduate of the Brickville Academy." + +Sam Hatch, standing by the stove, remembered him. + +"Why, that's the backward fellow," said he, "that the girls used to guy. +His hair and eyebrows is as white as tow, and when he'd blush his face +used to turn pink. He always walked in from the country, four miles, +every morning to school and back again at night. There ain't much +use getting him take a woman's place. He's about the same as a woman +hisself. He hardly talks above a whisper, and he's afraid to look a girl +in the face." + +"Ain't he the boy Josiah Pilling took out o' the Orphans' Home, here +about twenty years ago?" queried Pap Buckwalder. + +"Yep," replied Hatch. "I heerd somethin' about that when he went to the +'cademy here. He was took out of a home by a farmer, who gave him his +name 'cause the boy didn't know his own, nor no one else did, and so he +was brought up on the farm." + +"So that's the sort o' people they've put the education of our children +into the hands uv!" exclaimed Tobit McStenger. "Well, all I got to say +is, let him keep his hands off my boy Tobe, or he'll find out the kind +of a tough customer I am." + +Tobit McStenger, in the few weeks immediately following this change in +the primary school, remained continuously industrious, to the surprise +of all who knew him. As Tobit was an expeditious oyster-opener, Tony +Couch, the saloon-keeper who employed him, was much rejoiced. Tobit +toiled at oyster-opening and little Tobe became regular in his +attendance at school. + +The new school-teacher, a broad, awkward, bashful youth, painfully +blond, came to town and accomplished that for which he had been called. +He brought discipline to the primary school, an achievement none +easier for the fact that many of his pupils were in their teens, and +incidentally he suspended Tobit McStenger the younger. + +When little Tobe, glad of the enforced return to the liberties of his +begging days, brought home his soiled first reader and told his father +that the teacher had sent him from school with orders not to return +until he could learn to keep his face clean, the father became swollen +with an overflowing wrath. He swore frightfully, and started off, +vowing that he would "show the white-faced foundling how to treat decent +people's children." + +And he had two tall drinks of whiskey put on the slate against him at +Couch's and proceeded to carry out his threat. + +It was a cold day in December. Pilling, the teacher, sat near the stove +in the little square school-room, listening to the irrepressible hum of +his restless pupils and the predominating monotonous sound of a small +girl's voice reciting multiplication tables. + +"Three times three are nine," she whined, drawlingly; "three times four +are twelve, three times--" + +The little girl with the braided hair stopped short. A loud knock fell +upon the door. + +A boy looked through the window, evidently saw the one who had knocked, +then cast a curious look at Pilling, the teacher. Pilling observed this, +and asked the boy: + +"Who is it?" + +After a moment of hesitation, the boy replied: + +"It's old Patchy--I mean, Tobe McStenger's father." + +Pilling, whose bashfulness was manifest only in the presence of women, +had the utmost calmness before his pupils. He walked quietly to the door +and locked it. + +McStenger, furious without, heard the sound of the bolt being thrust +into place, whereupon he began to kick at the door. Pilling turned +the chair facing his class and told the girl with the braided hair to +continue. + +"Three times five are fifteen, three times six--" + +A crashing sound was heard. McStenger had broken a window. Pilling +looked around, as if seeking some impromptu weapon. While he was doing +so, McStenger broke another window-pane with a club. Then McStenger went +away. + +That evening, Pilling had Tobit McStenger arrested for malicious +mischief. The oyster-opener was held pending trial until January court. +He was then sentenced to thirty days more in the county jail. Meanwhile +little Tobe mounted a freight-train one day to steal a ride, and +Brickville has not seen or heard of him since. He enlisted in the great +army of vagabonds, doubtless. Perhaps some city swallowed him. + +Tobit McStenger felt at home in jail. It was not a bad place of +residence during the coldest months. But for one defect, jail life would +have been quite enviable; it forced upon him abstinence from alcoholic +liquor. + +Every period of thirty days has its termination, and Tobit McStenger +became a free man. He returned to his old life, opening oysters during +part of the time, idling and drinking during the other part. He made no +attempt to spoil the peace of Aubrey Pilling, and he only laughed when +he heard of the disappearance of Little Tobe. + +Pilling, by his success in conducting the primary school, had won +the esteem of Brickville's citizens. His timidity had diminished, or, +rather, it had been discovered to be merely quietness, self-communion, +instead of timidity. He had shown himself less prudish than he had been +thought. Occasionally he drank whiskey or beer, which was looked upon as +a good sign in a man of his kind. + +Tobit McStenger did not know this. He invariably evaded mention of +Pilling. People wondered what would happen when the two should meet. +For Tobit was known to be revengeful, and he was now, more than ever, in +speech and look, a bad man. + +The expected and yet the unexpected happened one night in Couch's +saloon,--the scene of most of the eventful incidents in Tobit +McStenger's life since he had dawned upon Brickville. Tobit and Honesty +Yerkes, Pap Buckwalder, old Tony Couch himself, and half a score others +were making a conversational hubbub before the bar. + +In walked Aubrey Pilling. He came quietly to an unoccupied spot at the +end of the bar and ordered a glass of beer, without looking at the +other drinkers. Some one nudged Tobit McStenger and pointed toward the +white-haired young pedagogue. The noise of talk broke off abruptly. + +McStenger placed his back against the bar, resting his elbows upon it, +and turned a scornful gaze toward Pilling, who had taken one draught +from his glass of beer. + +"Say, Tony," began McStenger, in his big, growling voice, "who's your +ladylike customer? Oh, it's him, is it? Well, he needn't be skeered of +me. I don't mix up with folks o' his sort. You see, people could only +expect to be insulted through their children by fellows of his birth--" + +"Hush, Mack!" whispered Tony Couch, whose sense of deportment advised +him that McStenger was treading forbidden ground. Pilling had not looked +up. He stood quietly at some distance from the others, intent upon his +glass of beer on the bar before him, perfectly still. + +But McStenger went on, more loudly than before: + +"By fellows, as I said, who came from orphans' homes, and never knew who +their parents was, and whose mothers may have been God knows what--" + +Pilling, without turning, had lifted his glass. With an easy motion +he had tossed its remaining contents of beer into the face of Tobit +McStenger. The latter drew back from the splash of the liquid as if +stung. Then, with a loud cry of rage, he leaped toward Pilling. The +teacher turned and faced him. + +McStenger clapped one huge hand against Pilling's neck, and in an +instant thereafter his long, bony fingers were pressing upon the +teacher's throat, in what had the looks of a fatal clutch. But Pilling, +with both his arms, violently forced McStenger from him. The teacher +took breath and McStenger reached for a whiskey decanter. The others in +the saloon looked on with eager interest, fearing to come between such +formidable combatants. Tony Couch ran out in search of the town's only +policeman. McStenger advanced toward the teacher. + +Pilling was farm bred. He had chopped down trees with his right +arm alone in his time. Pilling thrust forth his arm with unexpected +suddenness. Upon the floor, six feet behind his antagonist, was a +cuspidor with jagged edges. + +And Tobit McStenger slept with his fathers. + +The jury acquitted the teacher on the plea of self-defense. The loungers +in Couch's saloon judiciously said that it was a very bad break for +Tobit McStenger to have made. + + + + +XVI. -- THE SCARS + +My friend the tune-maker has often unintentionally amused his +acquaintances by the gravity with which he attributes significance to +the most trivial occurrences. + +He turns the most thoughtless speeches, uttered in jest, into +prophecies. + +"Very well," he used to say to us at a caf table, "you may laugh. But +it's astonishing how things turn out sometimes." + +"As for instance?" some one would inquire. + +"Never mind. But I could give an instance if I wished to do so." + +One evening, over a third bottle, he grew unusually communicative. + +"Just to illustrate how things happen," he began, speaking so as to be +audible above the din of the caf to the rest of us around the table, +"I'll tell you about a man I know. One February morning, about eight +years ago, he was hurrying to catch a train. There was ice on the +sidewalks and people had to walk cautiously or ride. As he was turning a +corner he saw by a clock that he had only five minutes in which to reach +the station, three blocks away. An instant later he saw a shapely figure +in soft furs suddenly describe a forward movement and drop in a heap to +the sidewalk, ten feet in front of him. A melodious light soprano scream +arose from the heap. A divinely turned ankle in a quite human black +stocking was momentarily visible. He was by the side of the mass of furs +and skirts in three steps. + +"He caught the pretty girl under the arms and elevated her to a standing +posture. She recovered her breath and her self-possession promptly and +glowed upon him with the brightest of smiles. He had never before seen +her. + +"'Oh, thank you,' she said; adding, with the unconscious exaggeration of +a schoolgirl, 'You've saved my life.' + +"Realizing the absurdity of this speech, she blushed. Whereupon her +rescuer, feeling that the situation warranted him in turning the matter +to jest, replied: + +"'That being the case, according to the rules of romance, I ought to +marry you, like all the men who rescue the heroines in stories.' + +"'Oh,' she answered, quickly, 'this isn't in a novel; it's real life.' + +"'Yes; besides which, I see by the clock over there I have only four +minutes in which to catch a train. Good morning.' + +"And he ran off without taking a second glance at her. He arrived at the +station in due time. + +"Three years after that he married the most charming woman in the world, +after an acquaintance of only six months. + +"This woman is as beautiful as she is amiable. Nature has not been +guilty of a single defect in her construction. A tiny scar upon her knee +is all the more noticeable because of its solitude. + +"It is a peculiarity of scars that each has a history. The history of +this one has thus far, for no adequate reason, remained a family secret. + +"Another noteworthy fact about scars is that they may be, and in many +cases they are, useful for purposes of identification. + +"Of course you anticipate the dramatic climax of my story, gentlemen. +Nevertheless, let me give it, for the sake of completeness, in the form +of a dialogue between the husband and the wife. + +"'How came the wound there?' + +"'Oh, I fell against the corner of a paving-stone one icy morning three +years ago.' + +"'And to think that I was not there to help you up!' + +"'True; but another young man served the purpose, and I'm afraid he +missed a train on my account.' + +"'What! It wasn't on the corner of ---- and ---- Streets?' + +"'It was just there. How did you know?' + +"So you see, as they completely proved by comparing recollections, the +little speech uttered in merriment had been prophetic, a fact that they +probably would never have learned had it not been for the identifying +service of the scar." + +"But if this has been kept a family secret, how do you happen to know +it, and by what right do you divulge it?" one of us asked. + +The ballad composer blushed and clouded his face with tobacco smoke; and +then it recurred to us all that "the most charming woman in the world" +is his wife. + + + + +XVII. -- "LA GITANA" + +This is not an attempt to palliate the foolishness of Billy Folsom. It +is not an essay in the emotional or the pathetic. You may pity him or +reproach him, if you like, but my purpose is not to evoke any feeling +toward or opinion of him. I do not seek to play upon your sympathies or +to put you into a mood, or to delineate a character. I simply tell the +story of how certain critical points in a man's life were accompanied +by music; how a destiny was affected by a tune. Anything aside from +mere narrative in this account will be incidental and accidental. The +manifestations of love, of wounded vanity, of recklessness; of even +the death itself, are here subsidiary in interest to the train of +circumstance. He who underwent them is not the hero of the recital; she +who caused them is not the heroine. The heroine is a melody, the waltz +tune of "La Gitana." + +Everybody remembers when the tune was regnant. Its notes leaped gaily +from the strings of every theatre orchestra; soubrettes in fluffy +raiment and silk stockings yelled it singly and in chorus; hand-organs +blared it forth; dancers kicked up their toes to it; it monopolized the +atmosphere for its dwelling-place; it was everywhere. + +Until one night, however, it did not touch the ear of Billy Folsom. He +had stayed late in the country, under the delusion that he was hunting. +It seems there are a few shootable things yet in certain parts of +Pennsylvania, and Folsom had the time and money to linger in search of +them. He came back to town in fine, exhilarating November weather, and +on one of these evenings when the joy of living is keenest, he and I +strolled with the crowd. Why I strolled with Folsom I do not know, +for he was not a man of ideas. He was even so bad as to be vain of his +personal appearance, especially upon having resumed the dress of the +city after months of outing. + +We passed one of these theatres whose stages are near the street. A +musical farce was current there. From an open window came the tune, +waylaying us as we walked. The orchestra was playing it fortissimo. You +could hear it above the footfalls, the laughter, and the conversation of +the promenaders. + +Folsom stopped. "Listen to that." + +"Yes, 'La Gitana.' It's all around. It's a catchy thing, and suits this +intoxicating weather." + +"It goes to the spot. Let's go inside. What's the play?" + +He turned at once toward the main entrance of the theatre. + +"A farce called 'Three Cheers and a Tiger,'--a Hoyt sort of a piece. The +little Tyrrell is doing her tambourine dance to the music." + +"Never heard of the lady," he said to me. And then to the youth on the +other side of the box-office window, "Have you any seats left in the +front row?" + +Folsom always asked for seats in the front row. This time it was fatal. +As we walked up the aisle, Folsom ahead, the little Tyrrell shot one +casual glance of her gray eyes at him, as almost any dancer would have +done at a front row newcomer entering while she was on the stage. In the +next instant her eyes were following her toe in its swift flight upward +to the centre of the tambourine that her hand brought downward to meet +it. But the one glance across the footlights had been productive. Folsom +sat staring over the heads of the musicians, his gaze fastened upon the +little Tyrrell, who was leaping about on the stage to the tune of "La +Gitana." His lips opened slightly and remained so. His eyes feasted +upon the flying dancer in the rippling blond wig, his ears drank in the +buoyant notes. + +It is well known that power lies in a saltatorial ensemble of white lace +skirts, pale blue hose, lustrous naked arms, undulating bodice, magnetic +eyes, flying hair, and an unchanging smile, to focus the perceptions of +a man, to absorb his consciousness, aided by a tune which seems to close +out from him all the rest of the world. + +And there, while this plump little girl danced and the frivolous, stupid +crowd looked eagerly on, from all parts of the overheated theatre, began +the tragedy of Billy Folsom. + +He gazed in rapture, and when she had finished and stood panting and +kissing her hands in response to applause, he heaved an eloquent sigh. + +"I'd like to meet that girl," he whispered to me, assuming a tone of +carelessness. + +Thereafter he kept his eye fixed upon the wings until she reappeared. +And the rest of the performance interested him only when she was in +view. + +I knew the symptoms, but I did not think the malady would become +chronic. + +He managed to have himself introduced to her a week later in New York +by Ted Clarke, the artist, who made newspaper sketches of her in some +of her dances. Folsom saw her going up the steps to an elevated railway +station. He ran after her, in order to be near her. He followed her into +a car, where Ted Clarke, recognizing her, rose to give her his seat. +She rewarded the artist by opening a conversation with him, and Folsom +availed himself of his acquaintance with Clarke to salute the latter +with surprising cordiality. She looked a few years older and less +girlish without her blond wig but she was still quite pretty in brown +hair. She treated Folsom with her wonted offhand amiability. He left the +train when she left it, and he walked a block with her. With pardonable +shrewdness she inspected his visage, attire, and manner, for indications +of his pecuniary and social standing, while he was indulging in silly +commonplaces. When they parted at the quiet hotel where she lived she +said lightly: + +"Come and see me sometime." + +To her surprise, perhaps, he came the next day, preceded by several +dozen roses and a few pounds of bonbons. + +Every night thereafter he was at the theatre where she was appearing, +watching her dance from the front row or from the lobby, agitated with +mingled pleasure and jealousy when she received loud applause, angry +at the audience when the plaudits were not enthusiastic. When their +acquaintance was two weeks old, she allowed him to wait for her at the +stage door, and at last he was permitted to take her to supper. + +There was a second supper, at which four composed the party. We had a +room to ourselves, with a piano in the corner. The event lasted long, +and near the end, while the other soubrette played the tune on the +piano, and Folsom kept time by clinking the champagne glass against the +bottle, the little Tyrrell, continually laughing, did her skirt dance, +"La Gitana." + +Thus with that waltz tune ever sounding in his ears, he fell in love +with her; strangely enough, really in love. She, having her own affairs +to mind, gave him no thought when he was not with her, and when they +were together she deemed him quite a good-natured, bearable fellow, as +long as he did not bore her. + +He made several declarations of love to her. She smiled at them, and +said, "You're like the rest; you'll get over it. Meanwhile, don't look +like that; be cheerful." At certain times, when circumstances were +auspicious, when there was night and electric light and a starry sky +with a moon in it, she was half-sentimental, but such moods were only +superficial and short-lived, and she invariably brought an end to them +with flippant laughter or some matter-of-fact speech that came with a +shock to Billy, although it did not cool his adoration. + +Billy became quite gloomy. He was the veritable sighing lover. Although +for a month he was admittedly the chief of her admirers and saw her +every day, he seemed to make no progress toward securing a hospitable +reception for and a response to his love. + +One day, as they were walking together on Broadway, she said: + +"You're always in the dumps nowadays. Really you must not be that way. +Doleful people make me tired." + +And thereafter Billy, possessed by a horrible fear that his mournful +demeanour might cause his banishment from her, kept making desperate +efforts to be lively, which were a dismal failure. It was ludicrous. The +gayer he affected to be, the more emphatic was his manifest depression. +So she wearied of his company. One day he called at her hotel, and, as +was his custom, went immediately to her sitting-room without sending +in his card. Before he knocked at the door, he heard the notes of her +piano; some one was playing the air of "La Gitana" with one finger. +After two or three bars, the instrument was silent. Then a man's voice +was heard. Billy knocked angrily. Miss Tyrrell opened the door, looked +annoyed when she saw him, and introduced him to the tenor of a comic +opera company of which she recently had been engaged as leading +soubrette. Billy's call was a short one. + +At eight o'clock that evening he sent this note to her from the caf +where he was dining: + +"Will be at stage door with carriage at eleven, as before." + +He was there at eleven. So was the tenor. The little Tyrrell came out +and looked from one to the other. Billy pointed to his waiting carriage. +The dancer took the tenor's arm and said: + +"I'm sorry I can't accept your invitation, Mr. Folsom. Really I'm very +much obliged to you, but I have an engagement." + +She went off with the tenor, and Billy went off with the cab and made +himself drunker than he had ever been in his life. At dawn his feet +were seen protruding from the window of a coup that was being driven up +Broadway, and he was bawling forth, as best he could, the tune which had +served indirectly to bring the little Tyrrell into his life. + +After that night, it was the old story, a woman ridding herself of a man +for whom she had never cared, and who indeed was not worth caring for. +But the operation was just as hard upon Folsom as if he had been. You +know the stages of the process. She began by being not at home or just +about to go out. He wrote pleading notes to her, in boyish phraseology, +and she laughed over these with the tenor. He made the breaking off the +more painful by going nightly to see her dance that fatal melody. He +watched her from afar upon the street, and almost invariably saw the +tenor by her side. He drank continually, and he begged Ted Clarke to +tell her, in a casual way, that he was going to the dogs on account of +her treatment of him. Whereupon she laughed and then looked scornful, +saying: "If he's fool enough to drink himself to death because a woman +didn't happen to fall in love with him, the sooner he finishes the work +the better. I have no use for such a man." + +No one has, and I told Billy so. But he kept up his pace toward the goal +of confirmed drunkenness. He ceased his attendance at the theatre where +she danced, only after he learned that the tenor had married her. But +that dance of hers had become a part of his life. Its accompanying tune +was now as necessary to his aural sensibilities as food to his stomach. +He therefore spent his evenings going to theatres and concert-halls +where "La Gitana" was likely to be sung or played. He rarely sought in +vain. The melody was to be found serving some purpose or other at almost +every theatre that winter. It was the "Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay" of its time. + +Some men who drink themselves to death require years and wit to complete +the task. Others save time by catching pneumonia through exposure due to +drink. Billy Folsom was one of the pneumonia class. He "slept off" the +effects of a long lark in an area-way belonging to a total stranger. A +policeman took him to his lodgings by way of the station house, and a +day later his landlord sent for a doctor. Five days after that I went +over to see him. He was in bed, and one of his friends, a man of his own +kind, but of stronger fibre, was keeping him company. Billy told us how +it had come about: + +"I wouldn't have gone on that racket if it hadn't been for one thing. +I'd made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, and I was walking along +full of plans for reformation. Suddenly I heard the sound of a banjo, +coming from an up-stairs window, playing a certain tune I've got +somewhat attached to. I saw the place was a kind of a dive and I went +in. I got the banjo-player to strum the piece over again, and I bought +drinks for the crowd. Then I made him play once more, and there were +other rounds of drinks, and the last I remember is that I was waltzing +around the place to that air. Two days after that the officer found +me trespassing on some one's property by sleeping on it. I dropped my +overcoat and hat somewhere, and it seemed there must have been a draft +around, for I caught this cold." + +I told Folsom to stop talking, as he was manifestly much weaker than he +or his friend supposed him to be. There ensued a few seconds of silence. +A loud noise broke upon the stillness with a shocking suddenness. It was +the clamour of a band-piano in the street beneath Folsom's window, and +of all the tunes in the world the tune that it shrieked out was "La +Gitana." I looked at Folsom. + +He rose in his bed and, clenching his teeth, he propelled through their +interstices the word: + +"Damn!" + +He remained sitting for a time, his hair tumbled about, his eyes wide +open but expressive of meditation as the notes continued to be thumped +upward by the turbulent instrument. Presently he said, in a husky voice: + +"How that thing pursues me! It's like a fiend. It has no let-up. It +follows me even into the next world." + +He sat for a moment more, intently listening. Then, with a quick, +peevish sigh, he fell back from weakness. We by his side did not know it +at the instant, but we discovered in a short time what had taken place +when his head had touched the pillow, for he remained so still. + +And that was the last of Billy Folsom, and up from the murmuring street +below came the notes of the band-piano playing "La Gitana." + + + + +XVIII. -- TRANSITION + +Three of us sat upon an upper deck, sailing to an island. The day was +sunlit, the wind was gentle, and the faintest ripple passed over the +sea. + +"Do you see the tremulous old man sitting over there by the pilot-house +absorbing the sunshine? He reminds me of another old man, one whom I +watched for six years, while he faded and died. He never knew me, but +he walked by my house daily and I walked by his. It was an interesting +study. The conclusion of the process was so inevitable. The time came +when he did not pass my house. Then he took the sunlight in a bow-window +on the second floor of his residence. So closely had I watched his +decadence during the six years that I was able to say to myself one +morning, 'There will be crape on his door before the day is out.' And so +there was." + +The bon-vivant laughed rather mechanically, but the other, he who makes +verses so dainty that the world does not heed them, smiled softly and +sympathetically to me and said: + +"You are right. Nothing is so fascinating as the study of a progress--a +development or a decline. The inevitability of the end makes it more +engrossing, for it relieves it of the undue eagerness of curiosity, the +feverishness of uncertainty." + +"Well, I am content rather to live than to contemplate life," said the +bon-vivant. "It's true I have given myself up to observing anxiously +such an advancement as you describe--a vulgar one you will say. When I +was a very young man I was a very thin man. I determined to amplify my +dimensions. I followed with careful interest my daily increase toward my +present--let us not say obesity, but call it portliness." + +"You are inclined to be easy upon yourself," I commented. + +"Indeed I am--in all matters." + +After a pause the verse-maker, throwing away his cigarette, took up +again the theme that I had introduced. + +"Yes, it is an engaging occupation to note any progression, even when +it is toward a fatal or a horrible culmination. But when it is to some +beautiful and happy outcome, this advancement is an ineffably charming +spectacle. Such it is when it is the unfolding of a flower or the +filling out of a poetic thought. + +"But no growth nor transformation in the material world is more +entrancing to observe than that by which a young girl becomes a lovely +woman. + +"This transition seems to be sudden. It is not so. It is rapid, perhaps, +as life goes, but each stage is distinctly marked. All men have not time +to watch the change, however, and so most men awaken to its occurrence +only when it is completed. Such was the case of the young and lowborn +lover of Consuelo in George Sand's romance. Do you remember that +incomparable scene in which he suddenly begins to notice that some +feature of Consuelo is handsome, and, with surprise, calls her attention +to its comeliness? She, equally astonished and delighted, joins him +in the visual examination of her charms, and the two pass from one +attraction to the other, finally completing the discovery that she is a +beautiful woman. + +"The Italian gamin was not the sort of man to have anticipated this +transfiguration and to have watched its stages. + +"You may argue that his delight at suddenly opening his eyes to +the finished work was greater than would have been his pleasure at +contemplating the alteration in process. Doubtless his was. As to +whether yours would be in such a case, depends upon your temperament. + +"I have experienced both of these pleasures. Perhaps it may be due to +certain special circumstances that I cherish the memory of the more +lasting delight, even though it was tempered by occasional doubts as to +the end, more tenderly than I do the more sudden and keen awakening. + +"There is a woman who first came under my observations when she was +thirteen years old. She was then agreeable enough to the eye, more +by reason of the gentleness of her expression than for any noteworthy +attractions of face and figure. Her face, indeed, was plain and +uninteresting; her figure unformed and too slim. Her hair, however, was +charming, being soft and extremely light in colour. She seemed awkward, +too, and timid, through fear of offending or making a bad impression. + +"For a reason I was particularly interested in her. I knew, young as I +then was, that plain girls, in many cases, develop into handsome women. + +"At fourteen her hair showed indications of changing its tint. +Its tendency was unmistakably toward brown. This was temporarily +unfavourable, but a brightening of the blue eyes and a newly acquired +poise of the head, with a step toward self-confidence in manner, were +compensating alterations. + +"At fifteen there came an emancipation of mind and speech from +schoolgirl habits. A defensive assumption of impertinent reserve, varied +by fits of superficial garrulity, gave way to real thoughtfulness, +to natural amiability. Then came, too, an emboldenment of the facial +outline, a constancy to the colour of the cheeks, a certainty of gait, +and the first perceptible roundness of contour beneath the neck. + +"At sixteen she had adorable hands, and she could wear short sleeves +with impunity. A rational, unforced, and coherent vivacity had now +revealed itself as a characteristic of her mode and conversation. Her +ankles had long before that grown too sightly to be exhibited. Such is +so-called civilization! Her hair seemed to darken before one's eyes. The +oval of her face attracted the attention of more than one of my artist +friends. + +"At seventeen she had learned what styles of attire, what arrangements +of her hair, were best suited to display effectively her comeliness. + +"This was one of the greatest steps of all. + +"The simplest draperies, she found, the least complicated headgear, were +most advantageous to her appearance. + +"A taste for reading the most ideal and artistic of books, as well as +her liking for poetry, the theatre, music, and pictures had implanted +that exalted something in her face which cannot be otherwise acquired. + +"When she was eighteen people on the street turned to look at her as she +passed. + +"At nineteen her figure was unsurpassable. Indeed, I think there cannot +be a more beautiful and charming woman in America. She is now twenty. + +"It was my privilege to view closely the bursting of this bud into +bloom." + +The fin de sicle versewright became silent and lighted a fresh +cigarette. + +"Will you permit me to ask," said I, "what were the especial facilities +that you had for observing this evolution?" + +"Yes," he answered, softly, a tender look coming into his eyes. "She is +my wife. She was thirteen when I married her. Suddenly placed without +means of subsistence, knowing nothing of the world, she came to me. I +could see no other way. We are very happy together." + +The pretty narrative of the rhymer put each of us in a delectable mood. +The notes of a harp and violins came from the lower deck in the form of +a seductive Italian melody. White sails dotted the far-reaching sea. + + + + +XIX. -- A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD + +Hearken to the tale of how fortune fell to the widow of Busted Blake. + +The outcome has shown that "Busted" was not radically bad. But he was +wretchedly weak of will to reject an opportunity of having another drink +with the boys--or with the girls--or with anybody or with nobody. + +In the days of his ascendancy, when he was a young and newly married +architect, he was a buyer of drinks for others. Waiters in cafs vied +with each other in showing readiness to take his orders. He was rated a +jolly good fellow then. No one would have supposed it destined that +some fine night a leering barroom wit should reply to his whispered +application for a small loan by pouring a half-glass of whiskey upon his +head and saying: + +"I hereby christen thee 'Busted.'" + +The title stuck. Blake, through continued impecuniosity, lost all shame +of it in time; lost, too, his self-respect and his wife. Mrs. Blake, a +gentle and pretty little brunette, had wedded him against the will of +her parents. She had trusted, for his safety, to the allurements of his +future, which everybody said was bright, and to his love for her. + +The years of tearful nights, the pleadings, the reproaches, the seesaw +of hope and despair, need not here be dwelt upon. They would make an old +story, and some of the details might be shocking to the young person. +They reached a culmination one day when she said to him: + +"You love drink better than you love me. I have done with you." + +She was a woman and took a woman's view of the case. + +When he came back to their rooms that night, she was not there. Then he +knew how much he loved her and how much he had underestimated his love. + +She did not go to her parents. There was a very musty proverb that she +knew would meet her on the threshold. "You made your bed, now lie on +it." Her father was a man of no originality, hence he would have put it +in that way. + +She got employment in a photograph gallery, where she made herself +useful by being ornamental, sitting behind a desk in the anteroom. + +I know not what duties devolve upon the woman who occupies that post +in the average photographer's service; whatever they are she performed +them. But within a very short time after she had left the "bed and +board" of Busted Blake, she had to ask for a vacation. She spent it in +a hospital and Busted became a father. She resumed her chair behind the +photographer's desk in due time, found a boarding-house where infants +were not tabooed, and managed to subsist, and to care for her child--a +girl. + +Somebody lived in that boarding-house who knew Busted Blake, and it was +through inquiries resulting from, this somebody's jocularly calling him +"papa" one night in a saloon that Busted was made aware of his accession +to the paternal relation. + +When the poor wretch heard the news, he made a prodigious effort to keep +his face composed. But the muscles would not be resisted. He burst out +crying, and he laid his head upon his arm upon a beer-flooded table and +wept copiously, causing a sudden hush to fall upon the crowd of +topers and a group to gather around his table and stare at him,--some +mystified, some grinning, none understanding. + +The next day he made a herculean effort to pull himself together. He +obtained a position as draughtsman from one who had known him in his +respectable period, and he went tremblingly and sheepishly to call upon +his wife and child. + +The consequence of his visit was a reunion, which endured for two whole +weeks. At the end of that time she cast him off in utter scorn. + +How he lived for the next two years can be only known to those who are +familiar through experience with the existence of people who ask other +people on the street for a few cents toward a night's lodging. By those +who knew him he was said to be "no good to himself or any one else." He +acquired the raggedness, the impudence, the phraseology of the vagabond +class. He would hang on the edge of a party of men drinking together +in front of a bar, on the slim chance of being "counted in" when the +question went round, "What'll you have?" He was perpetually being +impelled out of saloons at foot-race speed by the officials whose +function it is, in barrooms, to substitute an objectionable person's +room for his company. + +One winter Sunday morning he slept late on a bench in a public square. +Awakened by an officer, he arose to go. Hazy in head and stiff at +joints, he slightly staggered. He heard behind him the cooing laugh of +a child. He looked around. It was himself that had awakened the infant's +mirth--or that strange something which precedes the dawn of a sense of +humour in children. The smiling babe was in a child's carriage which a +plainly dressed woman was pushing. He looked at the woman. It was his +wife and the pretty child was his own. + +He walked rapidly from the place, and on the same day he decided to +leave the city. He had herded with vagrants of the touring class. The +methods of free transportation by means of freight-trains and free +living, by means of beggary and small thievery in country towns, were no +secret to him. He walked to the suburbs, and at nightfall he scrambled +up the side of a coal-car in a train slowly moving westward. + +What hunger he suffered, what cold he endured, what bread he begged, +what police station cells he passed nights in, what human scum he +associated with, what thirst he quenched, and with what incredibly bad +whiskey, are particulars not for this unobjectionable narrative, for do +they not belong to low life? And who nowadays can tolerate low life +in print unless it be redeemed by a rustic environment and a laboured +exposition of clodhopper English and primitive expletives? Low life +outside of a dialect story and a dreary village? Never! + +Mrs. Blake and the child lived in a fair degree of comfort upon the +mother's wages, but often the mother shuddered at thought of what might +happen should she ever lose her position at the photographer's. + +Consumption had its hold on Busted Blake when he arrived in the +mining-town called Get-there City, in Kansas, one evening. Get-there +City had not gotten there beyond a single straggling street of shanties. +But it had acquired a saloon, although liquor-selling had already been +forbidden in Kansas. + +Busted Blake, with ten cents in his clothes, entered the saloon and +asked in an asthmatic voice for as much whiskey as that sum was good +for. + +While awaiting a response, his eyes turned toward the only other +persons in the saloon,--three burly, bearded miners of the conventional +big-hatted, big-booted, and big-voiced type. Above their heads and +against the wall was this sign, lettered roughly with charcoal, under a +crudely drawn death's head: + +"Five thousand dollars will be paid by the undersigned to the widow of +the sneaking hound that informs on this saloon. This is no meer bluf. P. +GIBBS." + +Blake, after a brief coughing fit, looked up at the man behind the +bar,--a great thick-necked fellow with a mien of authority, and yet with +a certain bluff honesty expressed about his eyes and lips. This man, +whose air of proprietorship convinced Blake that he could be none other +than P. Gibbs, had first looked sneeringly at the ten cents, but had +shown some small sign of pity on hearing the ominous cough of the +attenuated vagrant. He set forth a bottle and glass. + +"Help yerself," said P. Gibbs. While Blake was doing so, Mr. Gibbs went +on: + +"Bad cough o' yourn. Y' mightn't guess it, but that same cough runs in +my fam'ly. It took off a brother, but it skipped me." + +Here was a bond of sympathy between the big, law-defying saloon-keeper +and the frail toper from the East. Busted Blake drained his glass and +presently coughed again. P. Gibbs again set forth the bottle, and this +time he drank with Blake. Before long, by dint of repeated fits of +coughing on the part of Blake, the sympathy of P. Gibbs was so worked +upon that he invited the three miners in the saloon to join him and the +stranger. + +Blake slept in a corner of the saloon that night. He left the next +morning, a curious expression of resolution on his face. + +During the next three weeks he was now and then alluded to in P. Gibbs's +saloon as the "coughing stranger." + +In the middle of the third week, at nine o'clock in the evening, when +the lamps in P. Gibbs's saloon were exerting their smallest degree of +dimness and the bar was doing a good business, the door opened and in +staggered Busted Blake. His staggering on this occasion was manifestly +not due to drink. His face had the hideous concavities of a starved man +and the uncertainty of his gait was the token of a mortal feebleness. +His emaciation was painful to behold. His eyes glowed like huge gems. + +The crowd of miners looked at him with surprise as he entered. + +"The coughing stranger!" cried one. + +"The coffin stranger, you mean," said another. + +Busted Blake lurched over to the bar. His eyes met those of P. Gibbs on +the other side, and the latter reached for a whiskey-bottle. + +Blake fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a piece of soiled paper, +which he laid on the bar under the glance of P. Gibbs. + +"Keep that!" said Blake, in a husky voice, whose service he compelled +with much effort. "And keep your word, too! That's where you'll find +her." + +P. Gibbs picked up the paper. + +"What do you mean?" he asked. + +"That woman's name there. It's the name of my widow; the address, too, +of a photograph man who will tell you where she is. Get the money to her +quick, before the governor and the troops comes down on you to close you +up. And don't let her know how it comes about. Pick a man to take it to +her,--let him pay his expenses out of it,--a man you can trust, and make +him tell her I made it somehow, mining or something, so she'll take it. +You know." + +P. Gibbs, who had listened with increasing amazement, opened wide his +eyes and drew his revolver. He spoke in a strangely low, repressed +voice: + +"Stranger, do you mean to say--" + +"Yes, that's it," shrieked Busted Blake, turning toward the crowd of +intensely interested onlookers. "And I call on all you here to witness +and to hold him to his word. That's no mere bluff he says in his notice +there, and I'm the sneaking hound that informed. My widow is entitled to +$5,000. I did it in Topeka, and for proof, see this newspaper." + +P. Gibbs fired a shot from his revolver through the newspaper that Blake +pulled from his shirt. Then the saloon-keeper brought his weapon on a +level with Blake's face. + +"It's good your boots is on!" said P. Gibbs, ironically. + +But he did not fire. Blake stood perfectly still, awaiting the shot, and +feebly laughing. + +So the two remained for some moments, until Blake suddenly sank to the +floor, quite exhausted. He died within a half-hour on the saloon floor, +his head resting in the palm of P. Gibbs, who knelt by his side and +tried to revive him. + +At the next dawn, a man whom they called Big Andy started East, and the +piece of paper that Blake handed to P. Gibbs was not all that he took +with him. The United States marshal arrived and duly closed Gibbs's +saloon, which reopened very shortly afterward, minus the $5,000 offer. + +And Big Andy found the widow of Busted Blake, to whom he told a bit of +fiction in accounting for the legacy conveyed by him to her that would +have imposed upon the most incredulous legatee. When she had recovered +from the surprise of finding herself and her child provided with the +means of surviving the possible loss of her situation, she forgave the +late Busted, and there was a flow of tears unusual to a boarding-house +parlour and unnerving to Big Andy. + +Presently she asked Andy whether he knew what her husband's last words +had been. + +"Yep," said Andy. "I heard'm plain and clear. Pete Gibbs,--the other +executor of the will, you know,--Pete says, 'It's all right, pardner, +me and Andy'll see to it,' and then your husband says, 'Thank Gawd I've +been some good to her and the child at last.'" + +Which account was entirely correct. When Big Andy had returned to +Get-there City, and related how he had performed his mission, he added: + +"I'd been such a lovely liar all through, it's a shame I had to go an' +spoil the story by puttin' in some truth at the finish." + +They put up a wooden grave-mark where Blake was buried, and after his +name they cut in the wood this testimonial: + +"A tenderfoot that was some good to his folks at last." + + + + +XX. -- MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO + +Near the uneven road among the hills a small field of stony ground lay +between woods and cultivated land. Nothing grew upon it and no house +could be seen from it. The sun beat upon it and crows flew over it to +and from the woods. + +Along the road trudged a thin old negro with stooping back and gray +wool. His knees were bent and his cumbrously shod feet pointed far +outward from his line of progress. He wore an aged frock coat and +a battered stiff hat, although the month was June. His small face, +beginning with a smoothly curved forehead and ending with a cleanly +cut chin, was mild and conciliating, shiny, and of the colour of light +chocolate. He carried a tin bucket full of cherries. Pop Thornberry was +returning to the town. + +Pop, whose proper name was Moses, and who was a deacon in the African +Methodist Church, made his living this way and that way. He did odd jobs +for people, and he fished and hunted when fishing and hunting were in +season. + +On this June day he had risen early and walked three miles to pick +cherries "on shares." He had picked ten quarts and left four of them +with the farmer whose trees had produced them. At six cents a quart he +would profit thirty-six cents by his walk of six miles and his work of a +half-day. + +The sun was scorching and Pop was tired. He decided to rest in the +barren field, at its very edge in shade of the woods. He climbed +the zigzag fence with some labour and at the expense of a few of his +cherries. He sat down upon a little knob of earth, took off his hat, +drew a red handkerchief from the inside thereof, and slowly wiped his +perspiring brow. + +He looked up at the sky, which was so brightly blue that it made his +eyes blink. He sought optical relief in the dark green of the woods. +Then, in steadying his pail of cherries between his legs, he turned his +glance to the ground in front of him. + +His attention was caught by a lump of earth that sparkled at points In +the sun's rays, a mere clod composed of clay and mica, lying In the +dry bed of a bygone streamlet. Because it glittered he picked it up and +examined it. After a time he bethought him that he was yet two and a +half miles from town and very hungry. He arose, somewhat stiff, and put +the shining clod in his coat-tail pocket. On his way back to the road +he noticed other little earth lumps that shone. He resumed his walk +townward, his knees shaking regularly at every step, as was their wont. + +At three o'clock in the afternoon he had reached home, sold his +cherries, and dined on dried beef and bread in his little unpainted +wooden house on the edge of the creek at the back of the town. + +He owned his house and a small lot upon which it stood. Near it was a +flour-mill, whose owner held a mortgage upon Pop's house and lot. The +old negro had been compelled to borrow $200 to pay bills incurred during +the illness and subsequent funeral of the late Mrs. Thornberry, and thus +to avoid a sheriff's sale. Hence came the mortgage. It would expire +on the 10th of September. Pop was almost ready to meet that date. He +already had $192 hidden in his cellar, unknown to any one. + +He had heard rumours of the mill-owner's desire to build an addition +to his mill. To do this would necessitate the acquisition of contiguous +property. But Pop had not suspected any ulterior motive when the miller +had offered to lend him the money. + +"I kin soon lay by 'nuff t' pay off d' mohgage, w'en I ain't got no one +but m'se'f t' puvvide foh no moah," he had said, after the loan had been +made. + +And, having dined on this June day, he took twenty cents from the amount +received for cherries and placed it in a cigar-box to be added to the +$192. He kept that sixteen cents with which to purchase provisions +for to-morrow, and then he walked down the quiet street to the railway +station. He often made a dime by carrying some one's satchel from the +station to the hotel. + +The railroad division superintendent, a well-fed and easy-going man, +came down from his office on the second floor of the station building +and saw Pop sitting on a baggage-truck. The old negro, forgetful of the +clod in his coat-tail pocket, had felt it when he sat down. He had taken +it out of his pocket and was now casually looking at it as he held it in +his hand. + +"Hello, Pop!" said the division superintendent, upon whose hand time was +hanging heavily. "What have you there?" + +"Doan' know, Mistah Monroe. Doan' know, sah. Looks like jes' a chunk o' +mud." + +He held out the clod to Mr. Monroe. + +The spectacle of the division superintendent talking to the old negro +attracted a group of lazy fellows,--the driver of an express wagon, +the man who hauls the mail to the post-office, a boy who sold fruit to +passengers on the train, two porters, with tin signs upon their hats, +who solicited patronage from the hotels. + +"Why, Pop," said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, "this +lump looks as though it contained gold." + +"Yes," put in the expressman, "that's how gold comes in a mine. I've +often handled it. That's the stuff, sure." + +The fruit-selling boy and the mail-man grinned. Pop Thornberry opened +wide his mouth and eyes and softly repeated the word: + +"Goal!" + +"I'd be careful of it," advised Mr. Monroe, handing the clod back to the +negro. + +Pop took it with a trembling hand and looked at it. Presently he asked: + +"W'at'll you give me foh dat air goal, Mistah Monroe." + +"Oh, a piece like that would be no use to me. It has to be washed and it +wouldn't be worth while putting just one piece through the whole process +of cleaning. Now. If you have a lot of it, we might go into partnership +in the gold business." + +Before the old man could answer to this pleasantry a whistle was heard +up the track, and Pop was forgotten in the excitement attending the +arrival of the train. + +Dislodged from the baggage-truck, the old man looked around for Mr. +Monroe, but the superintendent had disappeared. Pop did not seek to +carry any satchels that day. His mind was full of other matters. He went +behind the station and sat down beside the river. + +"Goal!" That meant proper tombstones for the graves of his wife and +children, a new pulpit for the African Methodist Church, equal to that +of the African Baptist Church, future ease for his somewhat weary legs +and arms and back. + +The next afternoon the division superintendent found himself awaited at +his office door by Pop Thornberry, who was very dusty and who carried +a basket heavy with clods of clay and mica. He had been out to the arid +field that morning. + +"H-sh!" whispered Pop. "Doan' say a word, Mistah Monroe! Hyah's a lot o' +dem air goal lumps, and I know weah dey's bushels moah,--plenty 'nuff to +go into pahtnehship on." + +The superintendent, looked bewildered, then amused, then ashamed. +Embarrassed for a reply, he finally said: + +"I haven't time to talk to you now, Pop. Besides, I've made up my mind +not to go into the gold business. You see, I'm rich enough already. Good +day." + +Thereafter Pop lay in wait for Mr. Monroe daily, but the superintendent +always avoided him. Pop neglected to earn his living and spent his +time going about town with his basket of clods in search of the +superintendent. Finally being openly ignored by Mr. Monroe when the two +met face to face, Pop became angry and took his secret to a jeweller +on Main Street. The jeweller laughed and told Pop that the gold in the +basket must be worth at least a thousand dollars, but he was not in a +position to buy crude gold. Then the jeweller made known to many that +Pop Thornberry was crazy over some lumps of mud and mica that he mistook +for gold. + +After that, people would stop Pop on the street and say: + +"Let's see a piece of the gold in your basket." + +Pop, astonished that his secret was out, but somewhat proud at being +thought the possessor of a treasure, would hesitate and then comply. +The small boys soon recognized in Pop's delusion a new means of fun. +Observing the solicitude with which he watched his clod while out of his +own hands, they would innocently ask for a glimpse into his basket. This +granted, they would grasp a piece of his treasure and run away, greatly +annoying the old man, who was in a state of keen distress until he +recovered the abstracted clod. These affairs between Pop and the +boys were of hourly recurrence. They diverted barroom loungers and +passers-by. + +Pop called on one local capitalist after another, seeking one who would +buy his gold or aid into preparing it for the market. All laughed at +his delusion, deeming it harmless, and all gave him good reason for not +accepting his offer of business partnership. So he went from the bank +president to the baker, from the member of congress for whom he had +voted to the barber, from the hotel proprietor to the bartender. The +negroes of the town, feeling that their race was humiliated in Pop, +began to hold aloof from him. No serious-minded person who learned of +his delusion gave it a second thought. + +"Say Pop, where do you get this gold, anyhow?" asked a tobacco-chewing +gamin at the railroad station one day. + +"Dat's my business," replied Thornberry, with some dignity. + +"Oh," said his questioner, "I know. Tobe McStenger followed you out the +other day and saw where you got it. He'd a brung some in hisself, but it +wasn't on his property." + +"Yes, Pop, you better look out," put in a telegraph operator, "or you'll +be taken up for trespassing. 'Tisn't your land, you know, where you find +your gold." + +There was no truth in the assertion of the gamin. No one had taken the +trouble to follow Pop in his semiweekly excursions to the barren field. +But the old man knew that the field was not his. A ludicrous expression +of overwhelming fright came over his face. + +Three days afterward, the farmer who owned the worthless field was +astonished when Pop offered to buy it. + +"But what on earth do you want that land fer?" asked the farmer, sitting +on his barnyard fence. + +Pop made a guilty attempt to appear guileless, and told the farmer that +he wished to build a shanty and raise potatoes. He was tired of living +in town and sought the quietude of the hills. + +"Bein' as dat ere fiel' ain't good foh much, I thought you might be +willin' to paht with it," explained Pop. + +The farmer eventually agreed to build a shanty on the field and sell +it to Pop for $180. Pop desired immediate occupancy. There was a legal +hitch, owing to the badness of the land and the questionable condition +of Pop's mind. But the transfer of the property was finally recorded. + +Pop no longer had to fear arrest for trespass. His gold field was now +legally his. But he was still kept uneasy by his inability to make his +gold marketable. His uneasiness increased as September approached. He +had applied to the purchase of the field the sum saved to cancel the +mortgage upon his house at the rear end of the town. + +The three days before the foreclosure of the mortgage were days of +exquisite anguish to Pop. When the foreclosure came and he and his +goods were turned out on the banks of the creek to make room for the +mill-owner's improvements, his mental turmoil ended. He took the crisis +calmly. + +"Jes' wait," he said to a neighbour who had stopped at sight of the +moving-out. "Wait till I get dat ere goal on de mahket. I'll bull' a +mill dat'll drive dis yer mill out o' d' business. Den I'll done buy +back dis yer ol' home." + +But the next day, when the unexpected happened,--when builders began to +tear down his house,--the enormity of his deed dawned upon him. After a +day of moaning and staring, as he sat amidst his household goods on +the bank of the creek, he became animated by a deep rage against the +mill-owner. Now more than ever had he a special purpose for enriching +himself by means of his treasure across the hill. + +The coming of two circuses in succession had taken the interest of the +boys away from Pop during August and part of September. Now they turned +again to him for amusement. First they besieged the abandoned stable to +which he had conveyed his goods, and in which he slept,--for he had not +found will to betake himself from the town he had so long inhabited, and +his shanty in the field remained unoccupied. His purchase of the land +had betrayed to general knowledge the location of his treasure, of which +he continued to bring in new specimens. + +One October day he had just come from vainly attempting to induce the +postmaster to join him in the enterprise of exploiting his gold-field. +In front of the post-office, he was met by some boys coming noisily from +school. They surrounded him and demanded to see the gold in his basket. +As the town policeman was sauntering up the street, Pop felt safe in +refusing. The boys, also observing the officer of the law, contented +themselves with retaliating in words only, + +"Say, Pop," cried one of them, "you'd better keep an eye on your +gold-field. Nick Hennessey knows where it is, and he's gittin' up a +diggin' party to take a wagon out some night and bring away all your +gold." + +The boys, laughing at this quickly invented announcement, ran off after +a hand-organ. The old man stood perfectly still, or as nearly so as the +feebleness of his legs would permit. + +That evening Pop was missing from the town. And when Abraham Wesley, who +had often lent his shotgun to the old man, went to look for that weapon, +intending to shoot glass balls in the fairgrounds across the river, the +fowling-piece too was missing. + +Pop had gone out to protect his possession. Three nights passed and +three days. The few country folk and others who travelled that way +during this time saw the old man walking about in his field or sitting +in front of his shanty, his shotgun on his shoulders, his eyes fixed +suspiciously on all who might become intruders. Night and day he +patrolled his little domain. + +At dusk of the third day a lively party was returning to the town in +a wagon from a search for nuts. The full moon was rising and the +merrymakers were singing. One of the girls was thirsty. When she saw the +shanty in the rugged field, she asked a young man to get her a glass of +water at the hut. The wagon stopped and the youth climbed astride the +rail fence. Suddenly an unnaturally shrill and excited voice was heard: + +"Hyah, you, doan' come no farder! Dese yer's my premises!" + +From behind the empty shanty appeared the thin old negro, bareheaded, +his shotgun at his shoulder, a striking figure against the rising moon. + +The young man descended from the fence into the field. There came a +flash and a crack from Pop Thornberry's gun. The youth felt the sting of +a piece of birdshot in his leg. Howling and limping, he turned quickly +over the fence into the wagon, which made a hasty flight. + +The next morning some idlers went out from the town to the scene of the +adventure. They found the old man lying hatless in the middle of +the field, face downwards, upon the shotgun. He had died of sheer +exhaustion, on guard--and on his own land, as befit an honest citizen +who had never intruded upon the peace of other men. + + + + +XXI. -- AT THE STAGE DOOR + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_.Copyright, 1892, by J. B. +Lippincott Company.] + +First let me explain how I came to be sitting in so unsavoury a place as +Gorson's "fifteen cent oyster and chop house" that night. Most newspaper +men--the rank and file--receive remuneration by the week. Those not +given over to domesticity, those who enjoy that alluring regularity +identical with liberty, fare sumptuously, as a rule, on "pay-day." +Thereafter the quantity and quality of the good things of life that they +enjoy diminish daily until the next pay-day. + +Pay-day with us was Friday. This was Thursday night. I having gone to +unusual lengths of good cheer in the early part of that week, had +now fallen low, and was duly thankful for what I could get--even at +Gorson's. + +As my glance wandered over my table, over the beer-bottles and the +oysters, beyond the crowd of ravenous and vulgar eaters and hurrying +waiters, to the street door, some one opened that door from the outside +and entered. An odd looking personage this some one. + +A person very tall and conspicuously thin. These peculiarities were +accentuated by the dilapidated frock coat that reached to his knees, and +thus concealed the greater portion of his gray summer trousers, which +"bagged" exceedingly and were picturesquely frayed at the bottom edges, +as I could see when he came nearer to me. He wore a faded straw hat, +which looked forlorn, as the month was January. His face, despite +its angularity of outline and its wanness, had that expression of +complacency which often relieves from pathos the countenances of +harmlessly demented people. His hair was gray, but his somewhat +formidable looking moustache was still dark. He carried an unadorned +walking-stick and under his left arm was what a journalistic eye +immediately recognized as manuscript. From the man's aspect of extreme +poverty, I deduced that his manuscripts were never accepted. + +As he passed the cashier's desk, he stopped, lowered his body, not by +stooping in the usual way, but by bending his knees, and with a quick +sweep of his eyes by way of informing himself whether or not he was +observed, he picked up a cigar stump that some one had dropped there. + +Then he walked with a rather shambling but self-important gait to the +table next mine, carefully placed his manuscript upon a chair, and +sat down upon it. He was soon lost in a prolonged contemplation of the +limited bill of fare posted on the wall, a study which resulted in +his ordering, through a hustling, pugnacious-looking waiter, a bowl of +oatmeal. + +A bowl of oatmeal is the least expensive item on the bill of fare at +Gorson's. When I hear a man ordering oatmeal in a cheap eating-house, my +heart aches for him. I had just the money and the intention to procure +another bottle of beer and another box of cigarettes. The sum required +to obtain these necessaries of life is exactly the price of a bowl of +oatmeal and a steak at Gorson's. So I hastily arose to go, and on my +way out I had a brief conversation with the bellicose-appearing waiter, +which resulted in my unknown friend's being overwhelmed with amazement +later when the waiter brought him a warm steak with his oatmeal and said +that some one else had already paid his bill. I did not wait to witness +this result, for the man looked one of the sort to put forth a show of +indignation at being made an object of charity. + +An hour later I saw him walking with an air of consequence up Broadway, +smoking what was probably the bit of cigar he had picked up in the +restaurant. He still carried his manuscript, which was wrapped in a +soiled blue paper. As I was hurrying up-town on an assignment for the +newspaper, I could not observe his movements further than to see that +when he reached Fourteenth Street he made for one of the benches in +Union Square. + +It was by the size, shape, and blue cover that I recognized that +manuscript two days later upon the desk of the editor of the Sunday +supplementary pages of the paper, as I was submitting to that personage +a "special" I had written upon the fertile theme, "Producing a +Burlesque." + +"May I ask what that stuff is wrapped in blue?" + +"Certainly. A crank in the last stages of alcoholism and mental +depression brought it in yesterday. It's an idiotic jumble about +Beautiful Women of History, part in prose and part in doggerel." + +"Of course you'll reject it?" + +"Naturally. I'll ease his mind by telling him the subject lacks +contemporaneousness. Have a cigarette? By the way, have you any special +interest in the rubbish?" + +"No; I only think I've seen it before somewhere. What's the writer's +name and address?" + +"It's to be called for. He didn't leave any address. From that fact and +his appearance, I infer that he doesn't have any permanent abode. Here's +his name,--Ernest Ruddle. Not half as much individuality in the name as +in the man. I remember him because he had a straw hat on." + +The burlesque production which had served as material for my Sunday +article saw the light for the first time on the following Monday night. +There being no other theatrical novelty in New York that night, the +town--represented by the critics and the sporting and self-styled +Bohemian elements--was there. The performance was to have a popular +comedian as the central figure, and was to serve, also, to reintroduce +a once favourite comic-opera prima donna, who had been abroad for some +years. This stage queen had once beheld the town at her feet. She +had abdicated her throne in the height of her glory, having made the +greatest success of her career on a certain Monday night, and having +disappeared from New York on Tuesday, shortly afterward materializing in +Paris. + +There was abundant curiosity awaiting the appearance of Louise Moran, as +the playbills called her. It was whispered, to be sure, by some who had +seen her in burlesque in London, after her flight from America, that she +had grown a bit passe; but this was refuted by the interviewers who had +met her on her return and had duly chronicled that she looked "as rosy +and youthful as ever." Brokers, gilded youth, all that curious lot +of masculinity classified under the general head of "men about town," +crowded into the theatre that night, and when, after being heralded at +length by the chorus, the returned prima donna appeared, in shining drab +tights, she had a long and noisy reception. + +My friendly acquaintance with the leading comedian and the stage manager +had served to obtain for me an unusual privilege,--that of witnessing +the first night's performance from the wings. As I looked out across +the stage and the footlights, and saw the sea of faces in the yellowish +haze, a familiar visage held my eye. It was in the front row of the top +gallery, and was projected far over the railing, putting its owner in +some risk of decapitation. An intent look on the pale countenance at +once distinguished it from the terrace of uninteresting, monotonous +faces that rose back of it. The face was that of my man of the +restaurant and of the blue-covered manuscript. + +I stood, somewhat in the way of the light man, where my eye could +command most of the stage, and a brief section of the auditorium, from +parquet to roof. The star of the evening, having rattled off, with much +sang-froid and a London intonation, a few lines of thinly humourous +dialogue, came toward the footlights to sing. While the conductor of +the orchestra poised his baton and cast an apprehensive look at her, she +began: + + "I'm one of the swells + Whose accent tells + That we've done the Contenong." + +When she had sung only to this point, people in the audience were +exchanging significant smiles. There was no doubt of it; Louise Moran's +voice had lost its beauty. The years and joys of life abroad had done +their work. We now knew why she had given up comic opera and had gone +into burlesque. The house was so taken by surprise that at the end of +her second stanza, where applause should have come, none came. There was +no occasion for her to draw upon her supply of "encore verses." + +Unprepared for the chilling silence that followed her song, she bestowed +upon the audience a look of mingled astonishment, pain, and resentment. +But she recovered self-possession promptly and delivered the few spoken +lines preceding her exit gaily enough. Her face clouded as soon as she +was off the stage. She abused her maid in her dressing-room and sent the +comedian's "dresser" out for some troches. The state of her mind was +not improved by the sound of a hail-storm-like sound that came from +the direction of the stage shortly after,--the applause at the leading +comedian's entrance. + +As the newspapers said the next day, the only honours of that +performance were with the comedian. The star of Louise Moran had set. +Not only was her singing-voice a ruin, but the actress had grown coarse +in visage. The once willowy outlines of her figure had rounded vulgarly. +On the face, audacity had taken place of piquancy. Even the dark gray +eyes, which somehow seemed black across the footlights, had lost some +lustre. + +Why had the once lovely creature come back from Europe to disturb the +memories of her other radiant self, and to turn those dainty photographs +of her earlier person into lies? + +Every man in the house was thinking this question at the end of the +first act. + +She had another solo to sing in the second act. It was while she was +attempting this that my glance strayed to the man in the gallery. His +face this time surprised me. + +It wore a look of ineffable sympathy and sorrow. Surely tears were +falling from the sad eyes. + +This pity touched me. It was so solitary. The feeling of the rest of the +audience was plainly one of resentful derision at being disappointed. + +After the performance I waited for the comedian. He was called before +the curtain and a speech was extorted from him. There were but a few +faint cries for the actress, to which she did not respond. She had +summoned the manager to her dressing-room. While she hastily assumed +her wraps for the street, she was excitedly complaining of the musical +director "for not knowing his business," the comedian for "interfering" +in her scenes, the composer for writing the music too high, and the +librettist for supplying such "beastly rubbish" in the way of dialogue. + +"Very well; I'll call a rehearsal to-morrow at ten," the conciliatory +manager replied. "You talk to Myers" (the musical director) "yourself +about it. And you can introduce those two songs you speak of. Myers will +fix the other music to suit your voice." + +"And you start Elliott to write over the libretto at once," she +commanded, "and see that that song and dance clown" (the comedian) +"never comes on the stage when I'm on, if it can be helped, or I won't +go on at all. That's settled!" + +The comedian and I left the stage door together. The actress's cab was +waiting at the opposite side of the dark alley-like street upon which +the stage door opened. This street or court, stretching its gloomy way +from a main street, is a place of tall warehouses, rear walls, and bad +paving. The electric light at its point of junction with the main street +does not penetrate half-way to the stage entrance, and the blackness +thereabout is diluted with the rays of the lonely, indifferent gas-lamp +that projects above the old wooden door. Farther on, an old-fashioned +street-lamp marks the place where the alley turns to wind about until it +eventually reaches another main street. + +This dark region, the feeble lamp above the stage door, the shadows +opposite, have a peculiar charm, especially at night. One would not +think that within that door is a short corridor leading to the mystic +realm which the people "in front" idealize into a wonderful inaccessible +country, the playworld. Back here, especially on a rainy night and +before the playworld's inhabitants begin to sally forth to partake of +terrestrial beer and sandwiches, one seems millions of miles away from +the crowds of men and women in the theatre and from the illumined street +in front. + +The ordinary world, when passing this strange place, peers in curiously +from the main street. Sometimes folks wait at the corner of the street +to see the stage people come out. If the piece is a burlesque or a comic +opera, much life moves in the darkness back here. Light comes from the +up-stairs windows of the theatre, the dressing rooms of the subordinate +players being up there. Snatches of song from feminine throats, mere +trills sometimes, isolated fragments of melody, break into the silence. +These are always numerous during the half-hour after the performance and +before the actors have left the theatre. Chorus girls in ulsters emerge +in troops, usually by twos, from the door beneath the light, and it is +constantly opening and shutting. In the gloom opposite the door hover a +few bold youths, suddenly become timid, smoking cigarettes and trying +to look like men of the world. As the comedian and I came forth, one of +these young men struck a match to light a cigarette. The momentary flash +attracted my eye, and I saw in the farthest shadow, with his gaze upon +the stage door, my man of the restaurant, and the manuscript, and the +gallery. If possible, he looked more haggard than before, and, as it was +cold, he shivered perceptibly. + +"Whom can he be waiting for, I wonder?" I said, aloud. + +The comedian, thinking that I alluded to the cabman, half-asleep upon +his seat, replied, as he turned up the collar of his overcoat: + +"Oh, he's waiting for Miss Moran. She didn't always go home from the +theatre in a cab. She acquired the habit abroad, I suppose. How she's +changed. I knew her in other days." + +"Really? I didn't know that. Tell me about her." + +"It's a common story. She's the result of a mercenary mother's schemes. +She's not as old as people think, you know. Her career has been +eventful, which makes it seem long. But I was in the cast, playing a +small part in the first play she ever appeared in, and that was only +twelve years ago. She was about twenty-one then. She waited on customers +in her mother's little stationery store, until one day she eloped with a +poor young fellow whom she loved, in order to escape a rich old man whom +her mother had selected for a son-in-law. She could have endured +poverty well enough, if the mother hadn't done the +'I--forgive--and--Heaven--bless--you--my--children' act, after which she +succeeded in making the girl quarrel with her husband continually. She +was a schemer, that mother. A theatrical manager, whom she knew, was +introduced to the girl, who was more beautiful then than ever afterward. +The mother managed to have the girl's husband discharged from the bank +where he was employed on the same day that the manager made the girl an +offer to go on the stage. The boy naturally wanted to keep his wife with +him, but the mother told him he was a fool. + +"'I'll travel with her,' she said, 'and you stay here and get another +situation.' The wife, intoxicated at the prospects of stage triumphs, +urged, and the boy gave in. + +"A year or so after that, the girl had drifted completely out of the +husband's life, as they say in society plays, the mother managed to +bring about the estrangement so promptly. + +"The husband stayed at home and got work in a railroad office or +somewhere, so as to earn money with which to drink himself to death--I +say, let's go in here and eat. If we go to the club, I'll be bored to +death with congratulations." + +We turned into a lighted vestibule and mounted the stairs to a modest +little caf over a Broadway saloon. There, over the cigars and Pilsner +presently the comedian continued the story: + +"When the husband learned that to his charming mother-in-law's +machinations he owed the loss of his position and his wife, he bided his +time, like a sensible fellow, and one day he called upon the old lady at +her flat. Without a word, he proceeded to pull out much of her hair and +otherwise to disfigure her permanently, which, as she was a vain woman, +made her miserable the rest of her days. Then he disappeared, and has +not been heard of since. It seems strange the thing never got into the +newspapers. By the way, you won't print this story, my boy, until she or +I leave the profession." + +"Why not? Are you the only man who knows it?" + +"No; it was general gossip in the profession at that time." + +"How did you get it so straight?" + +"She told me. I knew her well in those days. Oh, use the story if you +like, only don't credit it to me. She's very mad because I made a hit +to-night and she didn't." + +"But what was the name of her husband?" + +"Poor devil!--his name was--what was it, anyhow? By Jove, I can't think +of it! It'll come back to me, though, and I'll let you know later. He +had literary aspirations, by the way. She used to laugh at the poetry he +had written about her. Poor boy!" + +The next night, radical changes having been effected in the burlesque, +the prima donna made a more creditable showing. I happened to be at the +stage door again when she came out with her maid after the performance, +as I had under my guidance one of the newspaper's artists, who had been +making some sketches of life behind the scenes. She was in a gayer mood +than that in which she had been on the previous night. + +As she was entering the cab, I heard a muffled exclamation, which came +from the shadow opposite the stage door. Dimly in that shadow could +be seen a form with arms outstretched toward the woman, as in an +involuntary gesture. The cab rolled away. The form emerged from the +darkness and wearily strode by. It was that of my manuscript man. He had +the same straw hat, stick, and frock coat. + +"That queer old chap must be really in love with her," I thought, +smiling. Such things often happen. I knew a gallery god--but that will +keep. Evidently here was an amusing case, not without its aspect of +pathos. + +Being in that vicinity on the following night, I strolled up to the +stage door, merely to see whether the straw hat would be there again. +There it was, patiently waiting, scourged by the most ferocious of +January winds. + +Doubtless the man came here every night to catch a glimpse of his +divinity. He was quite unobtrusive, and I was probably the only one who +noticed his constant attendance. I learned at the newspaper office that +he had called for the rejected manuscript bearing his name,--Ernest +Ruddle. Then for a time I neither saw nor thought of him. + +One night, in the last of January,--the coldest of that savage +winter,--I happened again to be in the corridor leading to the stage +door, having come from within the theatre in advance of my friend the +comedian, with whom I was to have supper at the Actors' Athletic Club. +The actress's cab was waiting. The dark little portion of the world back +there was deserted. + +Along the corridor, through which the sound of chorus girls' laughter +came, strolled the comedian, his cigar already lighted and behind it his +cheerful, hearty, smooth-shaven visage appearing ruddy from the recent +washing off of "make-up." + +"Hello!" he began, thrusting his hand into his overcoat pockets. "By +the way, while I think of it, I just passed Miss Moran coming from the +dressing-room, and suddenly that name came back to me, the name of her +husband. It was a peculiar name,--Ernest Ruddle." + +Ernest Ruddle! the name on the manuscript! The man of the restaurant and +the gallery, the tears, the waiting at the stage door, were explained +now. Ere we reached the stage door, the actress herself appeared in the +corridor, on the arm of her maid. She was laughing, rather coarsely. We +stepped aside to let her pass out into the night. + +"So the manager said he'd give me $50 more on the road," she was saying, +"and I said he would have to make it $75 more--gracious! what's this?" + +She had stumbled over something just outside the threshold of the stage +door. Her companion stooped, while the actress jumped aside and looked +down at the large black object with both fright and curiosity. + +"It's a man," said the maid; "drunk, or asleep, or dead. He looks +frozen. He's a tramp, I guess; hurry away! We'll tell the policeman on +the corner." + +The actress passed on, with a final look of half-aversion, half-pity, at +the prostrate body. The comedian and I were both by that body within two +seconds. + +"Frozen or starved, sure!" said the comedian. "Poor beggar! Look at his +straw hat. Observe his death-clutch on the cane." + +From down the alley came two sounds: one was a policeman's approaching +footsteps; the other, of a woman's laughter. What, to be sure, was the +dead or drunken body of an unknown vagabond to her? + +And it seems strange that I, who never exchanged speech with either the +woman or the man, was the only one in the world who might recognize in +the momentary contact of the living with the dead, a dramatic situation. + + + + +XXII. -- "POOR YORICK" + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_. Copyright, 1892, by J.B. +Lippincott Company.] + +The name by which he was indicated on the playbills was Overfield. His +real name was buried in the far past. By several members of the company +to which he belonged he was often called "Poor Yorick." + +I asked the leading juvenile of the company--young Bridges, who was +supposed to attract women to the theatre, and for whose glorification +"The Lady of Lyons" was sometimes revived at matines--how the old man +had acquired the nickname. + +"I gave it to him myself last season," replied Bridges, loftily. "Can't +you guess why? You remember the graveyard scene in 'Hamlet.' The skull +of Yorick, you know, had lain in the earth three and twenty years. +Yorick had been dead that long. Well, the old man had been dead for +about the same length of time,--professionally dead, I mean. See?" + +It was true that, so far as being known by the world went, the old man +was as good, or as bad, as dead. He no longer played other than quite +unimportant parts. + +It was said by some one that he was the poorest actor and the noblest +man in the country; a statement commended by Jennison, an Englishman who +usually played villains, to this, that his were the worst art and best +heart in the profession. + +Poor Yorick was a thin man, with a smooth, gentle face, lamblike blue +eyes, and curling gray locks that receded gracefully from his forehead. +He had just an individualizing amount of the pomposity characteristic +of many old-time actors. He was not known to have any living kin. He +permitted himself one weakness, a liking for whiskey, an indulgence +which was never noticed to have brought appreciable harm upon him. + +Once I asked him when he had made his dbut. He answered, "When Joe +Jefferson was still young and before Billie Crane was heard of." + +"In what rle?" + +"As four soldiers," he replied. + +"How could that be?" + +He explained that he had first appeared as a super in a military drama, +marching as a soldier. The procession, in order to create an illusion +of length, had passed across the stage and back, the return being made +behind the scenes four times continuously in the same direction. + +The old man took uncomplainingly to the name applied to him by Bridges. +He must have known what it implied, for surely he could not have +mistaken himself for "a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent +fancy." His non-resentment was but an evidence of his good nature, for +he was aware that it was not a very general custom of actors to give +each other nicknames, and that his case was an exception. + +When he was playing the insignificant part of the old family servant of +a New York banker, in the most successful comedy of that season, he came +to know Bridges better than ever before. Poor Yorick had little more +to do in the play than to come on and turn up some light, arrange some +papers on a desk, go off, and afterward return and lower the light. +Bridges was doing the rle of the bank clerk in love with the banker's +daughter. Yorick and Bridges, through some set of circumstances or +other, were sharers of the same dressing-room. + +Upon a certain Wednesday, and after a matine, the two were in their +dressing-room, hastily washing up their faces and putting on their +street clothes. Said the old man: + +"Did you notice the pretty little girl in the upper box? She reminds me +of--" here his voice fell and took on suddenly a tone of sadness--"of +some one I knew once, long ago." + +Bridges, drying his face with a towel before the big mirror, did not +observe the old man's change of voice, nor did he heed the last part of +the sentence. + +"Notice her?" he answered, with a touch of triumphant vanity in his +manner of speech. "I should say I did. She was there on my account. +I'm going to make a date with her for supper after the performance +to-night." + +Old Overfield, sitting on a trunk, stared at Bridges in surprise. + +"Do you know her?" he asked. + +"No," replied the leading juvenile. "That is, I have never met her, but +she's been writing me mash notes lately, asking for a meeting. In the +last one she said she could get away from her house this evening, as her +father's out of town and her mother is going over to Philadelphia this +afternoon. So she invited me to have supper with her to-night, and was +good enough to say she'd occupy that box this afternoon, so I could see +what she was like. Didn't you observe her embarrassment when I came on +the stage? I paid no attention to her first letter. But, having seen +her, you bet I'll answer the last one right away. Don't you wish you +were me, old fellow?" + +The old fellow stood up and looked at Bridges severely. + +"Yes, I do wish I were you,--just long enough to see that you don't +answer that girl's letter. Surely you don't mean to!" + +"Hello! What have you got to do with it? Do you know the young woman?" + +"No, I don't. But I can easily guess all about her. She's some romantic +little girl, still pure and good, afflicted with one of those idiotic +infatuations for an actor, which is sure to bring trouble to her if +you don't behave like a white man. You want to show her the idiocy of +writing those letters, by ignoring them. You know that actors who care +to do themselves and the profession credit make it a rule never to +answer a letter from a girl like that, unless to give her a word of +advice. Come, my boy, don't disgrace yourself and profession. Don't +spoil the life of a pretty but foolish girl who, if you do the right +thing, will soon repent her silliness, and make some square young fellow +a good wife." + +Bridges had continued to dress himself during this long speech, assuming +a show of contemptuous indignation as it progressed. When Overfield, +astonished at his own eloquence, had subsided, the young man replied, in +a quiet but rather insolent tone: + +"Look here, old man, don't try to work the Polonius racket on me. I +don't like advice, and I'm going to meet that girl, see? She arranged +the whole thing herself; she's to be at a certain spot at eleven-thirty +P.M. with a cab. All I've got to do is to signify my assent in a single +line, which I'm going to write and send by messenger as soon as I get +out of here. Of course, if the girl was a friend of yours, it would be +different, but she isn't, and if you want to remain on good terms with +me, you won't put in your oar. Now that's all settled." + +"Is it? Well, young man, I don't want to remain on good terms with +anybody I can't respect. I can't respect a man who would take advantage +of a love-struck girl's ignorance of life. If you meet her, you will +simply be obtaining favours on false pretences, anyhow, for you know +you're not really half the fascinating, romantic, clever youth that you +seem when you're on the stage speaking another man's thoughts. That girl +is probably good, and she looks like some one I used to know. If I can +save her, I will, by thunder!" + +"Really, old man, you're quite worked up. If you could act half that +well on the stage, you'd be doing lead, instead of dusting furniture +while the audience gets settled in its seats." + +Old Yorick stood for a moment speechless, stung by the insult. Then he +took up his hat, excitedly, and left the dressing-room without a word. + +Some of the other members of the company wondered at the angry, flushed +look on his face when he hurried through the corridor to the stage door. +A few minutes later he was seen walking down the street, apparently much +heated in mind. When he reached a certain caf he went in, sat down, and +called for whiskey. He remained alone in deep thought, mechanically +and unconsciously answering the salutations bestowed upon him by two or +three acquaintances who strolled in. Suddenly he nodded thrice, as if +denoting the acquiescence of his judgment in some plan of action +formed by his inventive faculty. He rose quickly, paid his bill at the +cashier's desk, and moved rapidly across the street to the ---- Hotel. +Passing in through a broad entrance, he turned aside to a writing-room, +where, without removing his soft hat, he sat down at a desk. + +He was soon immersed in the composition of a letter, which caused him +many contractions of the brow, many lapses during which he abstractedly +stared at vacancy, many fresh beginnings, and the whole of the two hours +allowed him before the evening's performance for dinner. + +When he had finished the letter, he carefully read it, and made a few +corrections. Then he folded it up, put it in an envelope, and placed +it unsealed in his inside coat pocket. He arose with an expression of +resolution about his eyes that was quite new there. + +Ascertaining by the clock in the thronged main corridor that the time +was ten minutes after seven, the old man rushed into the caf, where he +devoured hastily a chicken croquette, and swallowed a cup of coffee +and a glass of whiskey before starting to the theatre. He was in his +dressing-room and in his shirt-sleeves, touching up his eyebrows, when +Bridges arrived. A cool greeting passed between the two. + +"You sent the note?" asked the old man. + +"What note?" gruffly queried Bridges, taking off his coat. + +"To that girl." + +"Most certainly." + +A curious look, unobserved by Bridges, shot from Poor Yorick's eyes. It +seemed to say, "Wait, things may happen that you're not looking for." + +At about the time when Bridges and Yorick were dressing for the +performance, a newspaper reporter, wishing to make a few notes of an +interview that had been accorded him by a politician staying in the +hotel at which the old man had written his long letter, went into the +writing-room and made use of the desk where the actor had sat earlier in +the evening. Several sheets of blank paper were scattered over it. One +of them contained almost a page of writing. Yorick had negligently left +it there. It was a beginning made by him before he had succeeded in +obtaining a satisfactory wording for his thoughts. This rejected opening +read: + +"My DEAR, FOOLISH YOUNG LADY:--Something has happened which prevents Mr. +Bridges from keeping the appointment with you, and you're much better +off on that account, for nothing but unhappiness can come to you if you +allow yourself to be carried out of your senses by your infatuation for +a man who has neither the brains nor the manliness which he seems to +have when playing parts that call for the mere simulation of these +gifts. Never make an appointment with a man you do not know, especially +a young and vain actor who has once got the worst of it in a divorce +suit. You'll be thankful some day for this advice, for I know what I +speak of. I was once, years ago, just such an actor. The woman got +into all sorts of trouble because she wrote me such letters as you have +written Bridges, and brought to an early end a life that might have been +very happy and youthful. Looked like you, and it is a memory of what she +lost and suffered that makes me wish to save you. My dear young ----" + +There were yet two lines to spare at the foot of the page. The newspaper +man, interested by the fragment, thrust it into his pocket. + +When Poor Yorick had finished his final scene in the comedy at the +----Theatre that night, he made haste to dress and to leave the +playhouse. But he loitered near the stage entrance, keeping in the +shadow on the other side of the alley, out of the range of the light +from the incandescent globe over the door. + +Bridges was slightly surprised, on returning to his dressing-room, to +find that Yorick had already gone. But he attributed this to the ill +feeling that had arisen on account of the intended meeting with the girl +of the letters and the box. + +The leading juvenile attired himself for the conquest carefully but +rapidly. When he was ready he surveyed his reflection complacently in +the long mirror, assuming the slightly languid look that he intended to +maintain during the first half-hour of the supper. He retained the dress +suit which he wore in the second and third act of the play, and which +he rarely displayed outside of the theatre. He flattered himself that +he was quite irresistible, and wondered whether she would take him to +Delmonico's or to some quiet little place. He indulged, too, in some +vague speculation as to what the supper might result in. The girl was +evidently of a rich family, but her people would doubtless never hear of +her making a match with him, that divorce affair being in recent memory. +A marriage was probably out of the question. However, the girl was a +beauty and this meeting was at least worth the trouble. So he donned his +coat and hat and swaggered out of the theatre. He had no sooner turned +from the alley upon which the stage door opened than Yorick, unnoticed +by him, darted out in pursuit. Ten minutes' walking brought the leading +juvenile near the spot where he was to be awaited by the girl in the +cab. Yorick, whose only means of ascertaining the place of meeting was +to follow Bridges, kept as near the young actor as was compatible +with safety from discovery by the latter. Bridges, strutting along +unconscious of Yorick's presence a few yards behind, had half-traversed +the deserted block of tall brown stone residences, when he saw a cab +standing at the corner ahead of him. He quickened his pace in such a +way as to warn the old man that the eventful moment was at hand. The cab +stood under an electric light before an ivy-grown church. + +Yorick, with noiseless steps, accelerated his gait. Bridges, as he +neared the cab, deflected his course toward the curbstone and threw his +head back impressively. This little action, interpreted rightly by the +pursuer, was the old man's cue. Yorick suddenly rushed forward with +surprising agility. + +Before Bridges could be seen by the occupant of the cab for which he was +making, he was dazed by a blow on the side of the head, just beneath +the ear, and knocked off his feet by a sound thump on the same spot. He +reeled, clutched at the air, and fell heavily upon the sidewalk. There +he lay stunned and silent. + +Yorick, not waiting to see what became of the man whom he had felled, +dashed forward to the cab. Opening the door, he caught a momentary +vision of a white, round face, with big, scared eyes, above a +palpitating mass of soft silk and fur, and against a black background. +He thrust toward her the letter, which he had quickly drawn from his +pocket, and whispered, huskily: + +"Mr. Bridges couldn't come. Here's a note." + +Then he slammed the cab door, and called out in a commanding tone: + +"Drive on there! Quick!" + +The cabman, who had evidently received directions in advance from the +girl, jerked his reins, and the cab moved forward, turned, and rattled +away, the horse at a brisk trot. + +Yorick speedily left the scene. At the next corner he met a policeman, +to whom he said: + +"There's a man lying on the sidewalk back there by the church. I don't +know whether he's drunk or not." + +He was off before the officer could detain him. + +Bridges spent the night in a station-house, recovering from the effects +of a fall, which the police attributed to drunkenness. Assuming that he +had received his blows from some masculine relative or admirer of the +girl, he gave a false account of the bruises when the next night he +asked the manager for a few nights of rest and enabled his understudy to +obtain a chance long coveted. + +The leading juvenile manifestly thought best not to attempt a renewal of +a flirtation with a young woman who had so formidable a protector; and +the girl herself, whatever became of her, addressed him no more epistles +of adoration, or of any sort whatever. + +Yorick got from the stage manager permission to change his +dressing-room. Thereafter he and Bridges maintained a mutual coolness, +until one day the leading juvenile, warmed by cocktails, melted, and +addressed the old man familiarly by his nickname. + +"Old fellow," said Bridges, over a caf table, "when I come to play +Hamlet, I'll send for you to act Poor Yorick. You'd do it well. You're +always best, you know, in parts that don't require you to come on the +stage at all." + +The old man smiled grimly and then shrugged his shoulders at this +pleasantry. When he died the other day, he left a curious will, in +which, after naming several insignificant legacies, he bequeathed his +skull "to a so-called actor, one Charles Bridges, to be used by him in +the graveyard scene when he shall have become able to play Hamlet,--if +the skull be not disintegrated by that time." + + + + +XXIII. -- COINCIDENCE + +Max took us down into a German place into the bowels of the earth. It +was a bit of Berlin transplanted to Philadelphia and thriving beneath +a Teutonic eating-house. Imagine a great cellar, with stone floor, +ornamented ceiling, massive rectangular pillars of brown wood, +substantial tables, heavy mediaeval chairs, crossbeams bearing pictures +of peasant girls and lettered with sentiments of good cheer in German, +and walls covered with beer-mugs of every size and device. + +Scores of men sat talking at the tables, smoking, devouring sandwiches, +upturning their mugs of beer over the capacious receptacles provided by +nature. + +The mediaeval chairs appealed to the romanticism that lies beneath +Breffny's satirical exterior; and when Max called our attention to the +fact that the mugs of beer came through apertures from caves beneath the +street, we were content. + +For the hour, the problem of human happiness was solved for us three by +three foaming mugs, three sandwiches, and tobacco. + +Here communed we three, blown from various winds, to this local Bohemia: +Max, native of the free German City of Frankfort, operatic manager +in Rio Janeiro, musician in New York, Denver resident by adoption, +Philadelphia newspaperman by preference; Breffny, born in a Spanish +village, reared in Continental countries, professedly an Irishman, but +more than half-Latin in temperament and appearance, a cyclopedia for the +benefit of his friends, and myself. + +The talk ran to the imposture recently attempted by young Mr. Herdling, +who claimed that the dead body found at Tarrytown was that of his wife. + +"A very touching fake," said Max. + +"Yes; thanks to the skill of the reporters who wrote up his story," +cried Breffny. + +"We visited many morgues in search of her, Louise and I," said I, +quoting the most effective passage of the narrative. + +"I did know of one case of a husband starting off at random to find his +runaway wife," observed Breffny. + +"As there's yet an hour to midnight, we have time for one of your +stories." + +"I can tell this in five minutes. All I know of the story is the +beginning. No one ever heard of the end. It was like this: + +"When I lived in Glasgow, I knew a young fellow there who was timekeeper +in a shipyard. He was a very quiet, pleasant boy, so bashful that I used +to wonder how he had ever summoned the courage to propose to the pretty +Scotch girl who was his wife. As I got to know more of the pair, I +divined the secret. Although poor, he was of good Glasgow parentage, +while the wife had been a country girl so eager to get to the city that +she had courted him while he was on a visit to the village in which she +had lived. She had merely used him as a means for finding the life for +which she had longed. + +"How much he really loved her was never suspected until he came home one +evening and found that she had run away with the youngest son of one of +the proprietors of the shipyard. + +"He learned within a week that they had sailed for America. He packed a +valise, took the money that he had saved, and started out. + +"'But where are you going to look for them?' I asked him. + +"'To America,' he said, turning toward me, his face drawn and gaunt with +the grief that he had survived. + +"'But America is a vast country.' + +"'I will hunt till I find her.' + +"'And when you find her--you will not kill her, surely!' + +"'I will try to get her to come back to me.' + +"He took passage in the steerage, and I do not know what happened to him +after that." + +Each of us hid his emotions in his beer-mug. Then Max ordered fresh +mugs, and said that Breffny's story recalled a somewhat similar thing +that he had witnessed in Denver. + +"When I was a reporter out there, I was standing one evening in front +of a hotel. A crowd collected to see the body of a guest brought out and +placed upon an ambulance. + +"'Where are you taking him, and what is it?' I asked the driver. + +"'To the lazaretto. Smallpox.'" + +For a moment, while he was being lifted into the ambulance, the victim's +face was visible. A loud cry was heard in the crowd. It came from a +ragged, wild-looking man, whose unkempt beard made him look much older +than I afterward found him to be. As the ambulance hurried off, he ran +after it, shouting: + +"'I must see that man! Stop! I must ask him something!' + +"But he tripped upon a horse-car track, and when he had staggered to his +feet, the ambulance was out of sight. + +"I ran into the hotel and asked the clerk about the lazaretto patient. +He was a young European--an Englishman--they thought, who had +arrived from the East two days ago, and whose condition had just been +discovered. + +"Coming out, I went to the tramp who had cried out at the sight of the +ill man. I found him seated on the curbstone, weeping like a child. +I asked him why he wished to see the smallpox victim, and said that I +could get him admission to the lazaretto, if he would tell me what he +knew, and wouldn't let any other reporter have the story. + +"He jumped up eagerly. + +"'It's this,' he said. 'That man ran away with my wife, and I've hunted +them over sea and land. This is the first sight I've had of him.' + +"'Then,' I said, 'if you mean to harm him, I'm afraid I can't bring you +to him.' + +"'Him!' said the ragged man, disdainfully. 'I don't want to hurt him. +I only want to find out where she is. I swear I wouldn't harm either of +them.' + +"I accompanied him to the city physician, with whom he had a long talk. +That official finally promised to take him to the lazaretto. The doctor +led the man to the side of the iron bed where the smallpox patient lay. +The latter started like a frightened child at sight of his pursuer. + +"'Remember,' said the doctor to the sick man, 'you have scarcely a +chance for life. You would do well to tell the truth.' + +"'Only tell me where she is,' pleaded the husband, 'and I'll forgive you +all.' + +"The sick man gasped: + +"'I left her in Philadelphia--at the station. She had smallpox. It was +from her I got it. I was a coward--a cur. I left her to save myself. The +money I had brought from home was nearly all gone. Ask her to forgive +me.' + +"He was dead that evening. The husband was then upon an east-bound +freight-train. The newspaper telegraphed to Philadelphia, but nothing +could be found out about the woman. I've often wondered what became of +the man." + +The loud hubbub of conversation,--nearly all in German,--the shouts +of the waiters, the noise of their footfalls upon the stone floor, the +sound of mugs being placed upon tables and of Max draining his "stein" +of beer, bridged the hiatus between the ending of Max's narrative and +the beginning of my own: + +"Your story reminds me of one to which the city editor assigned me on +one of my 'late nights.' I took a cab and went to the station-house. The +case had been reported by a policeman at Ninth and Locust Streets, who +had called for a patrol-wagon. From him I got the story. He had seen the +thing happen. + +"He was walking down Locust at half-past twelve that night, and was +opposite the Midnight Mission, when his attention was attracted to +the only two persons who were at that moment on the other side of the +street. One was a man of the appearance of a vagabond, coming from Ninth +Street. The other was a woman, who had come from Tenth Street, and who +seemed to walk with great difficulty, as if ready to sink at every step +from weakness. + +"The woman dropped her head as she neared the man. The man peered into +her face, in the manner of one who had acquired the habit of examining +the countenances of passers-by. + +"The two met under the gas-lamp that is so conspicuous a night feature +of the north side of Locust Street, between Ninth and Tenth. + +"The woman gave no attention to the man. So exhausted was she that she +leaned helplessly against the fence. The man ran forward, shrieking like +a lunatic. + +"'Jeannie!' + +"The woman lifted her eyes in a dull kind of amazement and whispered: + +"'Donald!' + +"She fell back, but he caught her in his arms and kissed her lips +a dozen times, with a half-savage gladness, crying and laughing +hysterically, as women do. + +"When the policeman had reached the pair, the woman had seen the last of +this world. + +"Afterward we found that she had been discharged from the municipal +hospital, where she had been in the smallpox ward two weeks before; and +we surmised that she had virtually had nothing to eat since then. + +"At the station-house the man explained that the woman was his runaway +wife. He had started in search of her two years before, with no other +clue as to her whereabouts than the knowledge that she had sailed for +America with a man named Ferriss--" + +"What?" cried Max. "Was the name Archibald Ferriss? That was the name of +the man who died in the Denver lazaretto--" + +But Max was stopped by Breffny, who almost shouted in excitement: + +"And the name of the son of McKeown & Ferriss, of Glasgow, in whose +shipyard was employed as timekeeper the Donald Wilson--" + +"Donald Wilson was the name of the man who met his wife that night in +front of the Midnight Mission," said I, in further confirmation. + +It was remarkable. One of the three chapters of this tragic story had +entered into the experience of each of us three who sat there emptying +stone mugs. Now, for the first time, was the story complete to each of +us. + +"But what became of the man?" asked Breffny. + +"When the police lieutenant spoke of having her body interred in +Potter's Field, the husband spoke up indignantly. He brought forth two +gold pieces, saying: + +"'I have the money for her grave. I saved this through all my +wanderings, because I thought that when I should find her she might be +homeless and hungry and in need.' + +"So he had her buried respectably in the suburbs somewhere, and I was +too busy at that time to follow up his subsequent movements. It is +enough for the story that he found his wife." + + + + +XXIV. -- NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN + +It was not his real name or his stage name, but it was the one under +which he was best known by those who best knew him. It had been thrown +at him in a caf one night by a newspaper man after the performance, +and had clung to him. Its significance lay in the fact that his +"gags"--supposedly comic things said by presumably comic men in nominal +opera or burlesque--invariably were old. The man who bestowed the title +upon him thought it a fine bit of irony. + +Newgag received it without expressed resentment, but without mirth, and +he bore its repetition patiently as seasons went by. He was accustomed +to enduring calmly the jests, the indignities that were elicited by +his peculiar appearance, his doleful expression, his slow and bungling +speech and movement, his diffident manner. + +He was one of the forbearing men, the many who are doomed to continual +suffering of a kind that their sensitiveness and timidity make it the +more difficult for them to bear. + +Undying ambition burned beneath his undemonstrative surface; dauntless +courage lay under his lack of ability. + +He was an extremely spare man, of extraordinary height, and the bend of +his shoulders gave to his small head a comical thrust forward. His black +hair was without curl, and it would tolerate no other arrangement than +being combed back straight. It was allowed to grow downward until +it scraped the back of Newgag's collar, a device for concealing the +meagreness of his neck. + +He had a smooth, pale face, slanting from ears to nose like a wedge, +and the dimness of the blue eyes added to its introspective cast. He +blushed, as a rule, when he met new acquaintances or was addressed +suddenly. He had a gloomy look and a hesitating way of speech. An +amusing spectacle was his mechanical-looking smile, which, when he +became conscious of it, passed through several stages expressive of +embarrassment until his normal mournful aspect was reached. + +As he usually appeared in a sack coat when off the stage, the length of +his legs was divertingly emphasized. After the fashion of great actors +of a bygone generation, he wore a soft black felt hat, dinged in the +crown from front to rear. + +He had entered "the profession" from the amateur stage, by way of the +comic opera chorus, and to that chance was due his being located in +the comic opera wing of the great histrionic edifice. He had originally +preferred tragedy, but the first consideration was the getting upon +the stage by any means. Having industriously worked his way out of the +chorus, he had been reconciled by habit to his environment, and had +come to aspire to eminence therein. He had reached the standing of a +secondary comedian,--that is to say, a man playing secondary comic rles +in the pieces for which he is cast. He was useful in such companies as +were directly or indirectly controlled by their leading comedians, +for there never could be any fears of his outshining those autocratic +personages. Only in his wildest hopes did he ever look upon the centre +of the stage as a spot possible for him to attain. + +His means of evoking laughter upon the stage were laborious on his part +and mystifying to the thoughtful observer. He took noticeable means to +change from his real self. It mattered not what was the nature of the +part he filled, he invariably assumed an unnatural, rasping voice; he +stretched his mouth to its utmost reach and lowered the extremities of +his lips; he turned his toes inward (naturally his feet described an +abnormal angle) and bowed his arms. Brought up in the school which +teaches that to make others laugh one must never smile one's self, +he wore a grotesquely lugubrious and changeless countenance. Such was +Newgag in his every impersonation. When he thought he was funniest, he +appeared to be in most pain and was most depressing. + +"My methods are legitimate," he would say, when he had enlisted one's +attention and apparent admiration across a table bearing beer-bottles +and sandwiches. "The people want horse-play nowadays. But when I've got +to descend to that sort of thing, I'll go to the variety stage or circus +ring at once--or quit." + +"That's a happy thought, old man," said a comedian of the younger +school, one night, when Newgag had uttered his wonted speech. "Why don't +you quit?" + +Such a speech sufficed to rob Newgag of his self-possession and to +reduce him to silence. He could not cope with easy, offhand, +impromptu jesters. In truth, no one tried more than Newgag to excel in +"horse-play," but his temperament or his training did not equip him for +excelling in it; he defended the monotony, emptiness, and toilsomeness +of his humour on the ground that it was "legitimate." + +One night Newgag drank two glasses of beer in rapid succession and +looked at me with a touching countenance. + +"Old boy," he said, in his homely drawl, "I'm discouraged! I begin to +think I'm not in it!" + +"Why, what's wrong?" + +"Well, I've dropped to the fact that, after all these years in the +business, I can't make them laugh." + +I was just about to say, "So you've just awakened to that?" but pity and +politeness deterred me. Every one else had known it, all these years. +Newgag, to be sure, should naturally have been, as he was, the last to +discover it. + +Newgag thus went one step further than any comedian I have ever known. +Having detected his inability to amuse audiences, he confessed it. + +People who know actors and read this will already have said that it is +a fiction, and that Newgag's admission is false to life. Not so; I am +writing not about comedians in general, but about Newgag. + +That he had come to so exceptional a concession marked the depth of his +despair. I tried to cheer him. + +"Nonsense, my boy! They give you bad parts. Go out of comic opera. Try +tragedy." + +I had spoken innocently and sincerely, but Newgag thought I was jesting. +Instead of his usual attempt at lofty callousness, however, he smiled +that dismal, marionette-like smile of his. That gave me an idea, of +which I said nothing at the time. + +Several months afterward, a manager, who is a friend of mine, was +suddenly plunged in distress because of the serious illness of an actor +who was to fill a part in a new American comedy that the manager was to +produce on the next night. + +"What on earth shall I do?" he asked. + +"Play the part yourself, as Hoyt does in such an emergency--or get +Newgag." + +"Who's Newgag?" + +"He's a friend of mine, out of a position. I met him to-day very much +frayed." + +"Bring him to me." + +Newgag was overwhelmed when I told him of the opportunity. + +"I never acted in straight comedy," he said. "I can't do it. I might as +well try to play Juliet." + +"He wants you only to speak the lines, that's all. You're a quick study, +you know. Come on!" + +I had almost to drag the man to the manager. He allowed himself, in a +semistupefied condition, to be engaged. He took the part, sat up all +night in his boarding-house and learned it, went to rehearsal almost +letter-perfect in the morning, and nervously prepared to face the ordeal +of the evening. + +At six o'clock, he wished to go to the manager and give up the part. + +"I can never do it," he wailed to me. "I haven't had time to form +a conception of it and to get up byplay. You see, it's an eccentric +character part,--a man from the country whom everybody takes for a fool, +but who shows up strong at the last. I can't--" + +"Oh, don't act it. You're only engaged in the emergency, you know. +Simply go on and say your lines and come off." + +"That's all I can do," he said, with a dubious shake of the head. "If +only I'd had time to study it!" + +American plays had taken foothold, and this premier of a new one by an +author of two previous successes drew a "typical first night audience." +Newgag, having abandoned all idea of making a hit, or of acting the part +any further than the mere delivery of the speeches went, was no longer +inordinately nervous. When he first entered he was a trifle frightened, +and his unavoidable lack of prepared stage business made him awkward and +embarrassed for a time. The awkwardness remained, but the embarrassment +eventually passed away. He spoke in his natural voice and retained +his actual manner. When the action required him to laugh, he did so, +exhibiting his characteristic perfunctory smile. + +He received a special call before the curtain after the third act. He +had no thought that it was meant for him until the stage manager pushed +him out from the wings. He came back looking distressed. + +"Are they guying me?" he asked the stage manager. + +The papers agreed the next day that one of the hits of the performance +was made by Newgag "in an odd part which he had conceived in a +strikingly original way, and impersonated with wonderful finish and +subtle drollery." + +"What does it mean?" he gasped. + +I enlightened him. + +"My boy, you simply played yourself. Did it never occur to you that +in your own person you're unconsciously one of the drollest men I ever +saw?" + +"But I didn't act!" + +"You didn't. And take my advice--don't!" + +And he doesn't. Upon the reputation of his success in that comedy he +arranged with another manager to appear in a play especially written for +him. He is a prosperous star now. Whatever his play or part he always +presents the same personality on the stage and he has made that +personality dear to many theatre-goers. He does not appear too +frequently or too long in any one place; hence he is warmly welcomed +wherever and whenever he returns. He is classed among leading actors, +and the ordinary person does not stop sufficiently long to observe that +he is no actor at all. + +"This isn't exactly art," he said to me, the other night, with a tinge +of self-rebuke. "But it's success." + +And the history of Newgag is the history of many. + + + + +XXV. -- AN OPERATIC EVENING + +I + +_A Desperate Youth_ + +The second act of "William Tell" had ended at the Grand Opera House. +The incandescent lights of ceiling and proscenium flashed up, showering +radiance upon the vast surface of summer costumes and gay faces in the +auditorium. The audience, relieved of the stress of attention, became +audible in a great composite of chatter. A host streamed along the +aisles into the wide lobbies, and thence its larger part jostled through +the front doors to the brilliantly illuminated vestibule. Many passed +on into the wide sidewalk, where the electric light poured its rays upon +countless promenaders whose footfalls incessantly beat upon the aural +sense. Scores of bicyclists of both sexes sped over the asphalt up and +down, some now and then deviating to make way for a lumbering yellow +'bus or a hurrying carriage. + +Men and women, young people composing the majority, strolled to and fro +in the roomy lobby that environs the auditorium on all sides save that +of the stage. A group of enthusiasts stood between the rear door of the +box-office and the wide entrance to the long middle aisle. + +"How magnificently Guille held that last note!" + +"What good taste and artistic sense Madame Kronold has!" + +"Del Puente hasn't been in better voice in years." + +"But you know, Mademoiselle Islar is decidedly a lyric soprano." + +These were some of the scraps of the conversation of that group. A +lithe, athletic-looking man of thirty stood mechanically listening +to them, as he stroked his black moustache. He was in summer attire, +evidently disdaining conventionalities, preferring comfort. + +Suddenly losing interest in the conversation in his vicinity, he started +toward the Montgomery Avenue side of the lobby, with the apparent +intention of breathing some outside air at one of the wide-barred exits, +where children stood looking in from the sidewalk, and catching what +glimpses they could of the audience through the doorways in the glass +partition bounding the auditorium. + +He by chance cast his glance up the unused staircase leading to the +balcony from the northern part of the lobby. He saw upon the third step +a young woman in a dark flannel outing-dress, her face concealed by a +veil. She seemed to be watching some one among those who stood or moved +near the Montgomery Avenue exits, which had wire barriers. + +"By Jove!" he said, within himself, "surely I know that figure! But I +thought she had gone to the Catskills, and I never supposed her capable +of wearing negligee clothes at the theatre. There can be no mistaking +that wrist, though, or that turn of the shoulders." + +He stepped softly to her side and lightly touched one of the admired +shoulders. + +She turned quickly and suppressed an exclamation ere it was +half-uttered. + +"Why, Harry--Doctor Haslam, I mean! How did you know it was I?" + +"Why, Amy--that is to say, Miss Winnett! What on earth are you doing +here? Pardon the question, but I thought you were on the mountains. I'm +all the more glad to see you." + +While he pressed her hand she looked searchingly into his eyes, a fact +of which he was conscious despite her veil. + +"I'm not here--as far as my people may know. I'm at the Catskills with +my cousins--except to my cousins themselves. To them I've come back home +for a week's conference with my dressmaker. Our house isn't entirely +closed up, you know. Aunt Rachel likes the hot weather of Philadelphia +all summer through, and she's still here. When I arrived here this +morning, I told her the dressmaker story. She retires at eight and she +thinks I'm in bed too. But I'm here, and nobody suspects it but you and +Mary, the servant at home, who knows where I've come, and who's to stay +up for me till I return to-night. That's all of it, and now, as you're a +friend of mine, you mustn't tell any one, will you?" + +"But I know nothing to tell," said the bewildered doctor. "What does all +this subterfuge, this mystery mean?" + +Amy Winnett considered silently for a moment, while Doctor Haslam +mentally admired the slim, well-rounded figure, the graceful poise of +the little head with its mass of brown hair beneath a sailor hat of the +style that "came in" with this summer. + +"I may as well tell you all," she answered, presently. "I may need your +assistance, too. I can rely upon you?" + +"Through fire and water." + +"I've come to Philadelphia to prevent a suicide." + +"Good gracious!" + +"Yes. You see, I've broken the engagement between me and Tom Appleton." + +"What! You don't mean it?" + +There was a striking note of jubilation in the doctor's interruption. +Miss Winnett made no comment thereupon, but continued: + +"I finally decided that I didn't care as much for Tom as I'd thought I +did, and then I had a suspicion--but I won't mention that--" + +"No, you needn't. Your fortune--pardon me, I simply took the privilege +of an old friend who had himself been rejected by you. Go on." + +"Don't interrupt again. As I said, I concluded that I couldn't be Tom's +wife, and I told him so. He went to the Catskills when we went, you +know, as he thought he could keep up his law studies as well there as +here. You can't imagine how he took it. I'd never before known how much +he--he really wished to marry me. But I was unflinching, and at last he +left me, vowing that he would return to Philadelphia and commit suicide. +He swore a terrible oath that my next message from him would be found +in his hands after his death. And he set to-night as the time for the +deed." + +"But why couldn't he have done it there and then?" + +"How hard-hearted you are! Probably because he wanted to put his affairs +in order before putting an end to his life." + +She spoke in all seriousness. Doctor Haslam succeeded with difficulty in +restraining a smile. + +"You don't imagine for a moment," he said, "that the young man intended +keeping his oath." + +"Don't I? You should have seen the look on his face when he spoke it." + +"Well?" + +"Well, I couldn't sleep with the thought that a man was going to kill +himself on my account. It makes me shudder. I'd see his face in my +dreams every night of my life. Then if a note were really found in +his hands, addressed to me, the whole thing would come out in the +newspapers, and wouldn't that be horrible? Of course I couldn't tell +my cousins anything about his threat, so I invented my excuse quickly, +packed a small handbag, disguised myself with Cousin Laura's hat and +veil, and took the same train that Tom took. I've kept my eye on him +ever since, and he has no idea I'm on his track. The only time I lost +was in hurrying home with my handbag to see my aunt, but I didn't even +do that until I'd followed him on Chestnut Street to the down-town +box-office of this theatre and seen him buy a seat, which I later found +out from the ticket-seller was for to-night. So here I am, and there he +is." + +"Where?" + +"Standing over there by that wire thing like a fence next the street." + +The doctor looked over as she motioned. He soon recognized the slender +figure, the indolent attitude of Tom Appleton, the blas young man whom +he was so accustomed to meeting at billiard-tables, in clubs, or hotels. +A tolerant, amiable expression saved the youth's smooth, handsome face +from vacuity. He was dressed with careful nicety. + +"But," said Haslam, "a man about to take leave of this life doesn't +ordinarily waste time going to the opera." + +"Why not? He probably came here to think. One can do that well at the +opera." + +"Tom Appleton think?--I beg pardon again. But see, he's talking to a +girl now, Miss Estabrook, of North Broad Street. His smile to her is not +the kind of a smile that commonly lights up a man's face on his way to +death." + +"You don't suppose he would conceal his intentions from people by +putting on his usual gaiety, do you?" she replied, ironically; adding, +rather stiffly, "He has at least sufficiently good manners to do that, +if not sufficient duplicity." + +"I didn't mean to offend you. My motive was to comfort you with the +probability that he has changed his mind about shuffling off his mortal +coil." + +"You're not very complimentary, Doctor Haslam. Perhaps you don't think +that being jilted by me is sufficient to make a man commit suicide." + +"Frankly I don't. If I had thought so three years ago, I'd be dust or +ashes at this present moment. It can't be that you would feel hurt if +Tom Appleton there should fail to keep his oath and should continue to +live in spite of your renunciation of him?" + +"How dare you think me so vain and cruel, when I've taken all this +trouble and come all this distance simply to prevent him from keeping +his oath?" + +"But how in the world would you prevent him if he were honestly bent on +getting rid of himself?" + +"By watching him until the moment he makes the attempt, and then rushing +up and telling him that I'd renew our engagement. That would stop him, +and gain time for me to manage so that he'd fall in love with some other +girl and release me of his own accord." + +"But think a moment. You can watch him until the opera is out and +perhaps for some time later. But if he means to die he certainly has a +sufficient share of good manners to induce him to die quietly in his own +home. So he'll eventually go home. When his door is locked, how are you +going to keep your eye on him, and how can you rush to him at the proper +moment?" + +"I never thought of that." + +"No, you're a woman." + +She proceeded to do some thinking there upon the stairs. + +"Oh," she said, finally, "I know what to do. I'll follow him until he +does go home, to make sure he doesn't attempt anything before that time, +and then I'll tell the police. They'll watch him." + +"You'll probably get Mr. Tom Appleton into some very embarrassing +complications by so doing." + +"What if I do," she said, heroically, "if I save his life? Now, will you +assist me to watch him? I'll need an escort in the street, of course." + +"I put myself at your command from now henceforth, if only for the joy +of the time that I am thus privileged to pass with you." + +She smiled pleasantly, and with pleasure, trusting to her veil to hide +the facial indication of her feelings. But Haslam's trained gray eye +noted the smile, and also what kind of smile it was, and the discovery +had a potent effect upon him. It deprived him momentarily of the power +of speech, and he looked vacantly at her while colour came and went in +his face. + +Then he regained control of himself and he sighed audibly, while she +dropped her eyes. + +They were still standing upon the stairs, heedless of the confusion of +vocal sounds that arose from the lobby strollers, from the boys selling +librettos, from the people returning from the vestibule in a thick +stream, from the musicians afar in the orchestra, tuning their +instruments, from the many sources that provide the delightful hubbub of +the entr'acte. + +"Hush!" said Amy to Haslam. "Stand in front of me, so that Tom won't see +me if he looks up here as he passes. He's coming this way." + +Young Appleton, chaffing with the persons whom he had met at the exit, +was sharing in the general movement from the byways of the lobby to the +middle entrance of the parquet. The electric bell in the vestibule had +sounded the signal that the third act was to begin. Mr. Hinrichs had +returned to the director's stand in the orchestra and was raising his +baton. + +Arrived at the middle entrance, Appleton raised his hat to those with +whom he had been talking, as if not intending to go in just then. + +Mr. Hinrichs's baton tapped upon the stand, the music began, and the +curtain rose. + +"Why doesn't he go in?" whispered Amy, alluding to Appleton. + +But the young man yawned, looked at his watch, and departed from the +lobby--not to the auditorium, but out to the vestibule. + +"He's going to leave the theatre," said Miss Winnett, excitedly. "We +must follow." + +And she tripped hastily down the stairs, Haslam after her. + + +II + +_A Triangular Chase_ + +Tom Appleton sauntered out through the great vestibule, turning his eyes +casually from the marble floor up to the balconies that look down from +aloft upon this outer lobby. He was whistling an air from "Apollo" which +he had heard a few weeks before at the New York Casino. + +He hastened his steps when he saw a 'bus passing down Broad Street. A +leap down the Grand Opera House steps and a lively run enabled him to +catch the 'bus before it reached Columbia Avenue. He clambered up to +the top and was soon being well shaken as he enjoyed the breeze and the +changing view of the handsome residences on North Broad Street. + +Haslam's sharp eyes took note of Appleton's action. + +"He's on that 'bus," said the doctor to Amy as she took his arm on the +sidewalk. "Shall we take the next one?" + +"No; for then we can't see where he gets off. Can't we find a cab?" + +"There's none in sight. We can have one called here, but we'll have to +wait for it at least ten minutes." + +"That will never do. To think he could elude us so easily, without even +knowing that we're after him!" + +Vexation was stamped upon the dainty face, with its soft brown eyes, as +she raised her veil. + +"Ah! I have it," said Haslam, who would have gone to great lengths to +drive that vexation away. + +"A bicycle! This section teems with bicycle shops. We can hire a tandem. +It's a good thing we're both expert bicyclists." + +"And that I'm suitably dressed for this kind of a race," replied Amy, as +the two hurried down the block. + +She stood outside the bicycle store and kept her gaze upon the 'bus, +which was growing less and less distinct to the eye as it rolled down +the street, while Haslam hastily engaged a two-seated machine. + +The 'bus had not yet disappeared in the darkness when the pursuers, +Amy upon the front seat, glided out from the sidewalk and down over +the asphalt. The passage became rough below Columbia Avenue, where the +asphalt gives away to Belgian block paving. Haslam's athletic training +and the acquaintance of both with the bicycle served to minimize this +disadvantage. + +The frequent stoppages of the 'bus made it less difficult for them to +keep in close sight of it. Conversation was not easy between them. +Both kept silence, therefore, their eyes fixed upon the 'bus ahead, and +carefully watching its every stop. + +"You're sure he hasn't gotten off yet?" she asked, at Girard Avenue. + +"Certain." + +"He's probably going to his rooms down-town." + +"Or to his club." + +So they pressed southward. Before them stretched the lone vista of +electric lights away down Broad Street to the City Hall invisible in the +night. + +The difficulty of talking made thinking more involuntary. Haslam's mind +turned back three years. Was it, as he had dared sometimes to fancy, a +juvenile capriciousness that had impelled this girl in front of him +to reject him when she was seventeen, after having manifested an +unmistakable tenderness for him? And now that she was twenty, and had in +the meantime rejected several others, and broken one engagement, was it +too late to attempt to revive the old spark? + +His meditations were suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the +girl herself. + +"Look! He's left the 'bus. He's going into the Park Theatre." + +So he was. His slim person was easily distinguishable in the wealth +of electric light that flooded the street upon which looked the broad +doorways and the allegorical facades of the Park. + +The second act of "La Belle Helene" was not yet over when Appleton +entered and stood at the rear of the parquet circle. He indifferently +watched the finale, made some mental comments upon the white flowing +gown of Pauline Hall, the make-up of Fred Solomon, and the grotesqueness +of the five Hellenic kings. Then he scanned the audience. + +Haslam and Amy dismounted near the theatre and entrusted the bicycle to +a small boy's care. When they had bought admission tickets and reached +the lobby, the gay finale of the second act was being given. The curtain +fell, was called up three times, and then people began to pour forth +from the entrance to drink, smoke, or enjoy the air in the entr'acte. + +Appleton was involved in the movement of those who resorted to the +little garden with flowers and fountain and asphalt paving, accessible +through the northern exits. He paused for a time by the fountain, +not sufficiently curious to join the crowd that stood gaping at +the apertures through which the members of the chorus could be seen +ascending the stairs to the upper dressing-rooms, many of them carolling +scraps of song from the opera as they went. + +Appleton soon rentered the lobby and again surveyed the audience +closely. Haslam caught sight of him just in time to avoid him. Amy had +resumed the concealment of her veil. + +To the surprise of his watchers, Appleton left the theatre before the +third act opened. Again he jumped upon a 'bus, but this time it was upon +one moving northward. + +"It looks as if he were going back to the Grand Opera House," suggested +Amy, as she and her companion started to repossess the bicycle. + +"His movements are a trifle unaccountable," said Haslam, thoughtfully. + +"Ah! Now you admit he is acting queerly. Perhaps you'll see I was quite +right." + +Again mounted upon the bicycle, the doctor and the young woman returned +to the chase. They were soon brought to a second stop by Appleton's +departure from the 'bus at Girard Avenue. + +"Where can he be going to now?" queried Amy. + +"He's going to take that east-bound Girard Avenue car." + +"So he is. What can he mean to do in that part of town?" + +They turned down Girard Avenue. The car was half a block in advance of +them. + +"You're energetic enough in this pursuit," Amy shouted back to the +doctor as the machine fled over the stones, "even if you don't believe +in it." + +"Energetic in your service, now and always." + +She made no answer. + +This time her reflections were abruptly checked--as his had been on +Broad Street--by the cry of the other. + +"See! He's getting off at the Girard Avenue Theatre." + +Again they found a custodian for their bicycle and followed Appleton +into a theatre. + +The young man stopped at the box-office in the long vestibule, bought +a ticket, and had a call made for a coup. Then he passed through the +luxurious little foyer, beautiful with flowers and soft colours, and +stood behind the parquet circle railing. + +Adelaide Randall's embodiment of "The Grand Duchess" held his attention +for a time. Haslam and Miss Winnett, to avoid the risk of being +discovered by him, sought the seclusion of the balcony stairs. + +"We had a few bars of Offenbach at the Park, and here we have Offenbach +again," commented the doctor. + +"And again, only a few bars, for there goes our man." + +Appleton, having given as much attention to the few spectators as to the +players, left the theatre and got into the cab that had been ordered for +him. + +Haslam, behind the pillar at the entrance to the theatre, overheard +Appleton's direction to the driver. It was: + +"To the Grand Opera House. Hurry! The opera will soon be over." + +The cab rumbled away. + +"It's well we heard his order," observed Haslam to Amy. "We couldn't +have hoped to keep up with a cab. He'll probably wait at the Grand Opera +House till we get there." + +"But we mustn't lose any time, for, as he said, the performance will +soon be over." + +"Oh, 'Tell' is a long opera and Guille will have an encore for the aria +in the last act. That will give us a few minutes more." + + +III + +_A Telegraphic Revelation_ + +A boy walking down Girard Avenue, as Appleton got into the cab, had been +whistling the tune of "They're After Me,"--a thing that was new to the +variety stage last fall, but is dead this summer. The air, whistled by +the boy, clung to Appleton's sense, and he unconsciously hummed it to +himself as his cab went on its grinding way over the stones. + +The cabman was considerate of his horse, and he coolly ignored +Appleton's occasional shouts of, "Get along there, won't you?" + +It was, therefore, not impossible for the bicyclists to keep in sight of +the coup. + +"All this concern about a man you say you don't care for," said Haslam +to Amy, as the bicycle turned up Broad Street. "It's unprecedented." + +"It's only humanity." + +"You didn't bother about following me around like this when you threw me +over." + +"You didn't threaten to kill yourself." + +"No; if I had, I'd have carried out my threat. But for months I endured +a living death--or worse." + +"Really? Did you, though?" + +Eager inquiry and sudden elation were expressed in this speech. + +"Of course I did. Why do you ask in that way?" + +"Oh--you took me by surprise. Why did you never tell me it affected you +so? I thought--I thought--" + +"What did you think?" + +"That if you really cared for me you would have--tried again." + +"What? Then I was fatally ignorant! I thought that when you said a +thing, you meant it." + +"I didn't know what I meant until it was too late." + +"But is it too late--ah! see, he's getting out of the cab at the Grand +Opera House." + +They quickly switched the bicycle from the street to the sidewalk, and +both dismounted. + +They were checked at the entrance to the theatre by the appearance of +Appleton. He was coming from within the building, and with him were two +women, one elderly and unattractive, the other a plump young person +with bright blue eyes in a saucy face that had more claim to piquant +effrontery than to beauty. She was simply dressed and was all smiles to +Appleton. + +Amy and Haslam quickly turned their backs, thus avoiding recognition, +and while they seemed to be looking through the glass front into +the vestibule, they overheard the following conversation between the +blue-eyed girl and Appleton. + +"I'm glad you found us at last, Tom. Three acts of grand opera are about +enough for me, thanks, and we'd have left sooner if your telegram that +you'd be in town to-night hadn't made me expect to see you." + +"Well, I've been hunting for you in every open theatre in town where +there's grand opera. In your answer to my telegram from the Catskills, +you said merely you were going to the opera this evening. You didn't say +what opera, but I supposed it was this one, so I bought a ticket as soon +as I arrived in town at the down-town office. I got here after the first +act, and spent all the second act looking around for you." + +"It's strange you didn't see us. We were in the middle of row K, right." + +"Well, I missed you, that's all, and I kept a watch on the lobby after +the act, thinking you'd perhaps come out between the acts. Then I went +to the Park Theatre, and then to the Girard Avenue." + +Amy and Haslam went into the vestibule. Amy was crimson with anger. +Haslam quietly said: + +"Do you wish to continue the pursuit?" + +Before she found time to answer, another matter distracted her +attention. + +"Look! There's Mary, the housemaid, who was to stay up for me till I got +home. She has come here for me." + +The servant stood by the door leading into the lobby, in a position +enabling her to scan the faces of people coming out from the auditorium. + +"Oh, Miss Amy, are you here? I was waiting for you to come out. Here's +a telegram that came about a half-hour ago. I thought it might be +important." + +Amy tore open the envelope. + +"Why," she said to Haslam, "this was sent to-day from Philadelphia to +me at the Catskills, and my cousins have had it repeated back to me. And +look--it's signed by you." + +"I surely didn't send it." + +But there was the name beyond doubt, "Henry Haslam, M.D." + +"This is a mystery to me, I assure you," reiterated the doctor. + +"But not to me," cried Amy. "Read the message and you'll understand." + +He read these words: + +"Mr. Appleton is very ill. His life depends upon his will-power. He +tells me that you alone can say the word that will save him. Henry +Haslam, M.D." + +Haslam smiled. + +"A clever invention to make you think he tried to execute his threat. +Now you know what he was doing while you were taking your handbag home. +He probably concocted the scheme on his journey. But why did he sign my +name, I wonder?" + +She dropped her eyes and answered in a low tone: + +"Because he knew that I would believe anything said by you." + +"Would you believe that I love you still more than I did three years +ago?" + +"Yes; if it came from your own lips--not by telegraph." + +She lifted her eyes now, and her lips, too; Mary the housemaid sensibly +looked another way. + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From Bohemia, by Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + +***** This file should be named 8869-8.txt or 8869-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/6/8869/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales From Bohemia + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8869] +This file was first posted on August 17, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + + + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TALES FROM BOHEMIA + </h1> + <h2> + By Robert Neilson Stephens + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS—A MEMORY + </h2> + <p> + One crisp evening early in March, 1887, I climbed the three flights of + rickety stairs to the fourth floor of the old “Press” building to begin + work on the “news desk.” Important as the telegraph department was in + making the newspaper, the desk was a crude piece of carpentry. My + companions of the blue pencil irreverently termed it “the shelf.” This was + my second night in the novel dignity of editorship. Though my rank was the + humblest, I appreciated the importance of a first step from “the street.” + An older man, the senior on the news desk, had preceded me. He was engaged + in a bantering conversation with a youth who lolled at such ease as a + well-worn, cane-bottomed screw-chair afforded. The older man made an + informal introduction, and I learned that the youth with pale face and + serene smile was “Mr. Stephens, private secretary to the managing editor.” + That information scarcely impressed me any more than it would now after + more than twenty years' experience of managing editors and their private + secretaries. + </p> + <p> + The bantering continued, and I learned that the youth cherished literary + aspirations, and that he performed certain work in connection with the + dramatic department for the managing editor, who kept theatrical news and + criticisms within his personal control. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a chance remark broke the ice for a friendship between the young + man and me which was to last unbroken until his untimely death. Stephens + wrote the Isaac Pitman phonography! Here had I been for more than three + years wondering to find the shorthand writers of wide-awake and + progressive America floundering in what I conceived to be the Serbonian + bog of an archaic system of stenography. Unexpectedly a most superior + young man came within my ken who was a disciple of Isaac Pitman. + Furthermore, like myself, he was entirely self taught. No old shorthand + writer who can look back a quarter of a century on his own youthful + enthusiasm for the art can fail to appreciate what a bond of sympathy this + discovery constituted. From that night forward we were chosen friends, + confiding our ambitions to each other, discussing the grave issues of life + and death, settling the problems of literature. Notwithstanding his more + youthful appearance, my seniority in age was but slight. Gradually “Bob,” + as all his friends called him with affectionate informality, was given + opportunities to advance himself, under the kindly yet firm guidance of + the managing editor, Mr. Bradford Merrill. That gentleman appreciated the + distinct gifts of his young protégé, journalistic and literary, and he + fostered them wisely and well. I remember perfectly the first criticism of + an important play which “Bob” was permitted to write unaided. It was + Richard Mansfield's initial appearance in Philadelphia as “Dr. Jekyl and + Mr. Hyde,” at the Chestnut Street Theatre on Monday, October 3, 1887. + </p> + <p> + After the paper had gone to press, and while Mr. Merrill and a few of the + telegraph editors were partaking of a light lunch, the night editor, the + late R.E.A. Dorr, asked Mr. Merrill “how Stephens had made out.” + </p> + <p> + “He has written a very clever and very interesting criticism,” Mr. Merrill + replied. “I had to edit it somewhat, because he was inclined to be + Hugoesque and melodramatic in describing the action with very short + sentences. But I am very much pleased, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + That was the beginning of Bob's career as a dramatic critic, a career in + which he gained authority and in which his literary faculties, his + felicity of expression and soundness of judgment found adequate scope. + </p> + <p> + In the following two or three years the cultivation of the field of + dramatic criticism occupied his time to the temporary exclusion of his + ambition for creative work. He and I read independently; but our tastes + had much in common, though his preference was for imaginative literature. + Meanwhile I was writing short stories with plenty of plot, some of which + found their way into various magazines; but his taste lay more in the line + of the French short story writers who made an incident the medium for + portraying a character. Historical romance had fascinations for me, but + Alphonse Daudet attracted both of us to the artistic possibilities that + lay in selecting the romance of real life for treatment in fiction as + against the crude and repellent naturalism of Zola and his school. This + fact is not a little significant in view of the turn toward historical + romance which exercised all the activities of Robert Neilson Stephens + after the production of his play, “An Enemy to the King,” by E.H. Sothern. + </p> + <p> + Still our intimacy had prepared me for the change. Through many a long + night after working hours we had wandered through the moonlit streets + until daybreak exchanging views freely and sturdily on historical + characters on the philosophy of history, on the character of Henry of + Navarre and his followers, and on the worthies of Elizabethan England, in + the literature of which we had immersed ourselves. Kipling had recently + burst meteor-like on the world, and Barrie raised his head with a + whimsical smile closely chasing a tear. Thomas Hardy was in the saddle + writing “Tess,” and in France Daudet was yet active though his prime was + past. Guy de Maupassant continued the production of his marvellous short + stories. These were the contemporary prose writers who engaged our + attention. A little later we hailed the appearance of Stanley J. Weyman + with “A Gentleman of France,” and the Conan Doyle of “The White Company” + and “Micah Clarke” rather than the creator of “Sherlock Holmes” commended + our admiration. We were by no means in accord on the younger authors. + Diversity of opinion stimulates critical discussion, however. I had not + yet become reconciled to Kipling, who provoked my resentment by certain + coarse flings at the Irish, but “Bob” hailed him with whole-hearted + enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + We were not the only members of the staff with literary aspirations. + Others, like the late Andrew E. Watrous, had achievements of no mean order + in prose and verse. Still others were sustaining the traditions of “The + Press” as a newspaper office which throughout its history had been a + stepping stone to magazine work and other forms of literary employment. + Richard Harding Davis was on the paper and “Bob” Stephens was one of the + two men most intimately in his confidence regarding his ambitions. + </p> + <p> + Finally Bob told me that “Dick” had taken him to his house and read to him + “A bully short story,” adding, “It's a corker.” + </p> + <p> + I inquired the nature of the story. + </p> + <p> + “Just about the 'Press' office,” Bob replied, + </p> + <p> + Among other particulars I asked the title. + </p> + <p> + “'Gallegher,'” said Bob. + </p> + <p> + Three years elapsed after our first acquaintance before Bob Stephens began + writing stories and sketches. The “Tales from Bohemia” collected in this + volume represent his early creative work. We were in the better sense a + small band of Bohemians, the few friends and companions who will be found + figuring in the tales under one guise or another. Many a merry prank and + many a jest is recalled by these pages. Of criticism I have no word to + say. Let the reader understand how they came into being and they will + explain themselves. “Bob” Stephens took his own environment, the anecdotes + he heard, the persons whom he met and the friends whom he knew, and he + treated them as the writers of short stories in France twenty years ago + treated their own Parisian environment. He made an incident the means of + illustrating a portrayal of character. Later he was to construct elaborate + plots for dramas and historical novels. + </p> + <p> + “Bohemianism” was but a brief episode in the life of “R. N. S.” It ceased + after his marriage. But his natural gaiety remained. Seldom was his joyous + disposition overcast, or his winning smile eclipsed. For six months I was + privileged to live in the house with his mother. If he had inherited his + literary predilections from his father,—a highly respected educator + of Huntington, Pa. from whose academy many eminent professional men were + graduated,—his gentleness, his cheerfulness, his winning smile and + the ingratiating qualities to which it was the key, as surely came from + his mother. + </p> + <p> + I remember a time when he was inordinately grave for several days and + pursued a tireless course of special reading through the office + encyclopaedias and some books he had borrowed. At last he drew aside the + veil of reserve which concealed his family affairs from even his closest + friends and inquired if I could direct him to any recent authority on + cancer. I divined the sad truth that his tenderly beloved mother was + suffering from the dread disease. That was the day before serums, and + nothing that he found to read in books or periodicals gave him a faint + hope that his dear one could be cured. Thenceforward, mother and son + awaited the inevitable end with uncomplaining patience which was + characteristic of both. His cheerful smile returned, and while the blow of + bereavement was impending practically all these “Tales from Bohemia” were + written. + </p> + <p> + To follow the career of “R.N.S.” and trace his development after he gave + up newspaper work in the fall of 1893 is not required in this place. + “Tales from Bohemia” will be found interesting in themselves, apart from + the fact that they illustrate another phase of the literary gift of a + young writer who contributed so materially to the entertainment of + playgoers and novel readers for a period of ten years after the work in + this book was all done. + </p> + <p> + J.O.G.D. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS—A MEMORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>TALES FROM BOHEMIA</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> I. — THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> II. — A BIT OF MELODY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> III. — ON THE BRIDGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> IV. — THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> V. — OUT OF HIS PAST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VI. — THE NEW SIDE PARTNER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VII. — THE NEEDY OUTSIDER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> VIII. — TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> IX. — HE BELIEVED THEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> X. — A VAGRANT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XI. — UNDER AN AWNING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XII. — SHANDY'S REVENGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XIII. — THE WHISTLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XIV. — WHISKERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XV. — THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVI. — THE SCARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XVII. — “LA GITANA” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XVIII. — TRANSITION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XIX. — A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XX. — MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXI. — AT THE STAGE DOOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXII. — “POOR YORICK” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXIII. — COINCIDENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXIV. — NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> XXV. — AN OPERATIC EVENING </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TALES FROM BOHEMIA + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. — THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED + </h2> + <p> + When Jack Morrow returned from the World's Fair, he found Philadelphia + thermometers registering 95. The next afternoon he boarded a Chestnut + Street car, got out at Front Street, hurried to the ferry station, and + caught a just departing boat for Camden, and on arriving at the other side + of the Delaware, made haste to find a seat in the well-filled express + train bound for Atlantic City. + </p> + <p> + While he was being whirled across the level surface of New Jersey, past + the cornfields and short stretches of green trees and restful cottage + towns, he thought of the pleasure in store for him—the meeting with + the young person whom he had gradually come to consider the loveliest girl + in the world. Having neglected to read the list of “arrivals” in the + newspapers, he knew not at what hotel she and her aunt were staying. But + he would soon make the rounds of the large beach hotels, at one of which + she was likely to be found. + </p> + <p> + She did not expect to see him. Therefore her first expression on beholding + him would betray her feelings toward him, whatever they were. Should the + indication be favourable, he would propose to her at the first + opportunity, on beach, boardwalk, hotel piazza, pavilion, yacht or in the + surf. Such were the meditations of Jack Morrow while the train roared + across New Jersey to the sea. + </p> + <p> + The first sign of the flat green meadows, the smooth waters of the + thoroughfare, the sails afar at the inlet and the long side of the + sea-city stretching out against the sky at the very end of the earth is + refreshing and exhilarating to any one. It gave a doubly keen enjoyment to + Jack Morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Within an hour, perhaps,” he mused, as the reviving odour of the salt + water touched his nostrils, “I shall see Edith.” + </p> + <p> + When with the crowd he had made his way out of the train, and traversed + the long platform at the Atlantic City station, ignoring the stentorian + solicitations of the 'bus drivers, he started walking toward the ocean + promenade, invited by the glimpse of sea at the far end of the avenue. + Thus he crossed that wide thoroughfare—Atlantic Avenue—with + its shops and trolley-cars; passed picturesque hotels and cottages; + crossed Pacific Avenue where carriages and dog-carts were being driven + rapidly between the rows of pretty summer edifices, and traversed the + famously long block that ends at the boardwalk and the strand. + </p> + <p> + He succeeded in getting a third-floor room on the ocean side of the first + hotel where he applied. He learned from the clerk that Edith was not at + this house. Sea air having revived his appetite, he decided to dine before + setting out in search of her. + </p> + <p> + When, after his meal, he reached the boardwalk, the electric lights had + already been turned on and the regular evening crowd of promenaders was + beginning to form. He strolled along now looking at the beach and the sea, + now at the boardwalk crowd where he might perhaps at any moment behold the + face of “the loveliest girl in the world.” He beheld instead, as he + approached the Tennessee pier, the face of his friend George Haddon. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, old boy!” exclaimed Morrow, grasping his friend's hand. “What are + you doing here? I thought your affairs would keep you in New York all + summer.” + </p> + <p> + “So they would,” replied Haddon, in a tone and with a look whose distress + he made little effort to conceal. “But something happened.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what on earth's the matter? You seem horribly downcast.” + </p> + <p> + Haddon was silent for a moment; then he said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you all about it. I have to tell somebody or it will split my + head. But come out on the pier, away from the noise of that merry-go-round + organ.” + </p> + <p> + Neither spoke as the two young men passed through the concert pavilion and + dancing hall out to a quieter part of the long pier. They sat near the + railing and looked out over the sea, on which, as evening fell, the + rippling band of moonlight grew more and more luminous. They could see, at + the right, the long line of brilliant lights on the boardwalk, and the + increasing army of promenaders. Detached from the furthest end of the line + of boardwalk lights, shone those of distant Longport. Above these, the sky + had turned from heliotrope to hues dark and indefinable, but indescribably + beautiful. Down on the beach were only a few people, strolling near the + tide line, a carriage, a man on horseback, and three frolicking dogs. + </p> + <p> + “It's simply this,” abruptly began Haddon. “Six weeks ago I was married to—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I never heard of it. Let me congrat—” + </p> + <p> + “No, don't, I was married to a comic opera singer, named Lulu Ray. I don't + suppose you've ever heard of her, for she was only recently promoted from + the chorus to fill small parts. We took a flat, and lived happily on the + whole, for a month, although with such small quarrels as might be + expected. Two weeks ago she went out and didn't come back. Since then I + haven't been able to find her in New York or at any of the resorts along + the Jersey coast. I suppose she was offended at something I said during a + quarrel that grew out of my insisting on our staying in New York all + summer. Knowing her liking for Atlantic City—she was a Philadelphia + girl before she went on the stage—I came here at once to hunt her up + and apologize and agree to her terms.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I haven't found her. She's not at any hotel in Atlantic City. I'm + going back to New York to-morrow to get some clue as to where she is.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you're very fond of her still?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that's the trouble. And then, of course, a man doesn't like to have + a woman who bears his name going around the country alone, her whereabouts + unknown.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow was on the point of saying: “Or perhaps with some other man,” but + he checked himself. He was sufficiently mundane to refrain from attempting + to reason Haddon out of his affection for the fugitive, or to advise him + as to what to do. He knew that in merely letting Haddon unburden on him + the cause of anxiety, he had done all that Haddon would expect from any + friend. + </p> + <p> + He limited himself, therefore, to reminding Haddon that all men have their + annoyances in this life; to treating the woman's offence as light and + commonplace, and to cheering him up by making him join in seeing the + sights of the boardwalk. + </p> + <p> + They looked on at the pier hop, while Professor Willard's musicians played + popular tunes; returned to the boardwalk and watched the pretty girls + leaning against the wooden beasts on the merry-go-round while the organ + screamed forth, “Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow Wow;” experienced that not + very illusive illusion known as “The Trip to Chicago;” were borne aloft on + an observation wheel; made the rapid transit of the toboggan slide, + visited the phonographs and heard a shrill reproduction of “Molly and I + and the Baby;” tried the slow and monotonous ride on the “Figure Eight,” + and the swift and varied one on the switchback. They bought saltwater + taffy and ate it as they passed down the boardwalk and looked at the + moonlight. Down on the Bowery-like part of the boardwalk they devoured hot + sausages, and in a long pavilion drank passable beer and saw a fair + variety show. Thence they left the boardwalk, walked to Atlantic Avenue + and mounted a car that bore them to Shauffler's, where among light-hearted + beer drinkers they heard the band play “Sousa's Cadet March” and “After + the Ball,” and so they arrived at midnight. + </p> + <p> + All this was beneficial to Haddon and pleasant enough in itself, but it + prevented Morrow that night from prosecuting his search for the loveliest + girl in the world. He postponed the search to the next day. And when that + time came, after Haddon had started for New York, occurred an event that + caused Morrow to postpone the search still further. + </p> + <p> + He had decided to go up the boardwalk on the chance of seeing Edith in a + pavilion or on the beach. If he should reach the vicinity of the + lighthouse without finding her, he would turn back and inquire at every + hotel near the beach until he should obtain news of her. + </p> + <p> + He had reached Pennsylvania Avenue when he was attracted by the white + tents that here dotted the wide beach. He went down the high flight of + steps from the boardwalk to rest awhile in the shade of one of the tents. + </p> + <p> + Although it was not yet 11 o'clock, several people in bathing suits were + making for the sea. A little goat wagon with children aboard was passing + the tents, and after it came the cart of the “hokey-pokey” peddler, drawn + by a donkey that wore without complaint a decorated straw bathing hat. + Morrow, looking at the feet of the donkey, saw in the sand something that + shone in the sunlight. He picked it up and found that it was a gold + bracelet studded with diamonds. + </p> + <p> + He questioned every near-by person without finding the owner. He therefore + put the bracelet in his pocket, intending to advertise it. Then he resumed + his stroll up the boardwalk. He went past the lighthouse and turned back. + </p> + <p> + He had reached the Tennessee Avenue pier without having found the + loveliest girl in the world. His eye caught a small card that had just + been tacked up at the pier entrance. Approaching it he read: + </p> + <p> + “Lost—On the beach between Virginia and South Carolina Avenues, a + gold bracelet with seven diamonds. A liberal reward will be paid for its + recovery at the —— Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + The hotel named was the one at which Morrow was staying. He hurried + thither. + </p> + <p> + “Who lost the diamond bracelet?” he asked the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “That young lady standing near the elevator. Miss Hunt, I think her name + is,” said the clerk consulting the register. “Yes, that's it, she only + arrived last night.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow saw standing near the elevator door, a lithe, well-rounded girl + with brown hair and great gray eyes that were fixed on him. She was in the + regulation summer-girl attire—blue Eton suit, pink shirtwaist, + sailor hat, and russet shoes. He hastened to her. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Hunt, I have the honour to return your bracelet.” + </p> + <p> + She opened her lips and eyes with pleasurable surprise and reached + somewhat eagerly for the piece of jewelry. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you ever so much. I took a walk on the beach just after breakfast + and dropped it somewhere. It's too large.” + </p> + <p> + “I picked it up near Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a curious coincidence that + it should be found by some one stopping at the same hotel. But, pardon me, + you're going away without mentioning the reward.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with some surprise, until she discovered that he was + jesting. Then she smiled a smile that gave Morrow quite a pleasant thrill, + and said, with some tenderness of tone: + </p> + <p> + “Let the reward be what you please.” + </p> + <p> + “And that will be to do what you shall please to have me do.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that's nice. Then I accept your services at once. I am quite alone + here; haven't any acquaintances in the hotel. I want to go bathing and I'm + rather timid about going alone, although I'd made up my mind to do so and + was just going up after my bathing suit.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I am to have the happiness of escorting you into the surf.” + </p> + <p> + They went bathing together not far from where he had found the bracelet. + He discovered that she could swim as well as he; also that in her dark + blue bathing costume, with sailor collar and narrow white braid, she was a + most shapely person. + </p> + <p> + She laughed frequently while they were breasting the breakers; and + afterwards, as in their street attire they were returning on the + boardwalk, she chatted brightly with him, revealing a certain cleverness + in off-hand persiflage. + </p> + <p> + He took her into the tent behind the observation wheel to see the Egyptian + exhibition, and she was good enough to laugh at his jokes about the + mummies, although the mummies did not seem to interest her. Further down + the boardwalk they stopped at the Japanese exhibition, and on the way out + he caught himself saying that if it were possible, he would take great + pleasure in hauling her in a jinrikisha. + </p> + <p> + “I'll remember that promise and make you push me in a wheel-chair,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + When they were back at the hotel, she turned suddenly and said: + </p> + <p> + “By the way, what's your name? Mine's Clara Hunt.” + </p> + <p> + He told her, and while she went up the elevator with her bathing suit, he + arranged with the head waiter to have himself seated at her table. + </p> + <p> + He learned from the clerk that she had arrived alone with a letter of + introduction from a former guest of the house, and intended to stay at + least a fortnight. + </p> + <p> + At luncheon he proposed that they should take a sail in the afternoon. She + said, with a smile: + </p> + <p> + “As it is you who invites me, I'll give up my nap and go.” + </p> + <p> + They rode in a 'bus to the Inlet, and after spending half an hour drinking + beer and listening to the band on the pavilion, they hired a skipper to + take them out in his catboat. Six miles out the boat pitched considerably + and Miss Hunt increased her hold on Morrow's admiration by not becoming + seasick. At his suggestion they cast out lines for bluefish. She borrowed + mittens from the captain and pulled in four fish in quick succession. + </p> + <p> + “What an athletic woman you are,” said Morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “In fact, everything that's charming,” he continued. + </p> + <p> + She replied softly: “Don't say that unless you mean it. It pleases me too + much, coming from you.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow mused: “Here's a girl who is frank enough to say so when she likes + a fellow. It makes her all the more fascinating, too. Some women would + make me very tired throwing themselves at me this way. But it is different + with her.” + </p> + <p> + They gave the fish to the captain and returned from the Inlet by the + Atlantic Avenue trolley, just in time for dinner. She did not lament her + lack of opportunity to change her clothes for dinner, nor did she complain + about the coat of sunburn she had acquired. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, they sat together for a time on the pier, took a turn + together at one of the waltzes, although neither cared much for dancing at + this time of year, walked up the boardwalk and compared the moon with the + high beacon light of the lighthouse. + </p> + <p> + He bought her marshmallows at a confectioner's booth, a fan at a Japanese + store, and a queer oriental paper cutter at a Turkish bazaar. They took + two switchback rides, during which he was compelled to put his arm around + her. Finally, reluctant to end the evening, they stood for some minutes + leaning against the boardwalk railing, listening to the moan of the sea + and watching the shaft of moonlight stretching from beach to horizon. + </p> + <p> + It was not until he was alone in his room that Morrow bethought of his + neglect of the loveliest girl in the world. And remorseful as he was, he + did not form any distinct intention of resuming his search for her the + next day. He rather congratulated himself on not having met her while he + was with this enchanting Clara Hunt. + </p> + <p> + And he passed next day also with the enchanting Clara Hunt. They sat on + the piazza together reading different parts of the same newspaper for an + hour after breakfast; went to the boardwalk and turned in at a + shuffle-board hall, where they spent another hour making the weights slide + along the sanded board and then took another ocean bath. + </p> + <p> + After luncheon they walked up the boardwalk to the iron pier. + </p> + <p> + Seeing the lifeboat there, rising and falling in the waves, Clara asked: + </p> + <p> + “Would the lifeguard take us in his boat for a while, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + Morrow went down to the beach and shouted to the lifeguard, who was none + other than the robust and stentorian Captain Clark. The captain brought + the boat ashore and as there were no bathers in the water at this point, + he agreed to row the young people out to the end of the pier. + </p> + <p> + “This is a great place for brides and grooms this summer,” remarked the + captain in his frank and jocular way. + </p> + <p> + Clara looked at Morrow with a blush and a laugh. Morrow was pleased at + seeing that she seemed not displeased. + </p> + <p> + “We're not married,” said Morrow to the captain. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, mebbe,” said the captain with one of his significant winks, and + then he gave vent to loud and long laughter. + </p> + <p> + That evening Morrow and Clara took the steamer trip from the Inlet to + Brigantine and the ride on the electric car along flat and sandy + Brigantine beach. On the return, they became very sentimental. They + decided to walk all the way from the Inlet down the boardwalk. He found + himself quite oblivious to the crowd of promenaders. The loveliest girl in + the world might have passed him a dozen times without attracting his + attention. He had eyes and ears for none but Clara Hunt. + </p> + <p> + And that night, far from reproaching himself for his conduct toward the + loveliest girl, etc., he hardly thought of her at all, more than to wonder + by what good fortune he had avoided meeting her. Some of the people at + their hotel made the same mistake regarding Morrow and Clara as Captain + Clark had made; the two were seen constantly together. Others thought they + were engaged. + </p> + <p> + Morrow spoke of this to her next morning as they were being whirled down + to Longport on a trolley car along miles of smooth beach and stunted + distorted pine trees. “I heard a woman on the piazza whisper that I was + your fiancé,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what if you were—I mean what if she did?” + </p> + <p> + At Longport they took the steamer for Ocean City. They rode through that + quiet place of trees and cottages on the electric car, returning to the + landing just in time to miss the 11.50 boat for Longport. They had to wait + an hour and a half and they were the only people there who were not bored + by the delay. They returned by way of Somers' Point. + </p> + <p> + While the boat was gliding through the sunlit waters of Great Egg Harbour + Inlet, Clara's hand happened to fall on Morrow's, which was resting on the + gunwale. She let her hand remain there. Morrow looked at it, and then at + her face. She smiled. When the Italian violin player on the boat came that + way, Morrow gave him a dollar. Alas for the loveliest girl in the world! + </p> + <p> + They passed most of that evening in a boardwalk pavilion, ostensibly + watching the sea and the crowd. They went up the thoroughfare in a catboat + the next morning, and, strange as it seemed to them, were the only people + out who caught no fish. The captain winked at his mate, who grinned. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon, while Morrow and Clara stood on the boardwalk looking + down at the Salvation Army tent, along came that innocent eccentric + “Professor” Walters in bathing costume and with his swimming machine. The + tall, lean whiskered, loquacious “Professor” had made Morrow's + acquaintance in a former summer and now greeted him politely. + </p> + <p> + “How d'ye do?” said the “Professor.” “Glad to see you here. You turn up + every year.” + </p> + <p> + “You're still given to rhyming,” commented Morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have a rhyme for every time, in pleasure or sorrow. Is this Mrs. + Morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be sorry she isn't,” remarked the “Professor,” taking his + departure. + </p> + <p> + Morrow and Clara walked on in silence. At last he said somewhat nervously: + </p> + <p> + “Everybody thinks we're married. Why shouldn't we be?” + </p> + <p> + She answered softly, with downcast eyes: + </p> + <p> + “I would be willing if I were sure of one thing.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” + </p> + <p> + “That you have never loved any other woman. Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “How can you ask? Believe me, you are the only girl I have ever loved.” + </p> + <p> + That evening, after dinner, Morrow and Clara, the newly affianced, about + starting from the hotel to the boardwalk, were at the top of the hotel + steps when a man appeared at the bottom. + </p> + <p> + Morrow uttered a cry of recognition. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Haddon, old boy, I'm glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my + wife that is to be.” + </p> + <p> + Haddon stood still and stared. Clara, too, remained motionless. After a + moment, Haddon said very quietly: + </p> + <p> + “You're mistaken. Let me introduce you to my wife that is.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow looked at Clara. She turned her gray eyes fearlessly on Haddon. + </p> + <p> + “You, too, are mistaken,” she said. “I had a husband before you married + me. He's my husband still. He's doing a song and dance act in a variety + theatre in Chicago. I'm sorry about all this, Mr. Morrow. I really like + you. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + She ran back into the hotel and arranged to make her departure on an early + train next morning. + </p> + <p> + Haddon turned toward the boardwalk, and Morrow, quite dazed, involuntarily + followed him. After a period of silence, Morrow said: + </p> + <p> + “This is astonishing. A bigamist, and a would-be trigamist. She came here + the night before you left. How did you find out she was here?” + </p> + <p> + “I read it in the Atlantic City letter of <i>The Philadelphia Press</i> + that one of the Comic Opera singers daily seen on the boardwalk is Miss + Clara Hunt, who is known to theatre-goers by her stage name, Lulu Ray. + These newspaper correspondents know some of the obscurest people. If I had + told you her real name, you would have known who she was in time to have + avoided being taken in by her.” + </p> + <p> + “Her having another husband lets you out.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I'm glad and sorry, for damn it, I was fond of the girl. Excuse me + awhile, old fellow. I want to go on the pier and think awhile.” + </p> + <p> + Haddon went out on the pier and looked down on the incoming waves and + thought awhile. He found it a disconsolate occupation, even with a cigar + to sweeten it. So he came back and mingled with the gay crowd on the + boardwalk and tried to forget her. + </p> + <p> + Morrow had no sooner left Haddon than he felt his arm touched. Looking + around, he saw the smiling face of the loveliest girl in the world. + </p> + <p> + “Well, by Jove, Edith,” he said. “At last I've found you!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I heard you were down here. You see, I've been up in town for the + last week. Gracious, but Philadelphia is hot! Here's Aunt Laura.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow spent the evening with Edith. One night a week later, he proposed + to her on the pier. + </p> + <p> + “I will say yes,” she replied, “if you can give me your assurance that + you've never been in love with any one else.” + </p> + <p> + “That's easily given. You know very well you're the only girl I've ever + loved.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. — A BIT OF MELODY + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker, and used by the courtesy of + the <i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i>.] + </p> + <p> + It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the lodging-house + for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians + coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They belonged + to the orchestra at the —— Theatre, and were returning from a + dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on + the following night. + </p> + <p> + Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded to + my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and passed + on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded face was + as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering gaslight. + </p> + <p> + The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in + disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he + stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the + danger of the icy pavements. “I'm t'ankful to be at last home,” he said, + showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler from his + neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an ample red + beard. “Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay warm in de + house and I play for you de music of de new opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks for your solicitude,” I said, “but I must have my walk. Play to + your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into geniality. + Good night.” + </p> + <p> + The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the + taciturnity of his countryman and confrère, with a gesture and a look of + reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he + disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs. + </p> + <p> + As I passed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my + footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas in + his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf. + </p> + <p> + My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of heart. + Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, while his + practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second violinist. + When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a smile: + </p> + <p> + “My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity + cofers a multitude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer.” + </p> + <p> + We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and + matinée duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, and + because those of us who could remember his long German surname could not + pronounce it. + </p> + <p> + One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his friend + Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival from + Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned that he + had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had departed + the day before. The professor took him home, clothed him and cared for him + until eventually another second violin was needed in the —— + Theatre orchestra. + </p> + <p> + Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, and he + picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and waltzes. + </p> + <p> + All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk in + that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to + collide with my friend the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat,” I said. “Won't you join me? I + know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where devilled + crabs are as good as the broiled oyster.” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure,” he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; “not for + your food, but for your society. But do you know what you did when you ran + against me at the corner? For a long time I've been trying to recall a + certain tune that I heard once. Three minutes ago, as I was walking along, + it came back to me, and I was whistling it when you came up. You knocked + it quite out of mind. I'm sorry, for interesting circumstances connected + with my first hearing of it make it desirable that I should remember it.” + </p> + <p> + “I can never express my regret,” I said. “But you may be able to catch it + again. Where were you when it came back to you three minutes ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Two blocks away, passing a church. I think it was the shining of the + electric light upon the stained glass window that brought it back to me, + for on the night of the day when I first heard it in Paris a strong light + was falling upon the stained glass windows of the church opposite the + house in which I had apartments.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, then,” I suggested, “the law of association may operate again if + you take the trouble to walk back and repass the church in the same manner + and the same state of mind, as nearly as you can resume them.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove,” said the doctor, who likes experiments of this kind, “I'll try + it. Wait for me here.” + </p> + <p> + I stood at the corner while the doctor briskly retraced his steps. His + firmly built, comfortable-looking form passed rapidly away. Within five + minutes he was back, a triumphant smile lighting his face. + </p> + <p> + “Success!” he said. “I have it, although whether from chance or as a + result of repeating my impression of light falling on a church window I + can't say. Certainly, after all these years, the tune is again mine. + Listen.” + </p> + <p> + As we proceeded up the street the doctor whistled a few measures composing + a rather peculiar melody, expressive, it seemed to me, of unrest. I never + forget a tune I have once heard, and this one was soon fixed in my memory. + </p> + <p> + “And the interesting circumstances under which you heard it?” I + interrogated. “Surely after the concern I've shown in the matter, you're + not going to deprive me of the story that goes with the tune?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no reason why I should. But I hope you will not circulate the + melody. It is the music that accompanies a tragedy.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? You have written one, then? It must be brief, as there isn't much + of the music.” + </p> + <p> + “I refer to a tragedy which actually occurred. Tragedies in real life are + not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this case + music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in Paris, + apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife. His name, + as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he came from + Breslau. The wife, a very young and pretty creature, showed herself, by + her attire and manners, to be frivolous and vain, and without having more + than the slightest acquaintance with the pair, I soon learned that she had + no knowledge of or taste for music. He had married her, I suppose, for her + beauty, and had too late discovered the incompatibility of their + temperaments. But he loved her passionately and jealously. One day I heard + loud words between them, from which I gathered unintentionally that + something had aroused his jealousy. She replied with laughter and taunts + to his threats. The quarrel ended with her abrupt departure from the room + and from the house. + </p> + <p> + “He did not follow her, but sat down at the piano and began to play in the + manner of one who improvises. Correcting the melody that first responded + to his touch, modifying it at several repetitions, he eventually gave out + the form that I have just whistled. + </p> + <p> + “Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that + strain over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my + lamp light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the way. + Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you dine?' I + heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech was plainly + distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; 'you were + with——.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I know + what she said in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only a + confused sound, which did not impress me at the time as indicating a + struggle, and which was followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or a + sullen truce had been restored in the household, and thought no more about + the affair. The next morning the wife was found dead, strangled. The + husband had disappeared, and has never, I believe, been heard of to this + day.” + </p> + <p> + We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the + account had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm café, with + appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me + again the husband's name. + </p> + <p> + “Heinrich Spellerberg.” + </p> + <p> + “And who had the woman been?” + </p> + <p> + “I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little + blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. + She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?” + </p> + <p> + “No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the exact date of the murder?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February 17, + 187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and on, ever + since—forgotten, most of the time; a few times recalled—as + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “And the man, what did he look like?” + </p> + <p> + “Slim and of medium height. Very light complexion and eyes. His face was + entirely smooth. His hair, a bit flaxen in colour, was curly and + plentiful, especially about the back of his neck.” + </p> + <p> + “In your evidence did you say anything about the strain of music, which + was manifestly of the murderer's own composition?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it did not recur to me until later.” + </p> + <p> + “And nothing was said about it by anybody?” + </p> + <p> + “No one but myself knew anything about it—except the murderer; and + unless he afterward circulated it, he and you and I are the only men in + the world who have heard it.” + </p> + <p> + “But if he continued, wherever he went, to exercise his profession, he + doubtless made some use of that bit of melody. The tune is so odd—quite + too good for him to have wasted.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, neither of us has ever heard it, or anything like it. And if you + ever should come upon it, it would be interesting to trace the thing, + wouldn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather.” + </p> + <p> + I began to whistle the air softly. Presently two handsome girls, with jimp + raiment and fearless demeanour, came in and took possession of an adjacent + table. + </p> + <p> + “What'll it be, Nell?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take a dozen panned. I'm hungry enough to eat all the oysters that + ever came out of the sea. A rehearsal like that gives one an appetite.” + </p> + <p> + “A dozen panned, and lobster salad for me, and two bottles of beer,” was + the order of the first speaker to the waiter. + </p> + <p> + I recognized the faces as pertaining to the chorus of the opera company at + the —— Theatre. I stopped whistling while I watched them. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, like a delayed and multiplied echo of my own whistling, came in + a soft hum from one of the girls the notes of the doctor's tragically + associated strain of music. + </p> + <p> + The doctor and I exchanged glances. The girl stopped humming. + </p> + <p> + “I think that's the prettiest thing in the piece, Maude,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Undoubtedly it was the comic opera to be produced at the —— + Theatre to which she alluded as “the piece.” + </p> + <p> + “Amazing,” I said to the doctor. “Millocker composed the piece she's + talking about. Millocker never killed a wife in Paris. Nor would he steal + bodily from another. Perhaps the thing has been interpolated by the local + producer. It doesn't sound quite like Millocker, anyhow. I must see about + this.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “To the Actors' Club, or a dozen other places, until I find Harry + Griffiths. He's one of the comedians in the company at the —— + Theatre, and he has a leading part in that piece to-morrow night. He'll + know where that tune came from.” + </p> + <p> + “As you please,” said the amiable doctor. “But I must go home. You can + tell me the result of your investigation to-morrow. It may lead to + nothing, but it will be interesting pastime.” + </p> + <p> + “And again,” I said, putting on my overcoat, “it may lead to something. + I'll see you to-morrow. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + I found Griffiths at the Actors' Club, telling stories over a mutton-chop + and a bottle of champagne. When the opportunity came I drew him aside. + </p> + <p> + “I have bet with a man about a certain air in the new piece. He says it's + in the original score, and I say it's introduced, because I don't think + Millocker did it. This is it,” and I whistled it. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, my boy. It's not in the original. Miss Elton's part was so + small that she refused to play until the manager agreed to let her fatten + it up. So Weinmann composed that and put—” + </p> + <p> + “This Weinmann,” I interrupted, abruptly, “what do you know about him? Who + is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He's Gustav Weinmann, the new musical director. I don't know anything + about him. He's not been long in the country. The manager found him in + some small place in Germany last summer.” + </p> + <p> + “How old is he? Where does he live?” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you want + to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?” + </p> + <p> + “Good idea, this. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German + town. I would go to him and bluntly say: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it + is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed. + </p> + <p> + All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I began + to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour + down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The + only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. The + latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We all were + used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy caprices, + the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent house. + </p> + <p> + I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room + but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains that + used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys took + touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the musical summonings of the player assumed a familiar aspect,—that + of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for the past hour. + </p> + <p> + Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in the + orchestra at the —— Theatre, would doubtless know more about + the antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able + to tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come + from Germany. + </p> + <p> + I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking through + the open door, beheld the professor at the piano. + </p> + <p> + The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept grandly + in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's head in + soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of the opposite + wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined Schaaf, who had + fallen asleep listening while the professor played. + </p> + <p> + The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain—so + often mutual companions—were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break + the spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, + however, I began quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Professor.” + </p> + <p> + The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to face + me, smiling pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the + moonshine that he might recognize me, “but I was attracted by the air you + were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was composed by + your new conductor at the ——” + </p> + <p> + The professor answered with a laugh: + </p> + <p> + “Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn't + matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, then it isn't his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Me.” + </p> + <p> + “You?” + </p> + <p> + “Ja. And I have many oder to gif sheap, too.” + </p> + <p> + “But where did you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “I make it.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “Long 'go. I forget. I have make so many. Dey go away from my mindt an' + come again back long time after.” + </p> + <p> + “Professor, what would you give me to tell you where and when you composed + that tune?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression. It was with an + effort that I continued, as I looked straight into his eyes: + </p> + <p> + “I will hazard a guess. Could it have been in Paris—one day twelve + years ago—” + </p> + <p> + “I neffer be in Paris,” he interrupted, with a start which shocked and + convinced me, slight evidence though it may seem. So I spoke on: + </p> + <p> + “What, never? Not even just that night—that 17th of February? Try to + recall it, Heinrich Spellerberg. You remember she came in late, and—who + would think that those soft white fingers had been strong enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, my friendt! I not touch her! She kill herself—she try to hang + and she shoke her neck. No, no, to you I vill not lie! You speak all true! + Mein Gott! Vat vill you do?” + </p> + <p> + The man was on his knees. I thought of the circumstances, the persons + concerned, the high-strung, sensitive lover of music, the coarse, + derisive, perhaps faithless woman, and I replied quickly: + </p> + <p> + “What will I do? Nothing to-night. It's none of my business, anyhow. I'll + sleep over it and tell you in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + I left him alone. + </p> + <p> + In the morning the professor's door stood ajar. I looked in. Man, clothes, + violin case, and valise had gone. Whither I have not tried to ascertain. + </p> + <p> + When the new opera was produced that evening the —— Theatre + orchestra was unexpectedly minus two of its second violins, for Schaaf, + half-distracted, was wandering the cold streets in search of his friend. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. — ON THE BRIDGE + </h2> + <p> + When I tell you, my only friend, to whom I so rarely write and whom I more + rarely see, that my lonely life has not been without love for woman, you + will perhaps laugh or doubt. + </p> + <p> + “What,” you will say, “that gaunt old spectre in his attic with his books, + his tobacco, and his three flower-pots! He would not know that there is + such a word as love, did he not encounter it now and then in his reading.” + </p> + <p> + True, I have divided my days between the books in a rich man's + counting-room and those in my attic. True, again, I have never been more + than merely passable to look at, even in my best days. + </p> + <p> + Yet I have loved a woman. + </p> + <p> + During the five years when my elder brother lay in a hospital across the + river, where he died, it was my custom to visit him every Sunday. I + enjoyed the afternoon walk to the suburbs, when the air has more of nature + in it, especially that portion of the walk which lay upon the bridge. More + life than was usual upon the bridge moved there on Sunday. Then the cars + were crowded with people seeking the parks. Many crossed on foot, stopping + to look idly down at the dark and sluggish water. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, as I stood thus leaning over the parapet, the sound of + woman's gentle laugh caused me to turn and ocularly inquire its source. + The woman and a man were approaching. At the side of the woman walked + soberly a handsome dog, a collie. There was that in their appearance and + manner which plainly told me that here were husband and wife, of the + middle class, intelligent but poor, out for a stroll. That they were quite + devoted to each other was easily discoverable. + </p> + <p> + The man looked about thirty years of age, was tall, slender, and was + neither strong nor handsome, but had an amiable face. He was doubtless a + clerk fit to be something better. The woman was perhaps twenty-four. She + was not quite beautiful, yet she was more than pretty. She was of good + size and figure, and the short plush coat that she wore, and the manner in + which she kept her hands thrust in the pockets thereof, gave to her a + dauntless air which the quiet and affectionate expression of her face + softened. + </p> + <p> + She was a brunette, her eyes being large and distinctly dark brown, her + face having a peculiar complexion which is most quickly affected by any + change in health. + </p> + <p> + The colour of her cheek, the dark rim under her eyes, and the other + indefinable signs, indicated some radical ailment. In the quick glance + that I had of that pair, while the woman was smiling, a feeling of pity + came over me. I have never detected the exact cause of that emotion. + Perhaps in the woman's face I read the trace of past bodily and mental + suffering; perhaps a subtle mark that death had already set there. + </p> + <p> + Neither the woman nor her husband noticed me as they passed. The dog + regarded me cautiously with the corner of his eye. I probably would never + have thought of the three again had I not seen them upon the bridge, under + exactly the same circumstances, on the next Sunday. + </p> + <p> + So these young and then happy people walked here every Sunday, I thought. + This, perhaps, was an event looked forward to throughout the week. The + husband, doubtless, was kept a prisoner and slave at his desk from Monday + morning until Saturday night, with respite only for eating and sleeping. + Such cases are common, even with people who can think and have some taste + for luxury, and who are not devoid of love for the beautiful. + </p> + <p> + The sight of happiness which exists despite the cruelty of fate and man, + and which is temporarily unconscious of its own liabilities to + interruption and extinction, invariably fills me with sadness, and the + sadness which arose at the contemplation of these two beings begat in me a + strange sympathy for an interest in them. + </p> + <p> + On Sundays thereafter I would go early to the bridge and wait until they + passed, for it proved that this was their habitual Sunday walk. Sometimes + they would pause and join those who gazed down at the black river. I + would, now and again, resume my journey toward the hospital while they + thus stood, and I would look back from a distance. The bridge would then + appear to me an abrupt ascent, rising to the dense city, and their figures + would stand out clearly against the background. + </p> + <p> + It became a matter of care to me to observe each Sunday whether the health + of either had varied during the previous week. The husband, always pale + and slight, showed little change and that infrequently. But the + fluctuations of the woman as indicated by complexion, gait, expression and + otherwise, were numerous and pronounced. Often she looked brighter and + more robust than on the preceding Sunday. Her face would be then rounded + out, and the dark crescents beneath her eyes would be less marked. Then I + found myself elated. + </p> + <p> + But on the next Sunday the cheeks had receded slightly, the healthy lustre + of the eyes had given way to an ominous glow, the warning of death had + returned. Then my heart would sink, and, sighing, I would murmur + inaudibly: + </p> + <p> + “This is one of the bad Sundays.” + </p> + <p> + There came a time when every Sunday was a bad one. + </p> + <p> + What made me love this woman? Simply the unmistakable completeness and + constancy of her devotion to her husband,—the absorption of the + woman in the wife. Had the strange ways of chance ever made known to her + my feelings, and had she swerved from that devotion even to render me back + love for love, then my own adoration for her would surely have departed. + </p> + <p> + Yes, I loved her,—if to fill one's life with thoughts of a woman, if + in fancy to see her face by day and night, if to have the will to die for + her or to bear pain for her, if those and many more things mean love. + </p> + <p> + My richest joy was to see her content with her husband, and the darkest + woe of my life was to anticipate the termination of their happiness. + </p> + <p> + So the Sundays passed. One afternoon I waited until almost dusk, yet the + couple did not appear. + </p> + <p> + For seven Sundays in succession I did not meet them upon their wonted + walk. + </p> + <p> + On the eighth Sunday I saw the dog first, then the man. The latter was + looking over the railing. The woman was not with him. Apprehensively I + sought with my eyes his face. Much grief and loneliness were depicted + there. + </p> + <p> + Was he or I the greater mourner? I wondered. + </p> + <p> + I suppose two years passed after that day ere I again beheld the widower—whose + name I did not and probably never shall know—upon the bridge. The + dog was not with him this time. It was a fine, sunny afternoon in May. + Grief was no longer in his face. By his side was a very pretty, animated, + rosy little woman whom I had never seen before. They walked close to each + other, and she looked with the utmost tenderness into his face. She + evidently was not yet entirely accustomed to the wedding-ring which I + observed on her finger. + </p> + <p> + I think that tears came to my eyes at this sight. Those great brown eyes, + the plush sack, the lovely face that had borne the impress of sorrow so + speedily, had felt death—those might never have existed, so soon had + they been forgotten by the one being in the world for whom that face had + worn the aspect of a perfect love. + </p> + <p> + Yet one upon whom those eyes never rested has remembered. And surely the + memory of her is mine to wed, since he, whose right was to cherish it, has + allowed himself to be divorced from it in so brief a time. + </p> + <p> + The memory of her is with me always, fills my soul, beautifies my life, + makes green and radiant this existence which all who know me think cold, + bleak, empty, repellent. + </p> + <p> + You will not laugh, then, my friend, when I tell you that love is not to + me a thing unknown. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So runs a part of the last letter to my father that the old bookkeeper + ever wrote. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. — THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Courtesy of <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>.Copyright, 1892, by + J.B. Lippincott Company.] + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mogley was an actor of what he termed the “old school.” He railed + against the prevalence of travelling theatrical troupes, and when he + attitudinized in the barroom, his left elbow upon the brass rail, his + right hand encircling a glass of foaming beer, he often clamoured for a + return of the system of permanently located dramatic companies, and sighed + at the departure of the “palmy days.” + </p> + <p> + A picturesque figure, typical of an almost bygone race of such figures, + was Mogley at these moments, his form being long and attenuated, his + visage smooth and of angular contour, his facial mildness really enhanced + by the severity which he attempted to impart to his countenance when he + conversed with such of his fellow men as were not of “the profession.” + </p> + <p> + Like Mogley's style of acting, his coat was old. But, although neither he + nor any of his acquaintances suspected it, his heart was young. He still + waited and hoped. + </p> + <p> + For Mogley's long professional career had not once been brightened by a + distinct success. He had never made what the men and women of his + occupation designate a hit, or even what the dramatic critics wearily + describe as a “favourable impression.” This he ascribed to lack of + opportunity, as he was merely human. Mr. and Mrs. Mogley eagerly sent for + the newspapers on the morning after each opening night and sought the + notices of the performance. These records never contained a word of either + praise or censure for Mogley. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Mogley had first met Mogley when she was a soubrette and he a + “walking gentleman.” It was his Guildenstern (or it may have been his + Rosencrantz) that had won her. Shortly after their marriage there came to + her that life-ailment which made it impossible for her to continue acting. + She had swallowed her aspirations, shedding a few tears. She lived in the + hope of his triumph, and, as she had more time to think than he had, she + suffered more keenly the agony of yearning unsatisfied. + </p> + <p> + She was a little, fragile being, with large pale blue eyes, and a face + from which the roses had fled when she was twenty. But she was very much + to Mogley: she did his planning, his thinking, the greater part of his + aspiring. She always accompanied him upon tours, undergoing cheerfully the + hard life that a player at “one-night stands” must endure in the interest + of art. + </p> + <p> + This continued through the years until last season. Then when Mogley was + about to start “on the road” with the “Two Lives for One” Company, the + doctor said that Mrs. Mogley would have to stay in New York or die,—perhaps + die in any event. So Mogley went alone, playing the melodramatic father in + the first act, and later the secondary villain, who in the end drowns the + principal villain in the tank of real water, while his heart was with the + pain-racked little woman pining away in the small room at the top of the + dingy theatrical boarding-house on Eleventh Street. + </p> + <p> + The “Two Lives for One” Company “collapsed,” as the newspapers say, in + Ohio, three months after its departure from New York; this notwithstanding + the tank of real water. Mogley and the leading actress overtook the + manager at the railway station, as he was about to flee, and extorted + enough money from him to take them back to New York. + </p> + <p> + Mogley had not returned too soon to the small room at the top of the house + on Eleventh Street. He turned paler than his wife when he saw her lying on + the bed. She smiled through her tears,—a really heartrending smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Tom, I've changed much since you left, and not for the better. I + don't know whether I can live out the season.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't say that, Alice, for God's sake!” + </p> + <p> + “I would be resigned, Tom, if only—if only you would make a success + before I go.” + </p> + <p> + “If only I could get the chance, Alice!” + </p> + <p> + As the days went by, Mrs. Mogley rapidly grew worse. She seemed to fail + perceptibly. But Mogley had to seek an engagement. They could not live on + nothing. Mrs. Jones would wait with the daily increasing board-bill, but + medicine required cash. Each evening, when Mogley returned from his tour + of the theatrical agencies of Fourteenth Street and of Broadway, the ill + woman put the question, almost before he opened the door: + </p> + <p> + “Anything yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. You see this is the bad part of the season. Ah, the profession + is overcrowded!” + </p> + <p> + But one Monday afternoon he rushed up the stairs, his face aglow. In the + dark, narrow hallway on the top floor he met the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Mogley has had a sudden turn for the worse,” said the physician, + abruptly. “I'm afraid she won't live until midnight.” + </p> + <p> + Doctors need not give themselves the trouble to “break news gently” in + cases where they stand small chances of remuneration. + </p> + <p> + Mogley staggered. It was cruel that this should occur just when he had + such good news. But an idea occurred to him. Perhaps the good news would + reanimate her. + </p> + <p> + “Alice,” he cried, as he threw open the door, “you must get well! My + chance has come. The tide, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune, + is here.” + </p> + <p> + She sat up in bed, trembling. “What is it, Tom?” + </p> + <p> + “This. Young Hopkins asked me to have a drink at the Hoffman this + afternoon, and, while I was in there, Hexter, who managed the 'Silver + King' Company the season I played Coombe, came in all rattled. 'Why this + extravagant wrath?' Hopkins asked, in his picturesque way. Then Hexter + explained that his revival of Wilkins' old burlesque on 'Faust' couldn't + be put on to-night, because Renshaw, who was to be the Mephisto, was too + sick to walk. 'No one else knows the part,' Hexter said. Then I told him I + knew the part; how I'd played Valentine to Wilkins' Mephisto when the + piece was first produced before these Gaiety people brought their 'Faust + up-to-date' from London. You remember how, as Wilkins was given to late + dinners and too much ale, he made me understudy his Mephisto, and if the + piece had run more'n two weeks, I'd probably had a chance to play it. + Well, Hexter said, as everything was ready to put on the piece, if I + thought I was up in the part, he'd let me try it. So we went to Renshaw's + room and got the part and here it is.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Tom, burlesque isn't in your line.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it? Anything's in my line. 'Versatility is the touchstone of + power.' That's where we of the old stock days come in! Besides, burlesque + is the thing now. Look at Leslie, and Wilson, and Hopper, and Powers. + They're the men who draw the salaries nowadays. If I make a hit in this + part, my fortune is sure.” + </p> + <p> + “But Hexter's Theatre is on the Bowery.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn't matter. Hexter pays salaries.” + </p> + <p> + Objections like this last one had often been made, and as often overcome + in the same words. + </p> + <p> + “And then besides—why, Alice, what's the matter?” + </p> + <p> + She had fallen back on the bed with a feeble moan. He leaned over her. + Slowly she opened her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Tom, I'm afraid I'm dying.” + </p> + <p> + Then Mogley remembered the doctor's words. Alice dying! Life was hard + enough even when he had her to sustain his courage. What would it be + without her? + </p> + <p> + The typewritten part had fallen on the bed. He pushed it aside. + </p> + <p> + “Hexter and his Mephisto be d——d!” said Mogley. “I shall stay + at home with you to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Tom: your one chance, remember! If you should make a hit before I + die, I could go easier. It would brighten the next world for me until you + come to join me.” + </p> + <p> + Mogley's weaker will succumbed to hers. So, with his right hand around + Mrs. Mogley's wrist, turning his eyes now and then to the clock in the + steeple which was visible through the narrow window, that he might know + when to administer her medicine, he held his “part” in his left hand and + refreshed his recollection of the lines. + </p> + <p> + At seven o'clock, with a last pressure of her thin fingers, a kiss upon + her cheek where a tear lay, he left her. He had thought she was asleep, + but she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “May God help you to-night, Tom! My thoughts will be at the theatre with + you. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Jones's daughter had promised to look in at Mrs. Mogley now and then + during the evening, and to give her the medicine at the proper intervals. + </p> + <p> + Mogley reported to the stage manager, who showed him Renshaw's + dressing-room and gave him Renshaw's costume for the part. His mind ever + turning back to the little room at the top of the house and then to the + words and “business” of his part, he got into Renshaw's red tights and + crimson cape. Then he donned the scarlet cap and plume and pasted the + exaggerated eyebrows upon his forehead, while the stage manager stood by, + giving him hints as to new “business” invented by Renshaw. + </p> + <p> + “You have the stage to yourself, you know, at that time, for a specialty.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'll sing the song Wilkins did there. I see it's marked in the part + and the orchestra must be 'up' in it. In the second act I'll do some + imitations of actors.” + </p> + <p> + At eight he was ready to go on the stage. + </p> + <p> + “May God be with you!” reëchoed in his ear,—the echo of a weak voice + put forth with an effort. + </p> + <p> + He heard the stage manager in front of the curtain announcing that, “owing + to Mr. Renshaw's sudden illness, the talented comedian, Mr. Thomas Mogley, + had kindly consented to play Mephisto, at short notice, without a + rehearsal.” + </p> + <p> + He had never heard himself called a talented comedian before, and he + involuntarily held his head a trifle higher as the startling and delicious + words reached his ears. + </p> + <p> + The opening chorus, the witless dialogue of secondary personages, then an + almost empty stage, old Faust alone remaining, and the entrance of + Mephisto. + </p> + <p> + Some applause that came from people that had not heard the preliminary + announcement, and whose demonstration was intended for Renshaw, rather + disconcerted Mogley. Then, ere he had spoken a word, or his eyes had + ranged over the hazy lighted theatre on the other side of the footlights, + there sounded in the depths of his brain: + </p> + <p> + “My thoughts will be at the theatre with you!” + </p> + <p> + There were many vacant seats in the house. He singled out one of them on + the front row and imagined she was in it. He would play to that vacant + seat throughout the evening. + </p> + <p> + In all burlesques of “Faust” the rôle of Mephisto is the leading comic + figure. The actor who assumes it undertakes to make people laugh. + </p> + <p> + Mogley made people laugh that night, but it was not his intentional + humourous efforts that excited their hilarity. It was the man himself. + They began by jeering him quietly. Then the gallery grew bold. + </p> + <p> + “Ah there, Edwin Booth!” sarcastically yelled an urchin aloft. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a funny little man he is!” ironically quoted another from a song + in one of Mr. Hoyt's farces, alluding to Mogley's spare if elongated + frame. + </p> + <p> + “He t'inks dis is a tragedy,” suggested a Bowery youth. + </p> + <p> + But Mogley tried not to heed. + </p> + <p> + In the second act some one threw an apple at him. Mogley laboured + zealously. The ribald gallery had often been his foe. Wait until such and + such a scene! He would show them how a pupil of the old stock companies + could play burlesque! Song and dance men from the varieties had too long + enjoyed undisputed possession of that form of drama. + </p> + <p> + But, one by one, he passed his opportunities without capturing the house. + Nearer came the end of the piece. Slimmer grew his chance of making the + longed-for impression. The derision of the audience increased. Now the + gallery made comments upon his personal appearance. + </p> + <p> + “He could get between raindrops,” yelled one, applying a recent speech of + Edwin Stevens, the comic opera comedian. + </p> + <p> + And at home Mogley's wife was dying—holding to life by sheer power + of will, that she might rejoice with him over his triumph. Tears blinded + his eyes. Even the other members of the company were laughing at his + discomfiture. + </p> + <p> + Only a little brunette in pink tights who played Siebel, and whom he had + never met before, had a look of sympathy for him. + </p> + <p> + “It's a tough audience. Don't mind them,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Mogley has never seen or heard of the little brunette since. But he + anticipates eventually to behold her ranking first after Alice among the + angels of heaven. + </p> + <p> + The curtain fell and Mogley, somewhat dazed in mind, mechanically removed + his apparel, washed off his “make-up,” donned his worn street attire and + his haughty demeanour, and started for home. + </p> + <p> + Home! Behind him failure and derision. Before him, Alice, dying, waiting + impatiently his return, the news of his triumph. + </p> + <p> + “We won't need you to-morrow night, Mr. Mogley,” said the stage manager as + he reached the stage door. “Mr. Hexter told me to pay you for to-night. + Here's your money now.” + </p> + <p> + Mogley took the envelope as in a dream, answered not a word, and hastened + homeward. He thought only: + </p> + <p> + “To tell her the truth will kill her at once.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Mogley was awake and in a fever of anticipation when Mogley entered + the little room. She was sitting up in bed, staring at him with shining + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how was it?” she asked, quickly. + </p> + <p> + Mogley's face wore a look of jubilant joy. + </p> + <p> + “Success!” he cried. “Tremendous hit! The house roared! Called before the + curtain four times and had to make a speech!” + </p> + <p> + Mogley's ecstasy was admirably simulated. It was a fine bit of acting. + Never before or since did Mogley rise to such a height of dramatic + illusion. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Tom, at last, at last! And, now, I must live till morning, to read + about it in the papers!” + </p> + <p> + Mogley's heart fell. If the papers would mention the performance at all, + they would dismiss it in three or four lines, bestowing perhaps a word of + ridicule upon him. She was sure to see one paper, the one that the + landlady's daughter lent her every day. + </p> + <p> + Mogley looked at the illuminated clock on the steeple across the way. A + quarter to twelve. + </p> + <p> + “My love,” he said, “I promised Hexter I would meet him to-night at the + Five A's Club, to arrange about salary and so forth. I'll be gone only an + hour. Can you do without me that long?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, go; and don't let him have you for less than fifty dollars a week.” + </p> + <p> + Shortly after midnight the dramatic editor of that newspaper Miss Jones + daily lent to Mrs. Mogley, having sent up the last page of his notice of + the new play at Palmer's, was confronted by the office-boy ushering to the + side of his desk a tall, spare, smooth-faced man with a sober countenance, + an ill-concealed manner of being somewhat over-awed by his surroundings, + and a coat frayed at the edges. + </p> + <p> + “I'm Mr. Thomas Mogley,” said this apparition. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Have a cigarette, Mr. Mogley?” replied the dramatic editor, absently, + lighting one himself. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir. I was this evening, but am not now, the leading comedian + of the company that played Wilkins's 'Faust' at the —— + Theatre. I played Mephisto.” (He had begun his speech in a dignified + manner, but now he spoke quickly and in a quivering voice.) “I was a + failure—a very great failure. My wife is extremely ill. If she knew + I was a failure, it would kill her, so I told her I made a success. I have + really never made a success in my life. She is sure to read your paper + to-morrow. Will you kindly not speak of my failure in your criticism of + the performance? She cannot live later than to-morrow morning, and I + should not like—you see—I have never deigned to solicit + favours from the press before, sir, and—” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, Mr. Mogley. It's very late, but I'll see what I can do.” + </p> + <p> + Mogley passed out, walking down the five flights of stairs to the street, + forgetful of the elevator. + </p> + <p> + The dramatic editor looked at his watch. “Half-past twelve,” he said; + then, to a man at another desk: + </p> + <p> + “Jack, I can't come just yet. I'll meet you at the club. Order devilled + crabs and a bottle of Bass for me.” + </p> + <p> + He ran up-stairs to the night editor. “Mr. Dorney, have you the theatre + proofs? I'd like to make a change in one of the theatre notices.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late for the first edition, my boy. Is it important?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, an exceptional case. I'll deem it a personal favour.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I'll get it in the city edition. Here are the proofs.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see,” mused the dramatic editor, looking over the wet proofs. “Who + covered the —— Theatre to-night? Some one in the city + department. I suppose he 'roasted' Gugley, or whatever his name is. Ah, + here it is.” + </p> + <p> + And he read on the proof: + </p> + <p> + “The revival of an ancient burlesque on 'Faust' at the —— + Theatre last night was without any noteworthy feature save the pitiful + performance of the part of Mephisto by a doleful gentleman named Thomas + Mogley, who showed not the faintest of humour and who was tremendously + guyed by a turbulent audience. Mr. Mogley was temporarily taking the place + of William Renshaw, a funmaker of more advanced methods, who will appear + in the rôle to-night. There are some pretty girls and agile dancers in the + company.” + </p> + <p> + Which the dramatic editor changed to read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “The revival of a familiar burlesque on 'Faust' at the —— + Theatre last night was distinguished by a decidedly novel and original + embodiment of Mephisto by Thomas Mogley, a trained and painstaking + comedian. His performance created an abundance of merriment, and it was + the manifest thought of the audience that a new type of burlesque comedian + had been discovered.” + </p> + <p> + All of which was literally true. And the dramatic editor laughed over it + later over his bottle of white label at the club. + </p> + <p> + By what power Mrs. Mogley managed to keep alive until morning I do not + know. The dull gray light was stealing into the little room through the + window as Mogley, leaning over the bed, held a fresh newspaper close to + her face. Her head was propped up by means of pillows. She laughed through + her tears. Her face was all gladness. + </p> + <p> + “A new—comedian—discovered,” she repeated. “Ah, Tom, at last! + That is what I lived for! I can die happy now. We've made a—great—hit—Tom—” + </p> + <p> + The voice ceased. There was a convulsion at her throat. Nothing stirred in + the room. From the street below came the sound of a passing car and a + boy's voice, “Morning papers.” Mogley was weeping. + </p> + <p> + The dead woman's hand clutched the paper. Her face wore a smile. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V. — OUT OF HIS PAST + </h2> + <p> + This is no fable; it is the hardest kind of fact. I met Craddock not more + than a week ago. His inebriety prevented his recognizing me. + </p> + <p> + What a joyous, hopeful man he was upon the day of his marriage! He looked + toward the future as upon a cloudless spring dawn one looks forward to the + day. + </p> + <p> + He had sown his wild oats and had already reaped a crop of knowledge. “I + have put the past behind me,” he said. And he thought it would stay there. + </p> + <p> + He married one of the sweetest and best of women. The match was an ideal + one—exceptionally so. His wife's mother objected to it and moved + away on account of it. “That's a detail,” said Craddock. + </p> + <p> + There are details and details. The importance of any one of them depends + on circumstances. + </p> + <p> + Craddock had all the qualities and attributes requisite to make him a + son-in-law to the liking of his mother-in-law—lack of money. + </p> + <p> + So she went to live in Boston, maintained a chilly correspondence with her + daughter, and bided her time. + </p> + <p> + Craddock had had his old loves, a fact that he did not attempt to conceal + from his wife. She insisted upon his telling her about them, although the + narration put her into manifest vexation of mind. Such is the way of young + wives. + </p> + <p> + There was one love about which Craddock said less than about any of the + others, because it had encroached more upon his life than any of them. It + had nearly approached being a serious affair. He had a delicacy concerning + the mention of it, too, for he flattered himself that the flame, although + entirely extinguished upon his own side, yet smouldered deep in the heart + of the woman. Therefore, he spoke of that episode in vague and general + terms. + </p> + <p> + Strange as it seemed to Craddock, clear as it is to any student of men and + women, it was this amour that excited the most curiosity in the mind of + his wife. + </p> + <p> + “What was her name?” asked the latter. + </p> + <p> + “Agnes Darrell.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think she has a pretty name, at all events.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that was only her stage name. I really don't remember what her real + name was.” + </p> + <p> + This was a judicious falsehood. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm sorry that you ever made love to actresses. I'm afraid I can't + think as much of you after knowing—” + </p> + <p> + “After knowing that the first sight of you drove the memory of all + actresses and other women in the world out of my head,” cried Craddock, + with a merry fervour that made his speech irresistible. + </p> + <p> + So they persisted in being extremely happy together for three years, to + the grinding chagrin of Craddock's mother-in-law in Boston. + </p> + <p> + One July Friday, Craddock's wife was at the seashore, while Craddock, who + ran down each Saturday to remain with her until Monday, was battling with + his work and the heat and the summer insects, in his office in the city. + Mrs. Craddock received her mail, two letters addressed to her at the + seaside, two forwarded from the city whither they had first come. + </p> + <p> + Of the latter one was a milliner's announcement of removal. The other was + in a large envelope, and the address was in a chirography unknown to her. + The large envelope contained a smaller one. + </p> + <p> + This second envelope was addressed to Miss Agnes Darrell, —— + Hotel, Chicago, in the handwriting of Craddock. + </p> + <p> + The feelings of Craddock's wife are imaginable. She took from this already + opened second envelope the letter that it contained. It also was in + Craddock's penmanship. She succeeded in a semistupefied condition in + reading it to the end. + </p> + <p> + “May 13. + </p> + <p> + “My Dearest Agnes:—I have just a moment in which to tell you the old + story that one heart, thousands of miles east of you, beats for you alone. + With what joy do I anticipate the early ending of the season, when, like + young Lochinvar, you will come out of the West. I shall contrive to be + with you as often as possible this summer. With renewed vows of my + unalterable devotion, I must hastily say good night. + </p> + <p> + “Yours always, + </p> + <p> + “Jack.” + </p> + <p> + Any who seek a new emotion would ask for nothing more than Craddock's wife + then experienced. It was not until the first shock had given away to a + calm, stupendous indignation that she began to comment upon the epistle in + detail. + </p> + <p> + “May 13th—at that very time Jack was sighing at the thought of my + being away from him during the hot weather and telling me how he would + miss me. All deception! His heart at that very time was beating for her + alone. And he would contrive to see her as often as possible this summer—during + my absence!” + </p> + <p> + It was then that Craddock's wife learned the great value of pride and + anger as a compound antidote to overwhelming grief in certain + circumstances. + </p> + <p> + When Craddock, quite unarmed, rushed to meet her at the seashore upon the + next evening, she was en route for Boston. + </p> + <p> + In several ensuing years, Craddock's wife's mother took care that every + communication from him, every demand for an explanation, every piteous + plea for enlightenment, for one interview, should be ignored. The mother + sent the girl to relatives in Europe; and after Craddock had spent three + years and all the money that he had saved toward the buying of a house for + his wife and himself, in trying to cross her path that he might have a + moment's hearing, he came back home and went to the dogs. + </p> + <p> + He would have killed himself had not hope remained—the hope that + some chance turn of events would bring him face to face with her, that he + might know wherefore his punishment. He would have proudly resolved to + forget her, and he would have striven day and night to make a name that + some day would reach her ears whereever she might go, had he not felt that + some terrible mistake had taken her from him; time would eventually + rectify matters. As hope bade him live and as his inability to forget her + made it impossible for him to put his thoughts upon work, he became a + drunkard. + </p> + <p> + He might not have done so had he been you or I; but he was only Craddock, + and whether or not you find his offence beyond the extent of palliation, + the fact is that he drank himself penniless and entirely beyond the power + of his own will to resume respectability. + </p> + <p> + Naturally his friends abandoned him. + </p> + <p> + “Craddock is making a beast of himself,” said one who had formerly sat at + his table. “To give him money merely accelerates the process.” + </p> + <p> + “When a man loses all self-respect, how can he expect to retain the + sympathy of other people?” queried a second. + </p> + <p> + “I never thought much of a man who would go to the gutter on account of a + woman. It shows a lack of stamina,” observed a third. + </p> + <p> + All of which was true. But particular cases have exceptionally aggravating + circumstances. Special combinations may produce results which, although + seemingly under human control, are almost, if not quite, inevitable. + </p> + <p> + One day Craddock's wife came back to him. In Paris she had made a + discovery. She had kept the letter from Jack to the actress in a box that + always accompanied her. Opening this box suddenly, her eye fell upon the + postmark, stamped upon the envelope. She had never noticed this before. + She knew that the date written above the letter itself was incomplete, the + year not being indicated. According to the postmark, the year was 1875. + </p> + <p> + That was four years before Jack married her; two years before he first saw + her. + </p> + <p> + She had always supposed the sending of the letter to her to be the act of + some jealous rival of Jack's for the actress's affection. Now she knew not + to what it might have been attributable. + </p> + <p> + When she arrived at the hospital where Craddock was recovering from the + effects of an unconscious attempt at suicide, she was ten years older, in + fact, than when she had left him; twenty years older in appearance. She + took him home and has been trying to make a man of him. She manifests + toward him limitless patience and tenderness, and she tolerates + uncomplainingly his bi-weekly carousals. But she can afford to, having + come into possession of a small fortune at her mother's recent death. + </p> + <p> + Craddock is amiably content with her. He cannot bring himself to regard + her as the beautiful young bride of his youth. So little remains of her + former charm, her former vivacity and girlishness, that it seems as if + Craddock's wife of other times had died. + </p> + <p> + A few days ago, I met at the Sheepshead Races a <i>passée</i> actress who + was telling about the conquests of her early career. + </p> + <p> + “There was one young fellow awfully infatuated with me,” she said, “who + used to write me the sweetest letters. I kept them long after he stopped + caring for me, until he was married; then I destroyed them. I found one + short one, though, in an old handbag some years after, and, just for a + joke I mailed it to his wife at his old address. I don't suppose it ever + reached her, though, or he would have acknowledged it, for the sake of old + times. I wonder whatever became of Jack Craddock. People used to say he + had a bright future—I say, tell that messenger-boy to come here! I'm + going to put five on Tenny for this next race. And you'll lend me the + five, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI. — THE NEW SIDE PARTNER + </h2> + <p> + A chance in life is like worldly greatness—to which, indeed, it is + commonly a requisite preliminary. Some are born with it, some achieve it, + and some have it thrust upon them. + </p> + <p> + There is a youth who has had it thrust upon him. What he will do with it + remains to be seen. Know the story, which is true in every detail save in + two proper names: + </p> + <p> + The midnight train from New York, which crawls out of the Jersey City + ferry station at 12:25, is usually doleful, especially in the ordinary + cars. One who cannot sleep easily therein has a weary two or three hours' + time to Philadelphia. Almost any equally wakeful companion is then a + source of joy. + </p> + <p> + A girl of medium size, wearing a veil, and being rather carelessly attired + in dark clothes which fitted a charming figure, walked jauntily up the + aisle, saw that no seat was entirely vacant, and therefore, after a hasty + glance at me, sat down beside me. + </p> + <p> + Had not the two very young men in the seat behind us drunk too much wine + that night in New York, the girl and I might never have exchanged a word. + But the conversation of the youths was such as to cause between us the + intercommunication of smiles, and eventually of speeches. + </p> + <p> + Then casual observations about the fulness of the car, the time of the + train, and our respective destinations,—mine being Philadelphia, + hers being Baltimore, led to the revelation that she was a constant + traveller, because she was an actress. She had been a soubrette in musical + farce, but lately she had belonged to a variety and burlesque company. She + had gone upon the stage when she was thirteen, and she was now twenty. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of an act do you do?” I asked, in the language of the variety + “profession.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can do almost anything,” she said, in a tone of a self-possessed, + careless, and vivacious woman. “I sing well enough, and I can dance + anything, a skirt dance, a clog, a Mexican fandango, a Carmencita kind of + step, anything at all. I don't know when I ever learned to dance. I didn't + learn, it just came to me; but the best thing I do is whistling. I'm not + afraid of any man in the business when it's a case of whistling. There's + no fake about my whistle; it's the real thing. I can whistle any sort of + music that goes.” + </p> + <p> + “Your company appears in Baltimore this week?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! I've left the company. You see, I've been off for six weeks on + account of illness, and now I'm going over to Baltimore to my father's + funeral. He is to be buried to-morrow. See, here's the telegram. I've been + having hard lines lately. I've not had any sleep for three days, and I + won't get to Baltimore till daylight. I want to start back to New York + to-morrow night, if I can raise the stuff. I had just enough money to get + a ticket to Baltimore, and now I'm dead broke.” + </p> + <p> + Then she laughed and got me to untie her veil. When it was removed, I saw + a frank young face with an abundance of soft brown hair. About the light + blue eyes were the marks of fatigue, and the colour of the cheeks further + confirmed her account of loss of sleep. + </p> + <p> + Her feet pattered softly upon the floor of the car. + </p> + <p> + “I'm doing a single shuffle,” she said, in explanation of the movement of + her feet. “If you could do one too, we might do a double.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you do your act alone on the stage?” I asked, “or are you one of a + team?” + </p> + <p> + “We're a team. My side partner's a man. It pays better that way. We get + $40 a week and transportation. I used to get only $12 except when I stood + around and posed, then I got $35 and had to pay my own railroad fare. You + can bet I have a good figure, when I get $35 for that alone! I handle the + money of the team and I divide it even between us. I don't believe in the + man getting nine-tenths of the stuff, do you? Besides, I'm older than my + partner is. I put him in the business.” + </p> + <p> + “How was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I picked him up on the street in New York. I saw that he had a good + voice and was a bright kid, so I took him for my partner.” + </p> + <p> + “But tell me how it came about.” + </p> + <p> + She was quite willing to do so. And the rumbling of the wheels, the rush + of the train over the night-swathed plains of New Jersey, accompanied her + voice. All the other passengers were sleeping. To the following effect was + her narrative: + </p> + <p> + At evening a crowd of boys had gathered at the corner of Broadway and a + down-town street. One of them—ragged, unkempt, but handsome—was + singing and dancing for the diversion of the others. That way came the + variety actress, then out of an engagement. She stopped, heard the boy + sing, and saw him dance. She pushed through the crowd to him. + </p> + <p> + “How did you learn to dance?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't ever learn,” he said, with impudent sullenness. + </p> + <p> + “Who taught you to sing?” + </p> + <p> + “None o' yer business.” + </p> + <p> + “But who did teach you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “What's your name?” + </p> + <p> + “None of your business.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come along with me into the restaurant over there?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + But presently he was induced to go, although he continued to answer her + questions in the savage, distrustful manner of his class. They went into a + cheap eating-house and saloon, through the “Ladies' Entrance,” and while + they sat at a table there, she learned by means of resolute and patient + questions that the boy earned his living by blacking shoes now and then, + and that he did not know who his parents were, as he had been “put” with a + family whose ill-usage he had fled from to live in the street. He began to + melt under her manifestations of interest in him, and with pretended + reluctance he gave his promise to wash his face and hands and to call upon + her that evening at the theatrical boarding-house on Twenty-seventh Street + where she was living. Then she left him. + </p> + <p> + When he called, she took him to her room and induced him to allow her to + comb his hair. A deal of persuasion was necessary to this. Then she took + him out and bought him a cheap suit of clothes on the Bowery. A half-hour + later he was standing with her in the wings at Miner's Variety Theatre. A + man and woman were doing a song and dance upon the stage. + </p> + <p> + “Watch that man,” the actress said to the boy of the streets. “I want you + to do that sort of an act with me one of these days.” + </p> + <p> + When he had thus received his first lesson, she led him back to the + theatrical boarding-house, and in her room he showed her what ability he + had picked up as a singer and dancer. She secured a room for him in the + house, and she had the precaution to lock him in lest he should take + fright at his novel change of surroundings and flee in the night. When she + released him on the next morning she found him docile and cheerful. + </p> + <p> + She escorted him into the big dining-room to breakfast. + </p> + <p> + “Who's your friend, Lil?” asked a certain actor whose name is known from + Portland to Portland. + </p> + <p> + “He's my new side partner,” she said, looking at the boy, who was not in + the least abashed at the bold gaze of the negligently dressed soubrettes + and the chaffing comedians who sat at the tables. + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. “What can he do?” was the general question. + </p> + <p> + “Get out there and show them, young one,” she said, pointing to the centre + of the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + The boy obeyed without timidity. When he had sung and danced, there was + hilarious applause. + </p> + <p> + “Good for the kid,” said the well-known actor. “What are you going to do + with him, Lil?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to try to get an engagement for us together in Rose St. Clair's + Burlesque Company.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll help you,” said the actor. “I know Rose. I'll go and see her right + away, and you come there with the kid about 11 o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + When the girl and her protégé arrived at the boarding-house of the fat + manageress they found that the actor had so far kept his promise as to + have inveigled her into a condition of alcoholic amiability. She asked + them what they could do. Each one sang and danced, and the girl, who also + whistled, outlined to the manageress her idea of an “act” in which the two + should appear. There was a hitch when the question of salary arose. The + girl fixed upon $40. Rose thought that amount was too large. Lil adhered + to her terms, and was about to leave without having made an agreement, + when the manageress called her back, and a contract for a three weeks' + engagement was signed at once. + </p> + <p> + The period between that day and the beginning of the engagement, which + subsequently opened at Miner's Theatre, was spent by the girl in coaching + her protégé. He was a year younger than she, a fact which tended to + increase the influence that she promptly obtained over him. His sullenness + having been overcome, he became a devoted and apt pupil. Having beheld + himself in neat clothes and acquired habits of cleanliness, he speedily + developed into a handsome youth of soft disposition and good behaviour. + </p> + <p> + The new song and dance “team” was successful. The boy quickly gained + applause, and especially did he easily win the liking of such women as he + met or appeared before. A new world was open to him. Naturally he enjoyed + the easy conquests that he made in the curious, careless circle into which + he had been brought. + </p> + <p> + He is still having his “fling.” But he has been from the first most + obedient and unquestioning to his benefactress. He goes nowhere, does + nothing, without previously obtaining permission from her. + </p> + <p> + She is proud of the advancement that he has accomplished already, and she + is determined to make him a conspicuous figure upon the stage. + </p> + <p> + What is it that actuates this girl in her endeavour to elevate this boy in + the world? What the mystery that brought to the gamin this guardian angel + in the form of a variety actress who mingles bright sayings with lack of + grammar, who tells Rabelaisian anecdotes in one minute and philosophizes + in slang about the issues of life the next? + </p> + <p> + “You're in love with him, aren't you?” I said, as the train plunged on + through the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know whether I am or not. He's just a kid, you know. I suppose + the proper end of such a romance is that we should marry. But then I + wouldn't be married to a man that I couldn't look up to.” + </p> + <p> + “But women don't invariably love that way. I'm sure you're in love with + the boy. Have you never thought as to whether you were or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Have I? I should smile! I thought of it even on the first night, after I + picked him up, when I locked him in his room. But I have always regarded + him in a sort of motherly way, although only a year older. It seems kind + of unnatural for me to love him as a woman loves a man. If he was only + older!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that wish is sure evidence that you love him!” + </p> + <p> + “One thing I do know is that, though he always obeys me, he doesn't care + as much for me as I do for him.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “He wouldn't think so much of other girls if he did. He doesn't look upon + me as a woman for him to fall in love with. He regards me as an older + sister. Why, he never even takes a girl to supper after the performance + without asking my permission.” + </p> + <p> + “And you give it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but he never knows how I feel when I do.” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you feel then?” + </p> + <p> + “The first time he asked me, it was like a knife going through me. I + haven't got used to it yet.” + </p> + <p> + She paused for a time before adding: + </p> + <p> + “But, anyhow, he's going to make a name for himself some day. He has it in + him. I'm not the only one that thinks so. I'm trying now to get him to go + to a school of acting, but he thinks variety is good enough for him. He'll + get over that, though.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke so tenderly and yet so proudly of him, that I could not without + a pang of pity meditate upon the probable outcome of this attachment, + which, according to the logic of realists, will be the boy's eventual + success in life, long after he will have forgotten the hand that lifted + him out of the depth in which he first opened his eyes. + </p> + <p> + He knows nothing of his parentage. His benefactress once sought, by means + of Inspector Byrnes's penetrating eye, to pierce the clouds surrounding + his origin, but the inspector smiled at the hopelessness of the attempt. + </p> + <p> + “Where is he now?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I left him in New York,” she said. “I suppose he'll blow in all his money + as soon as he can possibly manage to do so.” + </p> + <p> + And she laughed and did another “shuffle” with her feet upon the floor of + the car. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII. — THE NEEDY OUTSIDER + </h2> + <p> + There was animation at the Nocturnal Club at three o'clock in the morning. + The city reporters who had been dropping in since midnight were now + reinforced by telegraph editors, for the country editions of the big + dailies were already being rushed in light wagons over the sounding stones + to the railroad stations. + </p> + <p> + The cheery and urbane African—naturally called Delmonico by the + habitués of the Nocturnal Club—found his time crowded in serving + bottled beer, sandwiches, or boiled eggs to the groups around the tables. + </p> + <p> + To a large group in the back room Fetterson related how he had once missed + the last car at the distant extremity of West Philadelphia, and, failing + to find a cab west of Broad Street, had walked fifty blocks after midnight + and had still succeeded in getting his report in the second edition and + thus making a “beat on the town.” + </p> + <p> + Then spoke up a needy outsider whom Fetterson had brought in at one + o'clock. + </p> + <p> + I neglected to mention Fetterson's penchant for queer company. It is quite + right that reporters know policemen, are on chaffing terms with night + cabmen, and have large acquaintance with pugilists and even with “crooks.” + But Fetterson picks up the most remarkable and out-of-the-way—not to + speak of out-at-elbows—specimens of mankind, craft in distress on + the sea of humanity. The needy outsider was his latest acquisition. + </p> + <p> + It is enough to say of this destitute acquaintance of Fetterson's that he + was a ragged man needing a shave. In daylight, in the country, you would + have termed him a tramp. Hitherto he had sat in our group in silence. When + he opened his mouth to discourse, it was natural that he should have a + prompt and somewhat curious hearing. + </p> + <p> + “Speaking of walking,” he said, “I have walked a bit in my time. Mostly, + though, I've rode—on freight-cars. The longest straight tramp I ever + made was from Harrisburg to Philadelphia once when the trains weren't + running. The cold weather made walking unpleasant. But what do you think + of a woman—no tramp woman, either—starting from Pittsburg to + walk to Philadelphia?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there is a so-called actress who recently walked from San Francisco + to New York,” put in some one. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but she took her time, and had all the necessaries of life on the + way. She walked for an advertisement. The woman I speak of walked in order + to get there. She walked because she hadn't the money to pay her fare. Her + husband was with her, to be sure. He was a pal o' mine. You see, it was a + hard winter, years ago, and work was so scarce in Pittsburg that the + husband had to remain idle until the two had begun to starve. He had some + education, and had been an office clerk. At that time of his life he + couldn't have stood manual labour. Still he tried to get it, for he was + willing to do anything to keep a lining to his skin. If you've never been + in his predicament, you can't realize how it is and you won't believe it + possible. But I've known more than one man to starve because he couldn't + get work and wouldn't take public charity. Starvation was the prospect of + this young fellow and his wife. So they decided to leave Pittsburg and + come to Philadelphia, where they thought it would be easier for the + husband to get work. + </p> + <p> + “'But how can we get there?' the husband asked. + </p> + <p> + “She was a plucky girl and had known hardship, although she was frail to + look at. + </p> + <p> + “'Walk,' she replied. + </p> + <p> + “And two days later they started.” + </p> + <p> + The outsider paused and lighted a forbidding-looking pipe. + </p> + <p> + When he resumed his narrative he spoke in a lower tone. The recollections + that he called up seemed to stir him within, although he was calm enough + of exterior. + </p> + <p> + “I won't describe the experience of my pal on that trip. It was his first + tramp. He knew nothing of the art of vagabondage. Of course they had to + beg. That was tough, although he got used to it and to many tricks in the + trade. They slept in barns and they ate when and where they could. It cut + him to the heart to see his wife in such hunger and fatigue. But her + spirits kept up better than his—or at least they seemed to. Often he + repented of having started upon such a trip. But he kept that to himself. + </p> + <p> + “When the wife did at last give in to the cold, the hunger, and the + weariness, it was to collapse all at once. It happened in the mountain + country. In the evening of a cold, dull day they were trudging along on + the railroad ties, keeping on the west-bound track so they could face + approaching trains and get off the track in time to avoid being run down. + </p> + <p> + “'We'll stop in the town ahead,' the husband said. 'We can get warm in the + station, and you shall have supper if we have to knock at every door in + the town.' + </p> + <p> + “And the wife said: + </p> + <p> + “'Yes, we'll stop, for I feel, Harry, as if—as if I couldn't—go + any fur—Harry, where are you?' + </p> + <p> + “She fell forward on the track. When the man picked her up she was + unconscious. Clasping her in his arms, he set his teeth and fixed his eyes + on the lights of the town ahead and hurried forward. + </p> + <p> + “But before he reached the town, he found it was a dead body he was + carrying. + </p> + <p> + “You see she had kept up until the very last moment, in the hope of + reaching the town before dark. + </p> + <p> + “What the man did, how he felt when he discovered that her heart had + ceased to beat, there in the solitude upon the mountains, with the town in + sight at the foot of the slope in the gathering night, I can leave to the + vivid imaginations of you newspaper men. For four hours he mourned over + her body by the side of the track, and those in the train that passed + could not see him for the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Then my pal took the body in his arms and started up the mountain, for + the track at that point passed through what they call a cut, and the hills + rise steep on each side of it. He had his prejudices against pauper + burial, my pal had, and he shrunk from going to the town and begging a + grave for her. He didn't need a doctor's certificate to tell him that life + had gone for ever from her fragile body. He knew that she had died of cold + and exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “As he turned the base of the hill to begin to descend it, he saw in the + clouded moonlight a deserted railroad tool-house by the track. In front of + it lay a broken, rusty spade. He shouldered this and proceeded up the + mountain. It was a long walk, and he had to stop more than once to rest, + but he got to the top at last. There was a little clearing in the woods + here, where some one had camped. The ruins of a shanty still remained. + </p> + <p> + “My pal laid down the body of her who had been his wife, with the dead + face turned toward the sky, which was beginning to be cleared of its + clouds. Then he started to dig. + </p> + <p> + “It was a longer job than he had expected it to be, for my pal was tired + and numb. But the grave was made at last, upon the very summit of the + mountain. + </p> + <p> + “He lifted up the body of that brave girl, he kissed the cold lips, and he + took off his coat and wrapped it carefully about the head, so that the + face would be protected from the earth. He stooped and laid the body in + the shallow grave, and he knelt down there and prayed. + </p> + <p> + “He filled the grave up with earth with the broken spade that he had used + in digging it. All these things required a long time. He didn't observe + how the night was passing, nor that the sky became clear and the stars + shone and the moon crossed the zenith and began to descend in the west. He + didn't notice that the stars began to pale. But he worked on until he had + finished, and then he stopped and prayed again. + </p> + <p> + “When he arose, his face was toward the east, and over the distant + hilltops he saw the purple of the dawn.” + </p> + <p> + The outsider ceased to speak. + </p> + <p> + “What then?” + </p> + <p> + “That's all. My pal walked down the mountain, jumped upon the first + freight-train that passed, and has been a wanderer on the face of the + earth ever since.” + </p> + <p> + There were various opinions expressed of this narrative. I quietly asked + the needy outsider as we left the club at sunrise: + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell me who your pal was—the man who buried his wife on + the mountain-top?” + </p> + <p> + There was contemptuous pity in the outsider's look as it dwelt a moment + upon me before he replied: “The man was myself.” + </p> + <p> + And then he condescended to borrow a quarter from me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII. — TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE + </h2> + <p> + Tommy McGuffy was growing old. The skin of his attenuated face was so + shrunk and so stretched from wrinkle to wrinkle that it seemed narrowly to + escape breaking. About the pointed chin and the cheekbones it had the + colour of faded brick. + </p> + <p> + Old Tommy had become so thin that he dared not venture to the top of the + hill above his native village of Rearward on a windy day. + </p> + <p> + His knees bent comically when he walked. + </p> + <p> + For some years the villagers had been counting the nephews and nieces to + whom the savings of the old retired dealer in dry-goods would eventually + descend. + </p> + <p> + Ten thousand dollars and a house and lot constituted a heritage worth + anticipating in Rearward. + </p> + <p> + The innocent old man was not upon terms of intimacy with his prospective + heirs. Having remained unmarried, his only close associates were two who + had been his companions in that remote period which had been his boyhood. + One of these, Jerry Hurley, was a childless widower, a very estimable and + highly respected man who owned two farms. The other, like himself a + bachelor, was Billy Skidmore, the sexton of the church, and, therefore, + the regulator of the town clock upon the steeple. + </p> + <p> + There came a great shock to Tommy one day. As old Mrs. Sparks said, Jerry + Hurley, “all sudden-like, just took a notion and died.” + </p> + <p> + The wealth and standing of Jerry Hurley insured him an imposing funeral. + They laid his body beside that which had once been his wife in Rearward + cemetery. His heirs possessed his farm, and time went on—slowly as + it always does at Rearward. Tommy went frequently to Hurley's grave and + wondered when his heirs would erect a monument to his memory. It is + necessary that your grave be marked with a monument if you would stand + high in that still society that holds eternal assembly beneath the pines + and willows, where only the breezes speak, and they in subdued voices. + </p> + <p> + Years passed, and the grave of Tommy's old friend, Jerry, remained + unmarked. Jerry's relatives had postponed the duty so long that they had + grown callous to public opinion. Besides, they had other purposes to which + to apply Jerry's money. It was easy enough to avoid reproach; they had + only to refrain from visiting the graveyard. + </p> + <p> + “Jerry never deserved such treatment,” Tommy would say to Billy the + sexton, as the two met to talk it over every sunny afternoon. + </p> + <p> + “It's an outrage, that's what it is!” Billy would reply, for the hundredth + time. + </p> + <p> + It was, in their eyes, an omission almost equal to that of baptism or that + of the funeral service. + </p> + <p> + One day, as Tommy was aiding himself along the main street of Rearward by + means of a hickory stick, a frightful thought came to him. He turned cold. + </p> + <p> + What if his own heirs should neglect to mark his own grave? + </p> + <p> + “I'll hurry home at once, and put the money for it in a stocking foot,” + thought Tommy, and his knees bent more than usually as he accelerated his + pace. + </p> + <p> + But as he tied a knot in the stocking, came the fear that even this money + might be misapplied; even his will might be ignored, through repeated + postponement and the law's indifference. + </p> + <p> + Who, save old Billy Skidmore, would care whether old Tommy McGuffy's last + resting-place were designated or not? Once let the worms begin operations + upon this antique morsel, what would it matter to Rearward folks where the + banquet was taking place? + </p> + <p> + Tommy now underwent a second attack of horror, from which he came + victorious, a gleeful smile momentarily lifting the dimness from his + excessively lachrymal eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I'll fix 'em,” he said to himself. “I'll go to-day to Ricketts, the + marble-cutter, and order my own tombstone.” + </p> + <p> + Three months thereafter, Ricketts, the marble-cutter, untied the knot in + the stocking that had been Billy's and deposited the contents in the local + savings-bank. + </p> + <p> + In the cemetery stood a monument very lofty and elaborate. Around it was + an iron fence. Within the enclosure there was no grave as yet. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” said the monument, in deep-cut-letters, but bad English, “lies all + that remains of Thomas McGuffy, born in Rearward, November 11, 1820; died——. + Gone whither the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” + </p> + <p> + This supplementary information was framed in the words of Tommy's + favourite passage in his favourite hymn. His liking for this was mainly on + account of its tune. + </p> + <p> + He had left the date of his death to be inserted by the marble cutter + after its occurrence. + </p> + <p> + Rearward folks were amused at sight of the monument, and they ascribed the + placing of it there to the eccentricity of a taciturn old man. + </p> + <p> + Tommy seemed to derive much pleasure from visiting his tombstone on mild + days. He spent many hours contemplating it. He would enter the iron + enclosure, lock the gate after him, and sit upon the ground that was + intended some day to cover his body. + </p> + <p> + He was a familiar sight to people riding or walking past the graveyard,—this + thin old man leaning upon his cane, contentedly pondering over the + inscription on his own tombstone. + </p> + <p> + He undoubtedly found much innocent pleasure in it. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, as he was so engaged, he was assailed by a new + apprehension. + </p> + <p> + Suppose that Ricketts, the marble-cutter, should fail to inscribe the date + of his death in the space left vacant for it! + </p> + <p> + There was almost no likelihood of such an omission, but there was at least + a possibility of it. + </p> + <p> + He glanced across the cemetery to Jerry Hurley's unmarked mound, and + shuddered. + </p> + <p> + Then he thought laboriously. + </p> + <p> + When he left the cemetery in such time as to avoid a delay of his evening + meal and a consequent outburst of anger on the part of his old + housekeeper, he had taken a resolution. + </p> + <p> + “Threescore years and ten, says the Bible,” he muttered to himself as he + walked homeward. “The scriptural lifetime'll do for me.” + </p> + <p> + A week thereafter old Tommy gazed proudly upon the finished inscription. + </p> + <p> + “Died November 11, 1890,” was the newest bit of biography there engraved. + </p> + <p> + “But it's two years and more till November 11, 1890,” said a voice at his + side. + </p> + <p> + Tommy merely cast an indifferent look upon the speaker and walked off + without a word. + </p> + <p> + The whole village now thought that Tommy had become a monomaniac upon the + subject of his tombstone. Perhaps he had. No one has been able to learn + from his friend, Billy Skidmore, what thoughts he may have communicated to + the latter upon the matter. + </p> + <p> + Tommy now lived for no other apparent purpose than to visit his tombstone + daily. He no longer confined his walks thither to the pleasant days. He + went in weather most perilous to so old and frail a man. + </p> + <p> + One of his prospective heirs took sufficient interest in him to advise + more care of his health. + </p> + <p> + “I can easily keep alive till the time comes,” returned the antique; + “there's only a year left.” + </p> + <p> + Rapidly his hold upon life relaxed. A week before November 11, 1890, he + went to bed and stayed there. People began to speculate as to whether his + unique prediction—or I should say, his decree—would be + fulfilled to the very day. + </p> + <p> + Upon the fifth day of his illness Death threatened to come before the time + that had been set for receiving him. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't this the tenth?” the old man mumbled. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said his housekeeper, who with one of his nieces, the doctor, and + Billy Skidmore, attended the ill man, “it's only the 9th.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I must fight for two days more; the tombstone must not lie.” + </p> + <p> + And he rallied so well that it seemed as if the tombstone would lie, + nevertheless, for Tommy was still alive at eleven-thirty on the night of + November 11. Moreover he had been in his senses when last awake, and there + was every likelihood that he would look at the clock whenever his eyes + should next open. + </p> + <p> + “He can't live till morning, that's sure,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “But, good Lord! you don't mean to say that he'll hold out till after + twelve o'clock,” said Billy Skidmore, whose anxiety only had sustained him + in his grief at the approaching dissolution of his friend. + </p> + <p> + “Quite probably,” replied the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens! Tommy won't rest easy in his grave if he don't die on the + 11th. The monument will be wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that won't matter,” said the niece. + </p> + <p> + Billy looked at her in amazement. Was his old friend's sacred wish to + miscarry thus? + </p> + <p> + “Yes, 'twill matter,” he said, in a loud whisper. “And if time won't wait + for Tommy of its own accord, we'll make it. When did he last see the + clock?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-past nine,” said the housekeeper. + </p> + <p> + “Then we'll turn it back to ten,” said Skidmore, acting as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “But he may hear the town clock strike.” + </p> + <p> + Billy said never a word, but plunged into his overcoat, threw on his hat, + and hurried on into the cold night. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes to midnight,” he said, as he looked up at the town clock upon + the church steeple. “Can I skin up them ladders in time?” + </p> + <p> + Tommy awoke once before the last slumber. Billy was by his bedside, as + were the doctor, the housekeeper, and the niece. The old man's eyes sought + the clock. + </p> + <p> + “Eleven,” he murmured. Then he was silent, for the town clock had begun to + strike. He counted the strokes—eleven. Then he smiled and tried to + speak again. + </p> + <p> + “Almost—live out—birthday—seventy—tombstone—all + right.” + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes, and, inasmuch as the town clock furnishes the official + time for Rearward, the published report of Tommy McGuffy's going records + that he passed at twenty-five minutes after eleven P.M., November 11, + 1890. + </p> + <p> + Very few people know that time turned back one hour and a half in order + that the reputation of Tommy McGuffy's tombstone for veracity might be + spotless in the eyes of future generations. + </p> + <p> + Billy Skidmore, the sexton, arranged to have Rearward time ready for the + sun when it rose upon the following morning. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX. — HE BELIEVED THEM + </h2> + <p> + He was a bachelor, and he owned a little tobacco store in the suburbs. All + the labour, manual and mental, requisite to the continuance of the + establishment, however, was done by the ex-newsboy, to whom the old + soldier paid $4 per week and allowed free tobacco. + </p> + <p> + He had come into the neighbourhood from the interior of the state shortly + after the war, and for a time there were not ten houses within a block of + his shop. The shop is now the one architectural blemish in a long row of + handsome stores. Miles of streets have been built up around it. + </p> + <p> + The old soldier used to sit in an antique armchair in the rear of his + shop, smoking, from meal to meal. + </p> + <p> + “I l'arnt the habit in the army,” he would say. “I never teched tobacker + till I went to the war.” + </p> + <p> + People would look inquiringly at his empty sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “I got that at Gettysburg in the second day's fight,” he would explain, + complacently. + </p> + <p> + He was often asked whether he was a member of the Grand Army of the + Republic. + </p> + <p> + “No; 'tain't worth while. I done my fightin' in '63 and '64—them + times. I don't care about doin' it over again in talk. Talk's cheap.” + </p> + <p> + This made folks smile, for he was continually fighting his battles over + again in conversation. Every regular customer had been made acquainted + with the part that he had taken in each contest, where he had stood when + he received his wound, what regiment had the honour of possessing him, and + how promptly he had enlisted against the wishes of parents and sweetheart. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you get a pension,” many would observe. + </p> + <p> + He would shake his head and answer, in a mild tone of a man consciously + repressing a pardonable pride. + </p> + <p> + “I never 'plied, and as long as the retail tobacker trade keeps up like + this, I reckon I won't make no pull on the gover'ment treash'ry.” + </p> + <p> + And he would puff at his cigar vigorously, beam upon the group that + surrounded his chair, and start on one of his long trains of + reminiscences. + </p> + <p> + He was an amiable old fellow, with gray hair carefully combed back from + his curved forehead, a florid countenance, boyish blue eyes, puffed + cheeks, a smooth chin, and very military-looking gray moustache. He was + manifestly a man who ate ample dinners and amply digested them. He would + glance contentedly downward at his broad, round body, and smilingly + remark: + </p> + <p> + “I didn't have that girth in my fightin' days. I got it after the war was + over.” + </p> + <p> + All who knew him admired him. He would tell with simple frankness how, + after distinguishing himself at Antietam, he chose to remain a private + rather than take the lieutenancy that was placed within his reach. He + would frequently say: + </p> + <p> + “I ain't none o' them that thinks the country belongs to the soldiers + because they saved it. No, sir! If they want the country as a reward, + where's the credit in savin' it?” + </p> + <p> + How could one help exclaiming: “What a really noble old man!” + </p> + <p> + Finally some of the young men who received daily inspiration from his + autobiographical narratives arranged a surprise for the old soldier. They + presented him with a finely framed picture of the battle of Gettysburg, + under which was the inscription: + </p> + <p> + “To a True Patriot. Who Fought and Suffered Not for Self-Interest or + Glory, but for Love of His Country.” + </p> + <p> + This hung in his shop until the day of his death. Then his brother came + from his native village to attend to his burial. The brother stared at the + picture, inquired as to the meaning of the inscription, and then laughed + vociferously. + </p> + <p> + In the old soldier's trunk was found a faded newspaper that had been + published in his village in 1865. It contained an account of an accident + by which a grocer's clerk had lost his arm in a thrashing-machine. The + grocer's clerk and the old soldier were one person. + </p> + <p> + He had never seen a battle, but so often had he told his war stories that + in his last days he believed them. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X. — A VAGRANT + </h2> + <p> + On a July evening at dusk, two boys sat near the crest of a grass-grown + embankment by the railroad at the western side of a Pennsylvania town. + They talked in low tones of the sky's glow above where the sun had set + beyond the low hills across the river, and also of the stars, and of the + moon, which was over the housetop behind them. Then there was noise of + insects chirping in the grass and of steam escaping from the locomotive + boilers in the engine shed. + </p> + <p> + A rumble sounded as from the north, and in that direction a locomotive + headlight came into view. It neared as the rumble grew louder, and soon a + freight-train appeared. This rolled past at the foot of the embankment. + </p> + <p> + From between two grain cars leaped a man, and after him another. So + rapidly was the train moving that they seemed to be hurled from it. Both + alighted upon their feet. One tall and lithe, led the way up the + embankment, followed by the other, who was short and stocky. + </p> + <p> + “Bums,” whispered one of the boys at the top of the embankment. + </p> + <p> + The tramps stood still when they reached the top. Even in the half-light + it could be seen that their clothes were ill-fitting, frayed, and torn. + They wore cast-off hats. The tall man, whose face was clean-cut and made a + pretence of being smooth-shaven, had a pliable one; the other was capped + by a dented derby. + </p> + <p> + “Here's yer town at last! And it looks like a very jay place at that,” + said the short tramp to the tall one, casting his eyes toward the house + roofs eastward. + </p> + <p> + The boys sitting twenty feet away became silent and cautiously watched the + newcomers. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” replied the tall tramp, in a deep but serious and quiet voice, “and + right about here is the spot where I jumped on a freight-train fifteen + years ago, the night I ran away from home. That seems like yesterday, + though I've not been here since.” + </p> + <p> + “Skipped a good home because the old lady brought you a new dad! You + wouldn't catch me being run out by no stepfather. Billy, you was rash.” + </p> + <p> + “Mebby I was. But, on the dead, Pete, it was mostly jealousy. I thought my + mother couldn't care for me any more if she could take a second husband. + My sister thought so too, but she wasn't able to get away like me. Of + course I was strong. It was boyish pique that drove me away. I didn't + fancy having another man in my dead father's place, either. And I wanted + to get around and see the world a bit. After I'd gone I often wished I + hadn't. I'd never imagined how much I loved mother and sis. But I was + tougher and prouder in some ways than most kids. You can't understand that + sort of thing, Pete. And you can't guess how I feel, bein' back here for + the first time in fifteen years. Think of it, I was just fifteen when I + came away. Why, I spent half my life here, Petie!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I've read somewhere about that,—the way great men feel when + they visit their native town.” + </p> + <p> + The short tramp took a clay pipe from his coat pocket and stuffed into it + a cigar-end fished from another pocket. Then he inquired: + </p> + <p> + “And now you're here, Billy, what are you go'n to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Only ask around what's become o' my folks, then go away. It won't take me + long.” + </p> + <p> + “There'll be a through coal-train along in about an hour, 'cordin' to what + the flagmen told us at that last town. Will you be back in time to bounce + that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We needn't stay here. There's little to be picked up in a place like + this.” + </p> + <p> + “Then skin along and make your investigations. I'll sit here and smoke + till you come back. If you could pinch a bit of bread and meat, by the + way, it wouldn't hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll try,” answered the tall tramp. “I'm goin' to ask the kids yonder, + first, if any o' my people still live here.” + </p> + <p> + The tall tramp strode over to the two boys. His companion shambled down + the embankment to obtain, at the turntable near the locomotive shed across + the railroad, a red-hot cinder with which to light his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Do you youngsters know people here by the name of Kershaw?” began the + tall tramp, standing beside the two boys. + </p> + <p> + Both remained sitting on the grass. One shook his head. The other said, + “No.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp was silent for a moment. Then it occurred to him that his mother + had taken his stepfather's name and his sister might be married. Therefore + he asked: + </p> + <p> + “How about a family named Coates?” + </p> + <p> + “None here,” replied one of the boys. + </p> + <p> + But the other said, “Coates? That's the name of Tommy Hackett's + grandmother.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp drew and expelled a quick, audible breath. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” he said, “this Mrs. Coates must be the mother of Tommy's mother. + Do you know what Tommy's mother's first name is?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard Tom call her Alice once.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp's eyes glistened. + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Coates?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I never heard of him. I guess he died long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “And Tommy Hackett's father, who's he?” + </p> + <p> + “He's the boss down at the freight station. Agent, I think they call him.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does this Mrs. Coates live?” + </p> + <p> + “She lives with the Hacketts. Would you like to see the house? Me and Dick + has to go past it on the way home. We'll show you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I would like to see the house.” + </p> + <p> + The boys arose, one of them rather sleepily. They led the way across the + railway company's lot, then along a sparsely built up street, and around + the corner into a more populous but quiet highway. At the corner was a + grocery and dry-goods store; beyond that were neat and airy two-story + houses, fronted by a yard closed in by iron fences. One of these houses + had a little piazza, on which sat two children. From the open half-door + and from two windows came light. + </p> + <p> + “That's Hackett's house,” said one of the boys. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, very much,” replied the tramp, continuing to walk with them. + </p> + <p> + The boys looked surprised at his not stopping at the house, but they said + nothing. + </p> + <p> + At the next corner the tramp spoke up: + </p> + <p> + “I think I'll go back now. Good night, youngsters.” + </p> + <p> + The boys trudged on, and the tramp retraced his steps. When he reached the + Hacketts' house, he paused at the gate. The children, a boy of eight and a + girl of six, looked at him curiously from the piazza. + </p> + <p> + “Are you Mr. Hackett's little boy and girl?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The girl stepped back to the hall door and stood there. The boy looked up + at the tramp and answered, “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Is your mother in?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she's across the street at Mrs. Johnson's.” + </p> + <p> + “Grandmother's in, though,” continued the boy. “Would you like to see + her?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! Don't call her. I just wanted to see your mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know mamma?” inquired the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Well—no. I knew her brother, your uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “We haven't any uncle—except Uncle George, and he's papa's brother,” + said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “What! Not an uncle Will—Uncle Will Kershaw?” + </p> + <p> + “O—h, yes,” assented the boy. “Did you know him before he died? That + was a long time ago.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp made no other outward manifestation of his surprise than to be + silent and motionless for a time. Presently he said, in a trembling voice: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, before he died. Do you remember when he died?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. That was when mamma was a girl. She and grandmother often talk + about it, though. Uncle Will started West, you know, when he was fifteen + years old. He was standing on a bridge out near Pittsburg one day, and he + saw a little girl fall into the river. He jumped in to save her, but he + was drowned, 'cause his head hit a stone and that stunned him. They didn't + know it was Uncle Will or who it was, at first, but mamma read about it in + the papers and Grandpa Coates went out to see if it wasn't Uncle Will. + Grandpa 'dentified him and they brought him back here, but, what do you + think, the doctor wouldn't allow them to open his coffin, and so grandma + and mamma couldn't see him. He's buried up in the graveyard next Grandpa + Kershaw, and there's a little monument there that tells all about how he + died trying to save a little girl from drownin'. I can read it, but Mamie + can't. She's my little sister there.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp had seated himself on the piazza step. He was looking vacantly + before him. He remained so until the boy, frightened at his silence, moved + further from him, toward the door. Then the tramp arose suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, huskily, “I won't wait to see your mamma. You needn't + tell her about me bein' here. But, say—could I just get a look at—at + your grandma, without her knowing anythin about it?” + </p> + <p> + The boy took his sister's hand and withdrew into the doorway. Then he + said, “Why, of course. You can see her through the window.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp stood against the edge of the piazza upon his toes, and craned + his neck to see through one of the lighted windows. So he remained for + several seconds. Once during that time he closed his eyes, and the muscles + of his face contracted. Then he opened his eyes again. They were moist. + </p> + <p> + He could see a gentle old lady, with smooth gray hair, and an expression + of calm and not unhappy melancholy. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, + her hands resting on the arms, her look fixed unconsciously on the paper + on the wall. She was thinking, and evidently her thoughts, though sad, + perhaps, were not keenly painful. + </p> + <p> + The tramp read that much upon her face. Presently, without a word, he + turned quickly about and hurried away, closing the gate after him. + </p> + <p> + When the two children told about their visitor later, their mother said: + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't talk to strange men, Tommy. You and Mamie should have come + right in to grandma.” + </p> + <p> + Their father said: “He was probably looking for a chance to steal + something. I'll let the dog out in the yard to-night.” + </p> + <p> + And their grandmother: “I suppose he was only a man who likes to hear + children talk, and perhaps, poor fellow, he has no little ones of his + own.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp knew the way to the cemetery. But first he found the house where + he had lived as a boy. It looked painfully rickety and surprisingly small. + So he hastened from before it and went up by a back street across the town + creek and up a hill, where at last he stood before the cemetery gate. It + was locked; so he climbed over the wall. He went still further up the + hill, past tombstones that looked very white, and trees that looked very + green in the moonlight. At the top of the hill he found his father's + grave. Beside it was another mound, and at the head of this, a plain + little pillar. The moon was high now and the tramp was used to seeing in + the night. Word by word he could slowly read upon the marble this + inscription: + </p> + <p> + “William Albert, beloved son of the late Thomas Kershaw and his wife + Rachel; born in Brickville, August 2, 1862; drowned in the Allegheny River + near Pittsburg, July 27, 1877, while heroically endeavouring to save the + life of a child.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp laughed, and then uttered a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” he said, aloud, “what poor bloke it is that's doin' duty for + me under the ground here.” + </p> + <p> + And at the thought that he owed an excellent posthumous reputation to the + unknown who had happened to resemble him fifteen years before, he laughed + louder. Having no one near to share his mirth, he looked up at the amiable + moon, and nodded knowingly thereat, as if to say: + </p> + <p> + “This is a fine joke we're enjoying between ourselves, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + And by and by he remembered that he was being waited for, and he strode + from the grave and from the cemetery. + </p> + <p> + By the railroad the short tramp, having smoked all the refuse tobacco in + his possession, was growing impatient. Already the expected coal-train had + heralded its advent by whistle and puff and roar when his associate had + joined him. + </p> + <p> + “Found out all you wanted to know?” queried the stout little vagabond, + starting down the embankment to mount the train. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” answered the tall vagrant, contentedly. + </p> + <p> + The small man grasped the iron rod attached to the side of one of the + moving coal-cars and swung his foot into the iron stirrup beneath. His + companion mounted the next car in the same way. + </p> + <p> + “Are you all right, Kersh?” shouted back the small tramp, standing safe + above the “bumpers.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” replied the tall tramp, climbing upon the end of a car. “But + don't ever call me Kersh any more. After this I'm always Bill the Bum. + Bill Kershaw's dead—” and he added to himself, “and decently buried + on the hill over there under the moon.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI. — UNDER AN AWNING + </h2> + <p> + For ten minutes we had been standing under the awning, driven there at two + o'clock at night by a shower that had arisen suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “A pocket umbrella is one of the unsupplied necessities of the age,” said + my companion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and the peculiarity of the age is that while such luxuries as the + phonograph and the kinetograph multiply day by day, important necessities + remain unsupplied.” + </p> + <p> + My friend mused for a time, while he watched the reflection of the + electric light in the little street pools that were agitated by the + falling fine drops of rain. + </p> + <p> + He looked from the reflection to the light itself, and thus his eyes + turned upward. + </p> + <p> + An expression of surprise changed to mirth, and then dropping his glance + until it met mine, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Have you noticed anything peculiar about this awning?” + </p> + <p> + “No, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Simply that there is no awning. Look up and see. Here are the posts and + there is the framework, but only the sky is above, and we've been getting + rained upon for the past ten minutes in blissful ignorance.” + </p> + <p> + It was as he said, so we ran to the next awning, which was a fact, not a + figment of fancy. + </p> + <p> + “That reminds me,” resumed my friend, “of Simpkins. He was a young man who + used to catch cold at the slightest dampness. His being out in the rain + without an umbrella never failed to result in his remaining in the house + for two or three subsequent days. + </p> + <p> + “One night, Simpkins, surprised by an unexpected shower, took refuge + beneath the framework of an awning, which framework lacked the awning + itself. He waited for an hour, until the shower had passed, and then + joyously took up again his homeward way, without having observed his + mistake. He told me on the next day of his narrow escape from the rain. I + happened to know that the awning to which he alluded had been removed a + few weeks before. But I did not tell him so until there no longer seemed + to exist any likelihood of his catching cold from that wetting. You see, + his imagination had saved him.” + </p> + <p> + “That tale is singularly reminiscent of those dear old stories about the + man who took cold through sitting at a window that was composed of one + solid sheet of glass, so clean that he thought it was no glass at all; and + the men who, awaking in the night, stifling for want of fresh air, broke + open the door of a bookcase which they took to be a window, and + immediately noticed a pleasant draught of pure outside air.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a likeness, which simply goes toward proving the truth of all + three accounts. But the remarkable thing about Simpkins' case is that when + he once learned that there had been nothing over his head during that + rain, he immediately caught cold, although two weeks had passed since the + night of the shower. Wonderful, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Astonishing, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + Silence ensued and we meditated for awhile. Evidently the same thought + came simultaneously into the minds of both of us, for while I was mentally + commenting upon the deserted and lonely condition of the city streets at + two o'clock on a rainy night, my friend spoke: + </p> + <p> + “A man is alone with his conscience, the electric lights, the shadows of + the houses, and the sound of the rain at a time and place like this, isn't + he? Standing as we stand now, under an awning, during a persistent + rainfall, at this hour, with no other human being in sight, a man is for + the time upon a desert island. Which reminds me: + </p> + <p> + “One night, at a later hour than this, when the rain was heavier than + this, I was alone under an awning that was smaller than this. Being + without umbrella and overcoat, I saw at least a quarter of an hour waiting + for me. The thought was dismal. + </p> + <p> + “Happy idea! I would smoke. I had a cigar in my mouth in an instant. + </p> + <p> + “Horrors! I had no matches. + </p> + <p> + “The desire to smoke instantly increased tenfold. I puffed despairingly at + my unlit cigar. No miracle occurred to ignite it. I looked longingly at + the electric lights and the gas-lamps in the distance. + </p> + <p> + “Like a sailor cast upon an island and straining his eyes on the lookout + for a ship, I stood there scanning the prospect in search of a man with a + light. I was Enoch Arden; the awning was my palm-tree. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes passed. No craft hove in sight. + </p> + <p> + “Suddenly uncertain footsteps were heard. I looked. Some one came that + way. It was a squalid-looking personage—a professional beggar, + half-drunk. He landed upon my island, beneath my awning. + </p> + <p> + “'For charity's sake, give me a match!' I cried. + </p> + <p> + “He looked at me—'sized me up,' in the technical terminology of his + trade. Intelligence began to illumine his countenance. He saw that the + opportunity of his life had come. He held out a match. + </p> + <p> + “'I'll sell it to you for fifty cents,' he said, with a grin. + </p> + <p> + “I had erred in revealing the depth of my want, the extent of my distress. + </p> + <p> + “I compromised by promising to give him a half-dollar if I should succeed + in lighting my cigar with his solitary match. We did succeed. He took the + fifty and started back for the saloon from whence he had come. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my boy, the irony of fate—that same old oft-quoted irony! + </p> + <p> + “I hadn't blown three mouthfuls of smoke from that cigar when a friend + came along with a lighted cigar, an umbrella, and a box full of matches. + </p> + <p> + “The whole effect of this story lies in the value that fifty cents + possessed for me at that time. It was my last fifty cents, and two days + stood between that night and salary day. + </p> + <p> + “I had another experience—” + </p> + <p> + But a night car came in view from around a corner, my friend ran for it, + and his third tale remains untold. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII. — SHANDY'S REVENGE + </h2> + <p> + He was old enough to know better, and a superficial observer might have + thought that he did. But a severe and haughty manner in repose is not any + indication of knowledge, nor is a well-kept beard, even when it is turning + gray. Melrose Welty, the possessor of these and other ways and features + symbolical of wisdom, had no higher occupation in life than to sit in + club-houses and cafés, telling of conquests won by him over women, chiefly + over soubrettes and chorus girls. + </p> + <p> + Of his means of livelihood, no one had certain knowledge. He always + dressed well, but he abode in a lodging-house, to which he never invited + any of his associates. He affected the society of newspaper men, some of + whom pronounced him a good fellow until they discovered that he was an + ass; and he never refused an invitation to have a drink. + </p> + <p> + When he had you at a table in a quiet corner of a café, or in front of a + bar, or in the lobby of a theatre between the acts, no matter how the + conversation began, he would invariably turn it into that realm to which + his thoughts were confined. + </p> + <p> + “I've got a supper on hand to-night after the performance,” he would + probably say, “with a blonde in the —— Company. A lovely girl, + too! It's curious, old man, how I happened to meet her. I've talked to her + only twice, but I made a hit with her in the first five minutes. I'll tell + you how it was—” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon, if you were polite, and did not know Welty sufficiently to flee + on a pretext, he would tell you how it was, inflicting upon you the + wearisome minute details of the most commonplace thing in the world, the + birth and growth of an acquaintance between a man about town and a silly + young woman, not fastidious as to who pays for her food and drink as long + as the food and drink are adequate. + </p> + <p> + If you were a newspaper man, Welty was apt to supplement his story with + something like this: + </p> + <p> + “By the way, old fellow, if you have any pull with your dramatic editor, + can't you give her a line or two? She hasn't much to do in the piece, but + she does it well, and she's clever. She may get a good part one of these + days. Have something nice said about her, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + And if you ever gave another thought to this plea, you determined to use + whatever influence you had with the dramatic editor to this effect, that + the young woman would have to exhibit very decided cleverness indeed ere + she should have “something nice” said about her in the paper. + </p> + <p> + Welty was not wont to retain one divinity on the altar of his conversation + longer than a week. But he did so once. He talked about the same girl + every day for a month. And thereby came his undoing. + </p> + <p> + She was a slender little girl who was singing badly a small rôle in a + certain comic opera at the time of these occurrences. She had a babyish + manner across the footlights, and she was thought to be a blonde, for she + was wearing a yellow wig over her own short black hair that season. Her + first name was Emily. + </p> + <p> + Welty managed to be introduced to her by thrusting himself upon a little + party of which she was a member, and in which was one acquaintance of his, + at a restaurant one night. He called upon her at her boarding house the + next day, where she received him with some surprise, and left most of the + conversation to him. When he visited there again, she caused him to be + told that she was out, and this took place a half dozen times. Their real + acquaintance never went any further, but an imaginary acquaintance between + them, growing from Welty's wish, made great progress in his fancy and in + the stories told by him at his club to groups of men, some of whom doubted + and looked bored, while others believed and grinned and envied. + </p> + <p> + It was at the point where Emily had quite forgotten Welty, and Welty's + stories portrayed her as recklessly adoring him and seeking him in cabs at + all hours, that Barry McGettigan, a despised young reporter, “doing + police,” heard one of Welty's accounts of an alleged interview with Emily; + and Barry, who had a way of knowing human nature and observing people, + suspected. + </p> + <p> + Now Barry cherished a deep-rooted grudge against Welty, all the more + dangerous because Welty was unaware of it. Its exact cause has never been + torn from Barry's breast. Some have ascribed it to Welty's having mimicked + Barry's brogue before a crowd in a saloon one night. Others have laid it + to the following passage of words, which is now a part of the ancient + history of the Nocturnal Club. + </p> + <p> + “Spakin' of ancestors,” Barry began, “I'd loike to bet—” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to bet,” broke in Welty, “that your own ancestry leads directly + to the Shandy family.” + </p> + <p> + There was a general laugh, which Barry, whose nose was as flat as any + Shandy's could have been but who had never read Sterne, did not + understand. + </p> + <p> + “What did he mane?” Barry asked a friend. The friend told him to read + “Tristram Shandy.” He spent two hours in a public library next day and + learned how his facial peculiarity had been used by Welty to create a + laugh and incidentally to insult him. + </p> + <p> + This he never forgave. And he bided his time. + </p> + <p> + Now, having heard Welty boast of being the object of this Emily's + infatuation, Barry McGettigan deflected his mind from the contemplation of + murders, infanticides, fires, and other matters of general interest, and + gave his best thoughts and skill to investigating this talked-of love + affair of Welty's. + </p> + <p> + He discovered the true situation within three days. He found that Emily + was engaged to be married to a college football player who came to the + city once a week to see her. + </p> + <p> + He borrowed money, made himself very agreeable to Welty, and also got + himself introduced to the football player. The latter was a tall, lithe, + heavy-shouldered, brown-faced, thick-knuckled youth, who practiced all + kinds of athletic diversions. + </p> + <p> + Barry McGettigan sounded the football man in one brief interview one + night, between the acts of the comic opera, at the saloon next door. He + found a means of fastening himself upon the football player's esteem. The + collegian expressed a mild desire to see something of police-station life. + Barry invited him to spend an evening with him on duty at Central Station. + The collegian accepted. Barry appointed a time and named a certain café as + a meeting place. + </p> + <p> + Then Barry invited Welty to dine with him at the same café on the same + evening at the same hour. By means of his borrowed money, he had lavished + costly drinks upon Welty of late, and Welty had reason to anticipate a + dinner worth the accepting. Barry told Welty nothing of the collegian and + he told the collegian nothing more of Welty. + </p> + <p> + When the evening came, Barry found Welty awaiting him at the café. The two + sat down at a table. The preliminary cocktail had only arrived when in + walked the collegian. Barry saluted him as if the meeting had only + occurred by chance. He made the collegian and Welty known to each other by + name only. And then he ordered dinner. + </p> + <p> + When a bottle had been drunk, Barry innocently turned the current of the + conversation to women. He spoke modestly of a mythical conquest he had + recently made. The football player listened without showing much interest. + Presently Barry paused. + </p> + <p> + Welty took a drink and began: + </p> + <p> + “No, my boy,” said he to Barry, “you're wrong there. It's like you + youngsters to think you know all about the sex, but the older you grow the + less you think you know about them, until you get to my age.” + </p> + <p> + Barry made no answer, but looked at Welty with becoming deference. + </p> + <p> + The football man's eyes were wandering about the café, showing him to be + indifferent to the theme of discussion. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” continued Welty, “that many more or less writers have said, as + you say, that women must be sought and pursued to be won. They deduce that + theory from the habits of lower animals and of barbarous nations, in which + the man obtains the woman by chase and force. But it's all a theory, and + simply shows that the learned writers study their books instead of their + fellow men and women.” + </p> + <p> + The collegian looked restless, as if the conversation had gotten beyond + his depth. + </p> + <p> + Barry remained silent, and with a flattering aspect of great interest in + Welty's observations. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” went on Welty, striking the table with the bottom of his glass, + “I've had a little experience of this sort of thing in my time, and I can + say that in nine cases out of ten, once you've attracted the attention of + your game, let it alone and it will chase you. That's how to win women.” + </p> + <p> + The collegian looked bored. + </p> + <p> + “Just to illustrate,” said Welty, “I'll tell of a little conquest of my + own. I use it because it is the first that comes to my mind, not that I'm + given to bragging about my success in these matters. I suppose you've seen + the opera at the —— Theatre?” + </p> + <p> + The collegian ceased looking bored. Barry McGettigan sat perfectly, + unnaturally still. + </p> + <p> + “And,” pursued Welty, “you've doubtless noticed the three girls who appear + as the queen's maids of honour?” + </p> + <p> + The collegian looked somewhat concerned. Barry stopped breathing. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” continued Welty, “you mayn't believe it, for we've kept it really + quiet, one of them girls is really dead gone on me.” + </p> + <p> + The collegian opened his mouth wide, and Barry began to nervously tap his + hand upon the table. + </p> + <p> + “It's the one,” said Welty, “who wears the big blond wig. Her name's Emi—” + </p> + <p> + There was the noise of upsetting plates, bottles, and glasses, of a man's + feet rapping up against the bottom of a table and his head thumping down + against the floor. There was the sight of an agile youth leaping across an + overturned table and alighting with one foot at each side of the prostrate + form of an astonished man, whose gray whiskers were spattered with blood. + There was the quick gathering of a crowd, an excited explanation on the + part of the collegian, a slow recovery on the part of the man on the + floor, and Barry McGettigan's vengeance was complete. + </p> + <p> + For, by one of those incredible coincidences that have the semblance of + fatality, the football player's fist had reduced Melrose Welty's nose to a + flatness which the nose of no imaginable Shandy ever has surpassed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII. — THE WHISTLE + </h2> + <p> + She was the wife of a railway locomotive engineer, and the two lived in + the newly built house to which he had taken her as a bride a year before. + </p> + <p> + Many other people in the country railroad town used to laugh at a thing + which she had once said to a gossiping neighbour: + </p> + <p> + “I can tell the sound of the whistle on Tom's engine from all other + whistles. Every afternoon when his train gets to the crossing at the + planing-mill, I hear that whistle, and then I know it's time to get Tom's + supper.” + </p> + <p> + The gossips found something humourous in the fact that the engineer's wife + recognized the whistle of her husband's engine and knew by it when to + begin to prepare his supper. So are the small manifestations of love and + devotion regarded by coarse minds. You frequently observe this in the + conduct of certain people at the theatre when tender sentiments are + uttered upon the stage. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the men were envious of the engineer. He had a prettier wife, they + said, when he was not present, than was deserved by a mere freight + engineer, very recently elevated from the post of fireman. Perhaps, also, + the petty malevolence of the women was due to the wife's superior + comeliness. Be that as it may, each afternoon at half-past four or + thereabouts, when Tom's whistle was blown at the crossing by the + planing-mill, loungers in the grocery store and wives in their kitchens + smiled knowingly and said: + </p> + <p> + “Time to begin to get Tom's supper, now.” + </p> + <p> + But the engineer was careless and his wife was disdainful of their + neighbours. She loved the sound of that whistle. In the earliest days of + their married life it even sent the crimson to her cheeks. The engineer + could make it as expressive as music. It began like a sudden glad cry; it + died away lingeringly, tenderly. Virtually it said to one pair of ears: + </p> + <p> + “My darling, I have come back to you.” + </p> + <p> + Whenever the engineer pulled the rope for that particular signal, he + pictured his wife arising from her work-basket in their little parlour + with a thrill of pleasure and affection, and passing out to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + She, likewise, at the signal, made a mental image of Tom, seated in the + engine cab, his one hand fixed upon the shining lever, his eyes fixed upon + the glistening tracks ahead. + </p> + <p> + At six o'clock, usually, supper was hot, and Tom arrived through the front + gateway, glancing at the flower-bed in the centre of the diminutive grass + plot, carrying his dinner-pail, having divested himself of his grimy, + greasy blouse and overalls at the great repair shops, where his engine had + already begun, with much panting, to spend the night. + </p> + <p> + In a small railroad town on the main line, one is continually hearing + locomotive whistles. All the inhabitants know that one long moan of the + steam is the signal of the train's swift approach; that two short shrieks + of the whistle direct the trainmen to tighten the brakes; that four, given + when the train is still, are intended for the flagman, who has gone away + to the rear to warn back the next train, and that they tell him to return + to his own train as it is about to start; that five whistles in succession + announce a wreck and command the immediate attendance of the wreck crew. + </p> + <p> + In the town many cheeks blanch when those five long, ominous wails of the + escaping steam cleave the air. A husband, a son, a father who has gone + forth blithely in the morning, with his dinner-pail full, may be brought + out of the wreck, mangled or dead. And until complete details are known + there is a tremor in the whole community. Some hearts beat faster, others + seem to stand still. People speak in hushed tones. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, the engineer's wife, observing the altitude of the sun, + looked at the clock and saw that the time was a few minutes before five. + </p> + <p> + Tom's whistle had not yet blown. + </p> + <p> + At five-fifteen came the sound of another whistle. It was prolonged and + then repeated. The engineer's wife stood still and counted. + </p> + <p> + Five! + </p> + <p> + The most docile and apparently cheerful patient in the —— + Asylum for the Insane is a widow, still young, who spends the greater time + of each day sewing and humming tunes softly to herself. Every afternoon at + about half-past four she assumes a listening attitude, suddenly hears an + inaudible whistle, smiles tenderly, starts up and places invisible dishes + and impalpable viands upon an imaginary table, and then loses herself in a + reverie which ends in slumber. + </p> + <p> + No striking clock is allowed within her hearing. It was long ago noticed + that the stroke of five or any series of five similar sounds would cause + her to moan piteously. + </p> + <p> + The people afar in the country town do not laugh now when they talk of Tom + and the whistle which was shrieking madly as he and his engine plunged + down the bank together on that day when the huge boulder rolled from the + hillside stone quarry and lay upon the tracks, just on this side of the + curve above the town. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV. — WHISKERS + </h2> + <p> + The facts about the man we called “Whiskers” linger in my mind, asking to + be recorded, and though they do not make much of a story, I am tempted to + unburden myself by putting them on paper. It was mentally noted as a sure + thing by everybody who saw him go into the managing editor's room, to ask + for a position on the staff of the paper, that if he should obtain a place + and become a fixture in the office, he would be generally known as + Whiskers within twenty-four hours after his instalment. + </p> + <p> + What tale he told the managing editor no one knew, but every one in the + editorial rooms deduced later that it must have been something a trifle + out of the common, for the managing editor, who had gone through the form + of taking the names of three previous applicants that afternoon and + telling them that he would let them know when a vacancy should occur on + the staff, told the man whom we eventually christened Whiskers that he + might come around the next day and write whatever he might choose to in + the way of Sunday “specials,” comic verses, or editorial paragraphs, on + the chance of their being accepted. + </p> + <p> + The next day the hairy-faced man took possession of a desk in the room + occupied by the exchange editor and one of the editorial writers, and + began to grind out “copy.” + </p> + <p> + He was a slim, figure, with what is commonly denominated a “slight stoop.” + His trousers were none too long for his thin legs, his tightly fitting + frock coat, threadbare, shiny, and unduly creased, was hardly of a fit for + his slender body and his long arms. It was his face, however, that mostly + individualized his appearance. + </p> + <p> + The face was pale, the outlines symmetrical, but rather feeble, and the + countenance would have seemed rather lamblike but for the fact that it was + framed with thick, long hair and a luxuriant beard, which caressed his + waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + These made him impressive at first sight. + </p> + <p> + On the first day of his presence, he said little to the men with whom he + shared his room in the office. On the second day he grew communicative and + talked rather pompously to the exchange editor. He prated of his past + achievements as a newspaper man in other cities. He had a cheerful way of + talking in a voice that was high but not loud. His undaunted manner of + uttering self-praise caused the exchange editor to wink at the editorial + writer. It engendered, too, a small degree of dislike on the part of these + worthies; and the exchange editor made it a point to watch for some of the + new man's work in the paper, that he might be certain whether the new + man's ability was equal to the new man's opinion of it. + </p> + <p> + The exchange editor found that it was not. The new man had been in the + office four days before any of his contributions had gone through the + process of creation, acceptance, and publication. Some verses and some + alleged jokes were his first matter printed. They were below mediocrity. + The exchange editor ceased to dislike the whiskered man and thereafter + regarded him as quite harmless and mildly amusing. + </p> + <p> + This view of him was eventually accepted by every one who came to know + him, and he was made the object of a good deal of gentle chaffing. + </p> + <p> + He earned probably $15 or $20 at space rates, a lamentably small amount + for so intellectual looking a man, but a very large amount considering the + quality of work turned out by him. + </p> + <p> + Doubtless he would not have made nearly so much had not the managing + editor whispered something in the ears of the assistant editor-in-chief, + whose duty it was to judge of the acceptability of editorial matter + offered, the editor of the Sunday's supplement, and other members of the + staff who might have occasion to “turn down” the new man's contributions, + or to wink at the deficiencies in his work. + </p> + <p> + One day Whiskers, with many apologies and much embarrassment, asked the + exchange editor to lend him a quarter, which request having been complied + with, he put on his much rubbed high hat and hurried from the room. + </p> + <p> + “It's funny the old man's hard up so soon,” the exchange editor said to + the editorial writer at the next desk, “It's only two days since pay-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does he sink his money?” asked the editorial writer. “His + sleeping-room costs him only $3 a week, and, eating the way he does, at + the cheapest hash-houses, his whole expenses can't be more than $8. No one + ever sees him spend a cent. He must sink it away in a bank.” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn't he any relatives?” + </p> + <p> + “He never spoke of any, and he lives alone. Wotherspoon, who lodges where + he does, says no one ever comes to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “He certainly doesn't spend money on clothes.” + </p> + <p> + “No; and he never drinks at his own expense.” + </p> + <p> + “He's probably leading a double life,” said the exchange editor, + jestingly, as he plunged his scissors into a Western paper, to cut out a + poem by James Whitcomb Riley. + </p> + <p> + Without making many acquaintances, Whiskers, by reason of his hirsute + peculiarity, became known throughout the building, from the business + office on the ground floor to the composing-room on the top. When he went + into the latter one day and passed down the long aisle between the long + row of cases and type-setting machines, with a corrected proof in his + hand, a certain printer, who was “setting” up a clothing-house + advertisement, could not resist the temptation to give labial imitation of + the blowing of wind. The bygone joke concerning whiskers and the wind was + then current, and a score of compositors took up the whistle, so that all + varieties of breeze were soon being simulated simultaneously. Whiskers + coloured sightly, but, save a dignified straightening of his shoulders, he + showed no other sign that he was conscious of the rude allusion to his + copious beard. + </p> + <p> + Whiskers chose Tuesday for his day off. + </p> + <p> + It was on a certain Tuesday evening that one of the reporters came into + the exchange editor's room and casually remarked: + </p> + <p> + “I saw your anti-shaving friend, who sits at that desk, riding out to the + suburbs on a car to-day. He was all crushed up and carried a bouquet of + roses.” + </p> + <p> + “That settles it,” cried the editorial writer to the exchange editor, with + mock jubilation. “There can be no doubt the old man was leading a double + life. The bouquet means a woman in the case.” + </p> + <p> + “And his money goes for flowers and presents,” added the exchange editor. + </p> + <p> + “Some of it, of course,” went on the editorial writer, “and the rest he's + saving to get married on. Who'd have thought it at his age?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he's not over forty. It's only his whiskers that make him look old. + One can easily detect a sentimental vein in his composition.” + </p> + <p> + “That accounts for his fits of abstraction, too. So he's found favour in + some fair one's eyes. I wonder what she's like.” + </p> + <p> + “Young and pretty, I'll bet,” said the exchange editor. “He's impressed + her by his dignified aspect. No doubt she thinks he's nothing less than an + editor-in-chief.” + </p> + <p> + The next day Whiskers was taciturn, as his office associates now recalled + that he was wont to be after “his day off.” Doubtless his thoughts dwelt + upon his visits to his divinity. He did not respond to their efforts to + involve him in conversation. + </p> + <p> + He was observed upon his next day off to take a car for the suburbs and to + have a bouquet in his hand and a package under his arm. The theory + originated by the editorial writer had general acceptance. It was passed + from man to man in the office. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard about the queer old duck with the whiskers, who writes in + the exchange room? He's engaged to a young and pretty girl up-town, and + eats at fifteen-cent soup-shops so that he can buy her flowers and wine + and things.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Old Whiskers in love! That's a good one!” + </p> + <p> + One day while Whiskers' pen was busily gliding across the paper, the + exchange editor broke the silence by asking him, in a careless tone: + </p> + <p> + “How was she, yesterday, Mr. Croydon?” + </p> + <p> + Whiskers looked up almost quickly, an expression of almost pained surprise + on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you thought because you didn't tell us, it wouldn't out. But you've + been caught. I mean the lady to whom you take roses every week, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + Whiskers simply stared at the exchange editor, as if quite bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pardon me,” said the exchange editor, somewhat abashed. “I didn't + mean to offend you. One's affairs of the heart are sacred, I know. But we + all guy each other about each other's amours here. We're hardened to that + sort of pleasantry.” + </p> + <p> + A look of enlightenment, a blush, a deep sigh, and an “Oh, I'm not + offended,” were the only manifestations made by Whiskers after the + exchange editor's apology. + </p> + <p> + It was inferred from his manner that he did not wish to make confidences + or receive jests about his love-affairs. + </p> + <p> + A time came when Whiskers seemed to have something constantly on his mind. + Not content with one day's vacation each week, he would go off for periods + of three or four hours on other days. + </p> + <p> + “Do you notice how queerly the old man behaves?” said the editorial writer + to the exchange editor thereupon. “Things are coming to a crisis.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the wedding, of course.” + </p> + <p> + This inference received a show of confirmation afterward when Whiskers had + a private interview with the managing editor, received an order on the + cashier for all the money due him, and for a part of the managing editor's + salary as a loan, and quietly said to the exchange editor that he would be + away for a week or so. The editorial writer happened to be at the + cashier's window when Whiskers had his order cashed. So when the editorial + writer and the exchange editor compared notes a few minutes later, the + latter complimented the former upon the correctness of his prediction that + Whiskers' marriage was imminent. + </p> + <p> + “He didn't invite us,” said the exchange editor, “but then I suppose the + affair is to be a very quiet one, and we can't take offence at that. The + old man's not a bad lot, by any means. Let's do something to please him + and to flatter his bride. What do you say to raising a fund to buy them a + present, in the name of the staff?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm in for it,” said the editorial writer, producing a half-dollar. + </p> + <p> + They canvassed the office and found everybody willing to contribute. The + managing editor and the assistant editor-in-chief had gone home, but as + they had shown kindness to Whiskers, and were, in fact, the only two men + on the staff who knew anything about his private affairs, the exchange + editor took his chances and put in a dollar for each of them. + </p> + <p> + “And now, what shall we get—and where shall we send it?” said the + exchange editor. + </p> + <p> + “Not to his lodging-house, certainly. He'll probably be married at the + residence of his bride's parents, as the notices say. We'd better get it + quick, and rush it up there—wherever that is—somewhere + up-town.” + </p> + <p> + “But say,” interposed the city editor, who was present at this + consultation, “maybe the ceremony has already come off. I saw the old man + giving in a notice for advertisement across the counter at the business + office an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we may be able to learn from that where the bride lives, anyhow, + and some one can go there and find out something definite about the happy + pair's present and future whereabouts,” suggested the editorial writer. + </p> + <p> + “That's so,” said the city editor. “The notice is in the composing-room by + this time. I'll run up and find it.” + </p> + <p> + The city editor left the editorial writer and the exchange editor alone + together in the room, each sitting at their own desk. + </p> + <p> + “What shall we get with this money?” queried the former, touching the + bills and silver dumped upon his desk. + </p> + <p> + “Something to please the woman. That'll give Whiskers the most pleasure. + He evidently loves her deeply. These constant visits and gifts speak the + greatest devotion.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, but what shall it be?” + </p> + <p> + The two were battling with this question when the city editor returned. He + came in and said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “I found the notice. At least, I suppose this is it. What is the old man's + full name?” + </p> + <p> + “Horace W. Croydon.” + </p> + <p> + “This is it, then,” said the city editor, standing with his back to the + door. “The notice reads: 'On March 3d, at the Arlington Hospital for + Incurables, Rachel, widow of the late Horace W. Croydon, Sr., in her 59th + year. Funeral services at the residence of Charles—'” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” interrupted the editorial writer, in a hushed voice, “that is a + death notice.” + </p> + <p> + “His mother,” said the exchange editor. “The Hospital for Incurables—that + is where the flowers went.” + </p> + <p> + The editorial writer's glance dropped to the desk, where the money lay for + the intended gift. The exchange editor sat perfectly still, gazing + straight in front of him. The city editor walked softly to the window and + looked out. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV. — THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + </h2> + <p> + “I'm a bad man,” said Tobit McStenger, after three glasses of whiskey. And + he was. In making the declaration, he echoed the expression of the + community. + </p> + <p> + He looked it. Not only in the sneering mouth above the half-formed chin, + and in the lowering eyes of undecided colour beneath the receding brow, + but also in every shiftless attitude and movement of his great gaunt body, + and even in the torn coat and shapeless felt hat—both once black, + but both now a dirty gray—his aspect proclaimed him the preeminent + rowdy of his town. + </p> + <p> + When out of jail he was engaged in oyster opening at Couch's saloon, or + selling fresh fish, caught in the river, or vagrancy in the streets of + Brickville. He lived in a log house containing two rooms, by Muddy Creek, + an intermittent stream that flowed—sometimes—through a corner + of the town. He was a widower and had a son nine years old, little Tobe, + who went to school occasionally, but gave most of his day to carrying a + paper flour-sack around the town and begging cold victuals, in obedience + to paternal commands, and throwing stones at other boys, who called him + “Patches,” a nickname descended from his father. + </p> + <p> + Little Tobe's face was always black, from the dust of the bituminous coal + that he was compelled to steal at night from the railroad companies' yard. + His attire was in miniature what his father's was in the large, as his + character was in embryo what the elder Tobit's was in complete + development. With long, entangled hair, a thin, crafty face, and stealthy + eyes, he was a true type of malevolent gamin, all the more uncanny for the + crudity due to his semirustic environments. + </p> + <p> + Such were Tobit and little Tobe, the most conspicuous of the village + “characters” of Brickville, a Pennsylvania town deriving sustenance from + its brick-kiln, its railroads, and its contiguous farming interests. + </p> + <p> + It was town talk that Tobit McStenger was a hard father; drunk or sober, + he chastised little Tobe upon the slightest occasion. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Tobit McStenger, after admitting his severity as a parent + before the bar in Couch's saloon, “let any one else lay a finger on that + kid! Just let 'em! They'll find out, jail or no jail, I'm ugly!” And he + went on to repeat for the thousandth time that when he was ugly he was a + bad man. + </p> + <p> + Whereupon the other loungers in Couch's saloon, “Honesty Tom Yerkes,” the + hauler, Sam Hatch, the bill-poster, and the rest, agreed that a man's + manner of governing his household was his own business. + </p> + <p> + Tobit McStenger had his word to say upon all village topics. When in + Couch's saloon one night he learned that the school directors had decided + to take the primary school from the tutorship of a woman and to put a man + over it as teacher, Tobit pricked up his ears and had many words to say. + He was working at the time, and he spoke in loud, coarse tones, as he + wielded his oyster-knife, having for an audience the usual dozen barroom + tarriers. + </p> + <p> + “I know what that means,” cried Tobit McStenger. “It means they ain't + satisfied with having our children ruled with kindness. It means Miss + Wiggins, who's kep' a good school, which I know all about, fer my son's + one of her scholars—it means she don't use the rod enough. They've + made up their minds to control the kids by force, and they went and hired + a man to lick book learnin' into 'em. Who is the feller, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Pap” Buckwalder read the answer to Tobit's question from the current + number of the Brickville <i>Weekly Gazette</i>. + </p> + <p> + “The new teacher is Aubrey Pilling, the adopted son of farmer Josiah + Pilling, of Blair Township. He has taught the school of that township for + three winters, and is a graduate of the Brickville Academy.” + </p> + <p> + Sam Hatch, standing by the stove, remembered him. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that's the backward fellow,” said he, “that the girls used to guy. + His hair and eyebrows is as white as tow, and when he'd blush his face + used to turn pink. He always walked in from the country, four miles, every + morning to school and back again at night. There ain't much use getting + him take a woman's place. He's about the same as a woman hisself. He + hardly talks above a whisper, and he's afraid to look a girl in the face.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't he the boy Josiah Pilling took out o' the Orphans' Home, here about + twenty years ago?” queried Pap Buckwalder. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” replied Hatch. “I heerd somethin' about that when he went to the + 'cademy here. He was took out of a home by a farmer, who gave him his name + 'cause the boy didn't know his own, nor no one else did, and so he was + brought up on the farm.” + </p> + <p> + “So that's the sort o' people they've put the education of our children + into the hands uv!” exclaimed Tobit McStenger. “Well, all I got to say is, + let him keep his hands off my boy Tobe, or he'll find out the kind of a + tough customer I am.” + </p> + <p> + Tobit McStenger, in the few weeks immediately following this change in the + primary school, remained continuously industrious, to the surprise of all + who knew him. As Tobit was an expeditious oyster-opener, Tony Couch, the + saloon-keeper who employed him, was much rejoiced. Tobit toiled at + oyster-opening and little Tobe became regular in his attendance at school. + </p> + <p> + The new school-teacher, a broad, awkward, bashful youth, painfully blond, + came to town and accomplished that for which he had been called. He + brought discipline to the primary school, an achievement none easier for + the fact that many of his pupils were in their teens, and incidentally he + suspended Tobit McStenger the younger. + </p> + <p> + When little Tobe, glad of the enforced return to the liberties of his + begging days, brought home his soiled first reader and told his father + that the teacher had sent him from school with orders not to return until + he could learn to keep his face clean, the father became swollen with an + overflowing wrath. He swore frightfully, and started off, vowing that he + would “show the white-faced foundling how to treat decent people's + children.” + </p> + <p> + And he had two tall drinks of whiskey put on the slate against him at + Couch's and proceeded to carry out his threat. + </p> + <p> + It was a cold day in December. Pilling, the teacher, sat near the stove in + the little square school-room, listening to the irrepressible hum of his + restless pupils and the predominating monotonous sound of a small girl's + voice reciting multiplication tables. + </p> + <p> + “Three times three are nine,” she whined, drawlingly; “three times four + are twelve, three times—” + </p> + <p> + The little girl with the braided hair stopped short. A loud knock fell + upon the door. + </p> + <p> + A boy looked through the window, evidently saw the one who had knocked, + then cast a curious look at Pilling, the teacher. Pilling observed this, + and asked the boy: + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of hesitation, the boy replied: + </p> + <p> + “It's old Patchy—I mean, Tobe McStenger's father.” + </p> + <p> + Pilling, whose bashfulness was manifest only in the presence of women, had + the utmost calmness before his pupils. He walked quietly to the door and + locked it. + </p> + <p> + McStenger, furious without, heard the sound of the bolt being thrust into + place, whereupon he began to kick at the door. Pilling turned the chair + facing his class and told the girl with the braided hair to continue. + </p> + <p> + “Three times five are fifteen, three times six—” + </p> + <p> + A crashing sound was heard. McStenger had broken a window. Pilling looked + around, as if seeking some impromptu weapon. While he was doing so, + McStenger broke another window-pane with a club. Then McStenger went away. + </p> + <p> + That evening, Pilling had Tobit McStenger arrested for malicious mischief. + The oyster-opener was held pending trial until January court. He was then + sentenced to thirty days more in the county jail. Meanwhile little Tobe + mounted a freight-train one day to steal a ride, and Brickville has not + seen or heard of him since. He enlisted in the great army of vagabonds, + doubtless. Perhaps some city swallowed him. + </p> + <p> + Tobit McStenger felt at home in jail. It was not a bad place of residence + during the coldest months. But for one defect, jail life would have been + quite enviable; it forced upon him abstinence from alcoholic liquor. + </p> + <p> + Every period of thirty days has its termination, and Tobit McStenger + became a free man. He returned to his old life, opening oysters during + part of the time, idling and drinking during the other part. He made no + attempt to spoil the peace of Aubrey Pilling, and he only laughed when he + heard of the disappearance of Little Tobe. + </p> + <p> + Pilling, by his success in conducting the primary school, had won the + esteem of Brickville's citizens. His timidity had diminished, or, rather, + it had been discovered to be merely quietness, self-communion, instead of + timidity. He had shown himself less prudish than he had been thought. + Occasionally he drank whiskey or beer, which was looked upon as a good + sign in a man of his kind. + </p> + <p> + Tobit McStenger did not know this. He invariably evaded mention of + Pilling. People wondered what would happen when the two should meet. For + Tobit was known to be revengeful, and he was now, more than ever, in + speech and look, a bad man. + </p> + <p> + The expected and yet the unexpected happened one night in Couch's saloon,—the + scene of most of the eventful incidents in Tobit McStenger's life since he + had dawned upon Brickville. Tobit and Honesty Yerkes, Pap Buckwalder, old + Tony Couch himself, and half a score others were making a conversational + hubbub before the bar. + </p> + <p> + In walked Aubrey Pilling. He came quietly to an unoccupied spot at the end + of the bar and ordered a glass of beer, without looking at the other + drinkers. Some one nudged Tobit McStenger and pointed toward the + white-haired young pedagogue. The noise of talk broke off abruptly. + </p> + <p> + McStenger placed his back against the bar, resting his elbows upon it, and + turned a scornful gaze toward Pilling, who had taken one draught from his + glass of beer. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Tony,” began McStenger, in his big, growling voice, “who's your + ladylike customer? Oh, it's him, is it? Well, he needn't be skeered of me. + I don't mix up with folks o' his sort. You see, people could only expect + to be insulted through their children by fellows of his birth—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Mack!” whispered Tony Couch, whose sense of deportment advised him + that McStenger was treading forbidden ground. Pilling had not looked up. + He stood quietly at some distance from the others, intent upon his glass + of beer on the bar before him, perfectly still. + </p> + <p> + But McStenger went on, more loudly than before: + </p> + <p> + “By fellows, as I said, who came from orphans' homes, and never knew who + their parents was, and whose mothers may have been God knows what—” + </p> + <p> + Pilling, without turning, had lifted his glass. With an easy motion he had + tossed its remaining contents of beer into the face of Tobit McStenger. + The latter drew back from the splash of the liquid as if stung. Then, with + a loud cry of rage, he leaped toward Pilling. The teacher turned and faced + him. + </p> + <p> + McStenger clapped one huge hand against Pilling's neck, and in an instant + thereafter his long, bony fingers were pressing upon the teacher's throat, + in what had the looks of a fatal clutch. But Pilling, with both his arms, + violently forced McStenger from him. The teacher took breath and McStenger + reached for a whiskey decanter. The others in the saloon looked on with + eager interest, fearing to come between such formidable combatants. Tony + Couch ran out in search of the town's only policeman. McStenger advanced + toward the teacher. + </p> + <p> + Pilling was farm bred. He had chopped down trees with his right arm alone + in his time. Pilling thrust forth his arm with unexpected suddenness. Upon + the floor, six feet behind his antagonist, was a cuspidor with jagged + edges. + </p> + <p> + And Tobit McStenger slept with his fathers. + </p> + <p> + The jury acquitted the teacher on the plea of self-defense. The loungers + in Couch's saloon judiciously said that it was a very bad break for Tobit + McStenger to have made. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI. — THE SCARS + </h2> + <p> + My friend the tune-maker has often unintentionally amused his + acquaintances by the gravity with which he attributes significance to the + most trivial occurrences. + </p> + <p> + He turns the most thoughtless speeches, uttered in jest, into prophecies. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he used to say to us at a café table, “you may laugh. But + it's astonishing how things turn out sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “As for instance?” some one would inquire. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. But I could give an instance if I wished to do so.” + </p> + <p> + One evening, over a third bottle, he grew unusually communicative. + </p> + <p> + “Just to illustrate how things happen,” he began, speaking so as to be + audible above the din of the café to the rest of us around the table, + “I'll tell you about a man I know. One February morning, about eight years + ago, he was hurrying to catch a train. There was ice on the sidewalks and + people had to walk cautiously or ride. As he was turning a corner he saw + by a clock that he had only five minutes in which to reach the station, + three blocks away. An instant later he saw a shapely figure in soft furs + suddenly describe a forward movement and drop in a heap to the sidewalk, + ten feet in front of him. A melodious light soprano scream arose from the + heap. A divinely turned ankle in a quite human black stocking was + momentarily visible. He was by the side of the mass of furs and skirts in + three steps. + </p> + <p> + “He caught the pretty girl under the arms and elevated her to a standing + posture. She recovered her breath and her self-possession promptly and + glowed upon him with the brightest of smiles. He had never before seen + her. + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, thank you,' she said; adding, with the unconscious exaggeration of a + schoolgirl, 'You've saved my life.' + </p> + <p> + “Realizing the absurdity of this speech, she blushed. Whereupon her + rescuer, feeling that the situation warranted him in turning the matter to + jest, replied: + </p> + <p> + “'That being the case, according to the rules of romance, I ought to marry + you, like all the men who rescue the heroines in stories.' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh,' she answered, quickly, 'this isn't in a novel; it's real life.' + </p> + <p> + “'Yes; besides which, I see by the clock over there I have only four + minutes in which to catch a train. Good morning.' + </p> + <p> + “And he ran off without taking a second glance at her. He arrived at the + station in due time. + </p> + <p> + “Three years after that he married the most charming woman in the world, + after an acquaintance of only six months. + </p> + <p> + “This woman is as beautiful as she is amiable. Nature has not been guilty + of a single defect in her construction. A tiny scar upon her knee is all + the more noticeable because of its solitude. + </p> + <p> + “It is a peculiarity of scars that each has a history. The history of this + one has thus far, for no adequate reason, remained a family secret. + </p> + <p> + “Another noteworthy fact about scars is that they may be, and in many + cases they are, useful for purposes of identification. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you anticipate the dramatic climax of my story, gentlemen. + Nevertheless, let me give it, for the sake of completeness, in the form of + a dialogue between the husband and the wife. + </p> + <p> + “'How came the wound there?' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, I fell against the corner of a paving-stone one icy morning three + years ago.' + </p> + <p> + “'And to think that I was not there to help you up!' + </p> + <p> + “'True; but another young man served the purpose, and I'm afraid he missed + a train on my account.' + </p> + <p> + “'What! It wasn't on the corner of —— and —— + Streets?' + </p> + <p> + “'It was just there. How did you know?' + </p> + <p> + “So you see, as they completely proved by comparing recollections, the + little speech uttered in merriment had been prophetic, a fact that they + probably would never have learned had it not been for the identifying + service of the scar.” + </p> + <p> + “But if this has been kept a family secret, how do you happen to know it, + and by what right do you divulge it?” one of us asked. + </p> + <p> + The ballad composer blushed and clouded his face with tobacco smoke; and + then it recurred to us all that “the most charming woman in the world” is + his wife. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII. — “LA GITANA” + </h2> + <p> + This is not an attempt to palliate the foolishness of Billy Folsom. It is + not an essay in the emotional or the pathetic. You may pity him or + reproach him, if you like, but my purpose is not to evoke any feeling + toward or opinion of him. I do not seek to play upon your sympathies or to + put you into a mood, or to delineate a character. I simply tell the story + of how certain critical points in a man's life were accompanied by music; + how a destiny was affected by a tune. Anything aside from mere narrative + in this account will be incidental and accidental. The manifestations of + love, of wounded vanity, of recklessness; of even the death itself, are + here subsidiary in interest to the train of circumstance. He who underwent + them is not the hero of the recital; she who caused them is not the + heroine. The heroine is a melody, the waltz tune of “La Gitana.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody remembers when the tune was regnant. Its notes leaped gaily from + the strings of every theatre orchestra; soubrettes in fluffy raiment and + silk stockings yelled it singly and in chorus; hand-organs blared it + forth; dancers kicked up their toes to it; it monopolized the atmosphere + for its dwelling-place; it was everywhere. + </p> + <p> + Until one night, however, it did not touch the ear of Billy Folsom. He had + stayed late in the country, under the delusion that he was hunting. It + seems there are a few shootable things yet in certain parts of + Pennsylvania, and Folsom had the time and money to linger in search of + them. He came back to town in fine, exhilarating November weather, and on + one of these evenings when the joy of living is keenest, he and I strolled + with the crowd. Why I strolled with Folsom I do not know, for he was not a + man of ideas. He was even so bad as to be vain of his personal appearance, + especially upon having resumed the dress of the city after months of + outing. + </p> + <p> + We passed one of these theatres whose stages are near the street. A + musical farce was current there. From an open window came the tune, + waylaying us as we walked. The orchestra was playing it fortissimo. You + could hear it above the footfalls, the laughter, and the conversation of + the promenaders. + </p> + <p> + Folsom stopped. “Listen to that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, 'La Gitana.' It's all around. It's a catchy thing, and suits this + intoxicating weather.” + </p> + <p> + “It goes to the spot. Let's go inside. What's the play?” + </p> + <p> + He turned at once toward the main entrance of the theatre. + </p> + <p> + “A farce called 'Three Cheers and a Tiger,'—a Hoyt sort of a piece. + The little Tyrrell is doing her tambourine dance to the music.” + </p> + <p> + “Never heard of the lady,” he said to me. And then to the youth on the + other side of the box-office window, “Have you any seats left in the front + row?” + </p> + <p> + Folsom always asked for seats in the front row. This time it was fatal. As + we walked up the aisle, Folsom ahead, the little Tyrrell shot one casual + glance of her gray eyes at him, as almost any dancer would have done at a + front row newcomer entering while she was on the stage. In the next + instant her eyes were following her toe in its swift flight upward to the + centre of the tambourine that her hand brought downward to meet it. But + the one glance across the footlights had been productive. Folsom sat + staring over the heads of the musicians, his gaze fastened upon the little + Tyrrell, who was leaping about on the stage to the tune of “La Gitana.” + His lips opened slightly and remained so. His eyes feasted upon the flying + dancer in the rippling blond wig, his ears drank in the buoyant notes. + </p> + <p> + It is well known that power lies in a saltatorial ensemble of white lace + skirts, pale blue hose, lustrous naked arms, undulating bodice, magnetic + eyes, flying hair, and an unchanging smile, to focus the perceptions of a + man, to absorb his consciousness, aided by a tune which seems to close out + from him all the rest of the world. + </p> + <p> + And there, while this plump little girl danced and the frivolous, stupid + crowd looked eagerly on, from all parts of the overheated theatre, began + the tragedy of Billy Folsom. + </p> + <p> + He gazed in rapture, and when she had finished and stood panting and + kissing her hands in response to applause, he heaved an eloquent sigh. + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to meet that girl,” he whispered to me, assuming a tone of + carelessness. + </p> + <p> + Thereafter he kept his eye fixed upon the wings until she reappeared. And + the rest of the performance interested him only when she was in view. + </p> + <p> + I knew the symptoms, but I did not think the malady would become chronic. + </p> + <p> + He managed to have himself introduced to her a week later in New York by + Ted Clarke, the artist, who made newspaper sketches of her in some of her + dances. Folsom saw her going up the steps to an elevated railway station. + He ran after her, in order to be near her. He followed her into a car, + where Ted Clarke, recognizing her, rose to give her his seat. She rewarded + the artist by opening a conversation with him, and Folsom availed himself + of his acquaintance with Clarke to salute the latter with surprising + cordiality. She looked a few years older and less girlish without her + blond wig but she was still quite pretty in brown hair. She treated Folsom + with her wonted offhand amiability. He left the train when she left it, + and he walked a block with her. With pardonable shrewdness she inspected + his visage, attire, and manner, for indications of his pecuniary and + social standing, while he was indulging in silly commonplaces. When they + parted at the quiet hotel where she lived she said lightly: + </p> + <p> + “Come and see me sometime.” + </p> + <p> + To her surprise, perhaps, he came the next day, preceded by several dozen + roses and a few pounds of bonbons. + </p> + <p> + Every night thereafter he was at the theatre where she was appearing, + watching her dance from the front row or from the lobby, agitated with + mingled pleasure and jealousy when she received loud applause, angry at + the audience when the plaudits were not enthusiastic. When their + acquaintance was two weeks old, she allowed him to wait for her at the + stage door, and at last he was permitted to take her to supper. + </p> + <p> + There was a second supper, at which four composed the party. We had a room + to ourselves, with a piano in the corner. The event lasted long, and near + the end, while the other soubrette played the tune on the piano, and + Folsom kept time by clinking the champagne glass against the bottle, the + little Tyrrell, continually laughing, did her skirt dance, “La Gitana.” + </p> + <p> + Thus with that waltz tune ever sounding in his ears, he fell in love with + her; strangely enough, really in love. She, having her own affairs to + mind, gave him no thought when he was not with her, and when they were + together she deemed him quite a good-natured, bearable fellow, as long as + he did not bore her. + </p> + <p> + He made several declarations of love to her. She smiled at them, and said, + “You're like the rest; you'll get over it. Meanwhile, don't look like + that; be cheerful.” At certain times, when circumstances were auspicious, + when there was night and electric light and a starry sky with a moon in + it, she was half-sentimental, but such moods were only superficial and + short-lived, and she invariably brought an end to them with flippant + laughter or some matter-of-fact speech that came with a shock to Billy, + although it did not cool his adoration. + </p> + <p> + Billy became quite gloomy. He was the veritable sighing lover. Although + for a month he was admittedly the chief of her admirers and saw her every + day, he seemed to make no progress toward securing a hospitable reception + for and a response to his love. + </p> + <p> + One day, as they were walking together on Broadway, she said: + </p> + <p> + “You're always in the dumps nowadays. Really you must not be that way. + Doleful people make me tired.” + </p> + <p> + And thereafter Billy, possessed by a horrible fear that his mournful + demeanour might cause his banishment from her, kept making desperate + efforts to be lively, which were a dismal failure. It was ludicrous. The + gayer he affected to be, the more emphatic was his manifest depression. So + she wearied of his company. One day he called at her hotel, and, as was + his custom, went immediately to her sitting-room without sending in his + card. Before he knocked at the door, he heard the notes of her piano; some + one was playing the air of “La Gitana” with one finger. After two or three + bars, the instrument was silent. Then a man's voice was heard. Billy + knocked angrily. Miss Tyrrell opened the door, looked annoyed when she saw + him, and introduced him to the tenor of a comic opera company of which she + recently had been engaged as leading soubrette. Billy's call was a short + one. + </p> + <p> + At eight o'clock that evening he sent this note to her from the café where + he was dining: + </p> + <p> + “Will be at stage door with carriage at eleven, as before.” + </p> + <p> + He was there at eleven. So was the tenor. The little Tyrrell came out and + looked from one to the other. Billy pointed to his waiting carriage. The + dancer took the tenor's arm and said: + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry I can't accept your invitation, Mr. Folsom. Really I'm very + much obliged to you, but I have an engagement.” + </p> + <p> + She went off with the tenor, and Billy went off with the cab and made + himself drunker than he had ever been in his life. At dawn his feet were + seen protruding from the window of a coupé that was being driven up + Broadway, and he was bawling forth, as best he could, the tune which had + served indirectly to bring the little Tyrrell into his life. + </p> + <p> + After that night, it was the old story, a woman ridding herself of a man + for whom she had never cared, and who indeed was not worth caring for. But + the operation was just as hard upon Folsom as if he had been. You know the + stages of the process. She began by being not at home or just about to go + out. He wrote pleading notes to her, in boyish phraseology, and she + laughed over these with the tenor. He made the breaking off the more + painful by going nightly to see her dance that fatal melody. He watched + her from afar upon the street, and almost invariably saw the tenor by her + side. He drank continually, and he begged Ted Clarke to tell her, in a + casual way, that he was going to the dogs on account of her treatment of + him. Whereupon she laughed and then looked scornful, saying: “If he's fool + enough to drink himself to death because a woman didn't happen to fall in + love with him, the sooner he finishes the work the better. I have no use + for such a man.” + </p> + <p> + No one has, and I told Billy so. But he kept up his pace toward the goal + of confirmed drunkenness. He ceased his attendance at the theatre where + she danced, only after he learned that the tenor had married her. But that + dance of hers had become a part of his life. Its accompanying tune was now + as necessary to his aural sensibilities as food to his stomach. He + therefore spent his evenings going to theatres and concert-halls where “La + Gitana” was likely to be sung or played. He rarely sought in vain. The + melody was to be found serving some purpose or other at almost every + theatre that winter. It was the “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay” of its time. + </p> + <p> + Some men who drink themselves to death require years and wit to complete + the task. Others save time by catching pneumonia through exposure due to + drink. Billy Folsom was one of the pneumonia class. He “slept off” the + effects of a long lark in an area-way belonging to a total stranger. A + policeman took him to his lodgings by way of the station house, and a day + later his landlord sent for a doctor. Five days after that I went over to + see him. He was in bed, and one of his friends, a man of his own kind, but + of stronger fibre, was keeping him company. Billy told us how it had come + about: + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't have gone on that racket if it hadn't been for one thing. I'd + made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, and I was walking along full of + plans for reformation. Suddenly I heard the sound of a banjo, coming from + an up-stairs window, playing a certain tune I've got somewhat attached to. + I saw the place was a kind of a dive and I went in. I got the banjo-player + to strum the piece over again, and I bought drinks for the crowd. Then I + made him play once more, and there were other rounds of drinks, and the + last I remember is that I was waltzing around the place to that air. Two + days after that the officer found me trespassing on some one's property by + sleeping on it. I dropped my overcoat and hat somewhere, and it seemed + there must have been a draft around, for I caught this cold.” + </p> + <p> + I told Folsom to stop talking, as he was manifestly much weaker than he or + his friend supposed him to be. There ensued a few seconds of silence. A + loud noise broke upon the stillness with a shocking suddenness. It was the + clamour of a band-piano in the street beneath Folsom's window, and of all + the tunes in the world the tune that it shrieked out was “La Gitana.” I + looked at Folsom. + </p> + <p> + He rose in his bed and, clenching his teeth, he propelled through their + interstices the word: + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” + </p> + <p> + He remained sitting for a time, his hair tumbled about, his eyes wide open + but expressive of meditation as the notes continued to be thumped upward + by the turbulent instrument. Presently he said, in a husky voice: + </p> + <p> + “How that thing pursues me! It's like a fiend. It has no let-up. It + follows me even into the next world.” + </p> + <p> + He sat for a moment more, intently listening. Then, with a quick, peevish + sigh, he fell back from weakness. We by his side did not know it at the + instant, but we discovered in a short time what had taken place when his + head had touched the pillow, for he remained so still. + </p> + <p> + And that was the last of Billy Folsom, and up from the murmuring street + below came the notes of the band-piano playing “La Gitana.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII. — TRANSITION + </h2> + <p> + Three of us sat upon an upper deck, sailing to an island. The day was + sunlit, the wind was gentle, and the faintest ripple passed over the sea. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see the tremulous old man sitting over there by the pilot-house + absorbing the sunshine? He reminds me of another old man, one whom I + watched for six years, while he faded and died. He never knew me, but he + walked by my house daily and I walked by his. It was an interesting study. + The conclusion of the process was so inevitable. The time came when he did + not pass my house. Then he took the sunlight in a bow-window on the second + floor of his residence. So closely had I watched his decadence during the + six years that I was able to say to myself one morning, 'There will be + crape on his door before the day is out.' And so there was.” + </p> + <p> + The bon-vivant laughed rather mechanically, but the other, he who makes + verses so dainty that the world does not heed them, smiled softly and + sympathetically to me and said: + </p> + <p> + “You are right. Nothing is so fascinating as the study of a progress—a + development or a decline. The inevitability of the end makes it more + engrossing, for it relieves it of the undue eagerness of curiosity, the + feverishness of uncertainty.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am content rather to live than to contemplate life,” said the + bon-vivant. “It's true I have given myself up to observing anxiously such + an advancement as you describe—a vulgar one you will say. When I was + a very young man I was a very thin man. I determined to amplify my + dimensions. I followed with careful interest my daily increase toward my + present—let us not say obesity, but call it portliness.” + </p> + <p> + “You are inclined to be easy upon yourself,” I commented. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I am—in all matters.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause the verse-maker, throwing away his cigarette, took up again + the theme that I had introduced. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is an engaging occupation to note any progression, even when it + is toward a fatal or a horrible culmination. But when it is to some + beautiful and happy outcome, this advancement is an ineffably charming + spectacle. Such it is when it is the unfolding of a flower or the filling + out of a poetic thought. + </p> + <p> + “But no growth nor transformation in the material world is more entrancing + to observe than that by which a young girl becomes a lovely woman. + </p> + <p> + “This transition seems to be sudden. It is not so. It is rapid, perhaps, + as life goes, but each stage is distinctly marked. All men have not time + to watch the change, however, and so most men awaken to its occurrence + only when it is completed. Such was the case of the young and lowborn + lover of Consuelo in George Sand's romance. Do you remember that + incomparable scene in which he suddenly begins to notice that some feature + of Consuelo is handsome, and, with surprise, calls her attention to its + comeliness? She, equally astonished and delighted, joins him in the visual + examination of her charms, and the two pass from one attraction to the + other, finally completing the discovery that she is a beautiful woman. + </p> + <p> + “The Italian gamin was not the sort of man to have anticipated this + transfiguration and to have watched its stages. + </p> + <p> + “You may argue that his delight at suddenly opening his eyes to the + finished work was greater than would have been his pleasure at + contemplating the alteration in process. Doubtless his was. As to whether + yours would be in such a case, depends upon your temperament. + </p> + <p> + “I have experienced both of these pleasures. Perhaps it may be due to + certain special circumstances that I cherish the memory of the more + lasting delight, even though it was tempered by occasional doubts as to + the end, more tenderly than I do the more sudden and keen awakening. + </p> + <p> + “There is a woman who first came under my observations when she was + thirteen years old. She was then agreeable enough to the eye, more by + reason of the gentleness of her expression than for any noteworthy + attractions of face and figure. Her face, indeed, was plain and + uninteresting; her figure unformed and too slim. Her hair, however, was + charming, being soft and extremely light in colour. She seemed awkward, + too, and timid, through fear of offending or making a bad impression. + </p> + <p> + “For a reason I was particularly interested in her. I knew, young as I + then was, that plain girls, in many cases, develop into handsome women. + </p> + <p> + “At fourteen her hair showed indications of changing its tint. Its + tendency was unmistakably toward brown. This was temporarily unfavourable, + but a brightening of the blue eyes and a newly acquired poise of the head, + with a step toward self-confidence in manner, were compensating + alterations. + </p> + <p> + “At fifteen there came an emancipation of mind and speech from schoolgirl + habits. A defensive assumption of impertinent reserve, varied by fits of + superficial garrulity, gave way to real thoughtfulness, to natural + amiability. Then came, too, an emboldenment of the facial outline, a + constancy to the colour of the cheeks, a certainty of gait, and the first + perceptible roundness of contour beneath the neck. + </p> + <p> + “At sixteen she had adorable hands, and she could wear short sleeves with + impunity. A rational, unforced, and coherent vivacity had now revealed + itself as a characteristic of her mode and conversation. Her ankles had + long before that grown too sightly to be exhibited. Such is so-called + civilization! Her hair seemed to darken before one's eyes. The oval of her + face attracted the attention of more than one of my artist friends. + </p> + <p> + “At seventeen she had learned what styles of attire, what arrangements of + her hair, were best suited to display effectively her comeliness. + </p> + <p> + “This was one of the greatest steps of all. + </p> + <p> + “The simplest draperies, she found, the least complicated headgear, were + most advantageous to her appearance. + </p> + <p> + “A taste for reading the most ideal and artistic of books, as well as her + liking for poetry, the theatre, music, and pictures had implanted that + exalted something in her face which cannot be otherwise acquired. + </p> + <p> + “When she was eighteen people on the street turned to look at her as she + passed. + </p> + <p> + “At nineteen her figure was unsurpassable. Indeed, I think there cannot be + a more beautiful and charming woman in America. She is now twenty. + </p> + <p> + “It was my privilege to view closely the bursting of this bud into bloom.” + </p> + <p> + The fin de siècle versewright became silent and lighted a fresh cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Will you permit me to ask,” said I, “what were the especial facilities + that you had for observing this evolution?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, softly, a tender look coming into his eyes. “She is my + wife. She was thirteen when I married her. Suddenly placed without means + of subsistence, knowing nothing of the world, she came to me. I could see + no other way. We are very happy together.” + </p> + <p> + The pretty narrative of the rhymer put each of us in a delectable mood. + The notes of a harp and violins came from the lower deck in the form of a + seductive Italian melody. White sails dotted the far-reaching sea. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX. — A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD + </h2> + <h3> + Hearken to the tale of how fortune fell to the widow of Busted Blake. + </h3> + <p> + The outcome has shown that “Busted” was not radically bad. But he was + wretchedly weak of will to reject an opportunity of having another drink + with the boys—or with the girls—or with anybody or with + nobody. + </p> + <p> + In the days of his ascendancy, when he was a young and newly married + architect, he was a buyer of drinks for others. Waiters in cafés vied with + each other in showing readiness to take his orders. He was rated a jolly + good fellow then. No one would have supposed it destined that some fine + night a leering barroom wit should reply to his whispered application for + a small loan by pouring a half-glass of whiskey upon his head and saying: + </p> + <p> + “I hereby christen thee 'Busted.'” + </p> + <p> + The title stuck. Blake, through continued impecuniosity, lost all shame of + it in time; lost, too, his self-respect and his wife. Mrs. Blake, a gentle + and pretty little brunette, had wedded him against the will of her + parents. She had trusted, for his safety, to the allurements of his + future, which everybody said was bright, and to his love for her. + </p> + <p> + The years of tearful nights, the pleadings, the reproaches, the seesaw of + hope and despair, need not here be dwelt upon. They would make an old + story, and some of the details might be shocking to the young person. They + reached a culmination one day when she said to him: + </p> + <p> + “You love drink better than you love me. I have done with you.” + </p> + <p> + She was a woman and took a woman's view of the case. + </p> + <p> + When he came back to their rooms that night, she was not there. Then he + knew how much he loved her and how much he had underestimated his love. + </p> + <p> + She did not go to her parents. There was a very musty proverb that she + knew would meet her on the threshold. “You made your bed, now lie on it.” + Her father was a man of no originality, hence he would have put it in that + way. + </p> + <p> + She got employment in a photograph gallery, where she made herself useful + by being ornamental, sitting behind a desk in the anteroom. + </p> + <p> + I know not what duties devolve upon the woman who occupies that post in + the average photographer's service; whatever they are she performed them. + But within a very short time after she had left the “bed and board” of + Busted Blake, she had to ask for a vacation. She spent it in a hospital + and Busted became a father. She resumed her chair behind the + photographer's desk in due time, found a boarding-house where infants were + not tabooed, and managed to subsist, and to care for her child—a + girl. + </p> + <p> + Somebody lived in that boarding-house who knew Busted Blake, and it was + through inquiries resulting from, this somebody's jocularly calling him + “papa” one night in a saloon that Busted was made aware of his accession + to the paternal relation. + </p> + <p> + When the poor wretch heard the news, he made a prodigious effort to keep + his face composed. But the muscles would not be resisted. He burst out + crying, and he laid his head upon his arm upon a beer-flooded table and + wept copiously, causing a sudden hush to fall upon the crowd of topers and + a group to gather around his table and stare at him,—some mystified, + some grinning, none understanding. + </p> + <p> + The next day he made a herculean effort to pull himself together. He + obtained a position as draughtsman from one who had known him in his + respectable period, and he went tremblingly and sheepishly to call upon + his wife and child. + </p> + <p> + The consequence of his visit was a reunion, which endured for two whole + weeks. At the end of that time she cast him off in utter scorn. + </p> + <p> + How he lived for the next two years can be only known to those who are + familiar through experience with the existence of people who ask other + people on the street for a few cents toward a night's lodging. By those + who knew him he was said to be “no good to himself or any one else.” He + acquired the raggedness, the impudence, the phraseology of the vagabond + class. He would hang on the edge of a party of men drinking together in + front of a bar, on the slim chance of being “counted in” when the question + went round, “What'll you have?” He was perpetually being impelled out of + saloons at foot-race speed by the officials whose function it is, in + barrooms, to substitute an objectionable person's room for his company. + </p> + <p> + One winter Sunday morning he slept late on a bench in a public square. + Awakened by an officer, he arose to go. Hazy in head and stiff at joints, + he slightly staggered. He heard behind him the cooing laugh of a child. He + looked around. It was himself that had awakened the infant's mirth—or + that strange something which precedes the dawn of a sense of humour in + children. The smiling babe was in a child's carriage which a plainly + dressed woman was pushing. He looked at the woman. It was his wife and the + pretty child was his own. + </p> + <p> + He walked rapidly from the place, and on the same day he decided to leave + the city. He had herded with vagrants of the touring class. The methods of + free transportation by means of freight-trains and free living, by means + of beggary and small thievery in country towns, were no secret to him. He + walked to the suburbs, and at nightfall he scrambled up the side of a + coal-car in a train slowly moving westward. + </p> + <p> + What hunger he suffered, what cold he endured, what bread he begged, what + police station cells he passed nights in, what human scum he associated + with, what thirst he quenched, and with what incredibly bad whiskey, are + particulars not for this unobjectionable narrative, for do they not belong + to low life? And who nowadays can tolerate low life in print unless it be + redeemed by a rustic environment and a laboured exposition of clodhopper + English and primitive expletives? Low life outside of a dialect story and + a dreary village? Never! + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Blake and the child lived in a fair degree of comfort upon the + mother's wages, but often the mother shuddered at thought of what might + happen should she ever lose her position at the photographer's. + </p> + <p> + Consumption had its hold on Busted Blake when he arrived in the + mining-town called Get-there City, in Kansas, one evening. Get-there City + had not gotten there beyond a single straggling street of shanties. But it + had acquired a saloon, although liquor-selling had already been forbidden + in Kansas. + </p> + <p> + Busted Blake, with ten cents in his clothes, entered the saloon and asked + in an asthmatic voice for as much whiskey as that sum was good for. + </p> + <p> + While awaiting a response, his eyes turned toward the only other persons + in the saloon,—three burly, bearded miners of the conventional + big-hatted, big-booted, and big-voiced type. Above their heads and against + the wall was this sign, lettered roughly with charcoal, under a crudely + drawn death's head: + </p> + <p> + “Five thousand dollars will be paid by the undersigned to the widow of the + sneaking hound that informs on this saloon. This is no meer bluf. P. + GIBBS.” + </p> + <p> + Blake, after a brief coughing fit, looked up at the man behind the bar,—a + great thick-necked fellow with a mien of authority, and yet with a certain + bluff honesty expressed about his eyes and lips. This man, whose air of + proprietorship convinced Blake that he could be none other than P. Gibbs, + had first looked sneeringly at the ten cents, but had shown some small + sign of pity on hearing the ominous cough of the attenuated vagrant. He + set forth a bottle and glass. + </p> + <p> + “Help yerself,” said P. Gibbs. While Blake was doing so, Mr. Gibbs went + on: + </p> + <p> + “Bad cough o' yourn. Y' mightn't guess it, but that same cough runs in my + fam'ly. It took off a brother, but it skipped me.” + </p> + <p> + Here was a bond of sympathy between the big, law-defying saloon-keeper and + the frail toper from the East. Busted Blake drained his glass and + presently coughed again. P. Gibbs again set forth the bottle, and this + time he drank with Blake. Before long, by dint of repeated fits of + coughing on the part of Blake, the sympathy of P. Gibbs was so worked upon + that he invited the three miners in the saloon to join him and the + stranger. + </p> + <p> + Blake slept in a corner of the saloon that night. He left the next + morning, a curious expression of resolution on his face. + </p> + <p> + During the next three weeks he was now and then alluded to in P. Gibbs's + saloon as the “coughing stranger.” + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the third week, at nine o'clock in the evening, when the + lamps in P. Gibbs's saloon were exerting their smallest degree of dimness + and the bar was doing a good business, the door opened and in staggered + Busted Blake. His staggering on this occasion was manifestly not due to + drink. His face had the hideous concavities of a starved man and the + uncertainty of his gait was the token of a mortal feebleness. His + emaciation was painful to behold. His eyes glowed like huge gems. + </p> + <p> + The crowd of miners looked at him with surprise as he entered. + </p> + <p> + “The coughing stranger!” cried one. + </p> + <p> + “The coffin stranger, you mean,” said another. + </p> + <p> + Busted Blake lurched over to the bar. His eyes met those of P. Gibbs on + the other side, and the latter reached for a whiskey-bottle. + </p> + <p> + Blake fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a piece of soiled paper, + which he laid on the bar under the glance of P. Gibbs. + </p> + <p> + “Keep that!” said Blake, in a husky voice, whose service he compelled with + much effort. “And keep your word, too! That's where you'll find her.” + </p> + <p> + P. Gibbs picked up the paper. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “That woman's name there. It's the name of my widow; the address, too, of + a photograph man who will tell you where she is. Get the money to her + quick, before the governor and the troops comes down on you to close you + up. And don't let her know how it comes about. Pick a man to take it to + her,—let him pay his expenses out of it,—a man you can trust, + and make him tell her I made it somehow, mining or something, so she'll + take it. You know.” + </p> + <p> + P. Gibbs, who had listened with increasing amazement, opened wide his eyes + and drew his revolver. He spoke in a strangely low, repressed voice: + </p> + <p> + “Stranger, do you mean to say—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's it,” shrieked Busted Blake, turning toward the crowd of + intensely interested onlookers. “And I call on all you here to witness and + to hold him to his word. That's no mere bluff he says in his notice there, + and I'm the sneaking hound that informed. My widow is entitled to $5,000. + I did it in Topeka, and for proof, see this newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + P. Gibbs fired a shot from his revolver through the newspaper that Blake + pulled from his shirt. Then the saloon-keeper brought his weapon on a + level with Blake's face. + </p> + <p> + “It's good your boots is on!” said P. Gibbs, ironically. + </p> + <p> + But he did not fire. Blake stood perfectly still, awaiting the shot, and + feebly laughing. + </p> + <p> + So the two remained for some moments, until Blake suddenly sank to the + floor, quite exhausted. He died within a half-hour on the saloon floor, + his head resting in the palm of P. Gibbs, who knelt by his side and tried + to revive him. + </p> + <p> + At the next dawn, a man whom they called Big Andy started East, and the + piece of paper that Blake handed to P. Gibbs was not all that he took with + him. The United States marshal arrived and duly closed Gibbs's saloon, + which reopened very shortly afterward, minus the $5,000 offer. + </p> + <p> + And Big Andy found the widow of Busted Blake, to whom he told a bit of + fiction in accounting for the legacy conveyed by him to her that would + have imposed upon the most incredulous legatee. When she had recovered + from the surprise of finding herself and her child provided with the means + of surviving the possible loss of her situation, she forgave the late + Busted, and there was a flow of tears unusual to a boarding-house parlour + and unnerving to Big Andy. + </p> + <p> + Presently she asked Andy whether he knew what her husband's last words had + been. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” said Andy. “I heard'm plain and clear. Pete Gibbs,—the other + executor of the will, you know,—Pete says, 'It's all right, pardner, + me and Andy'll see to it,' and then your husband says, 'Thank Gawd I've + been some good to her and the child at last.'” + </p> + <p> + Which account was entirely correct. When Big Andy had returned to + Get-there City, and related how he had performed his mission, he added: + </p> + <p> + “I'd been such a lovely liar all through, it's a shame I had to go an' + spoil the story by puttin' in some truth at the finish.” + </p> + <p> + They put up a wooden grave-mark where Blake was buried, and after his name + they cut in the wood this testimonial: + </p> + <p> + “A tenderfoot that was some good to his folks at last.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX. — MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO + </h2> + <p> + Near the uneven road among the hills a small field of stony ground lay + between woods and cultivated land. Nothing grew upon it and no house could + be seen from it. The sun beat upon it and crows flew over it to and from + the woods. + </p> + <p> + Along the road trudged a thin old negro with stooping back and gray wool. + His knees were bent and his cumbrously shod feet pointed far outward from + his line of progress. He wore an aged frock coat and a battered stiff hat, + although the month was June. His small face, beginning with a smoothly + curved forehead and ending with a cleanly cut chin, was mild and + conciliating, shiny, and of the colour of light chocolate. He carried a + tin bucket full of cherries. Pop Thornberry was returning to the town. + </p> + <p> + Pop, whose proper name was Moses, and who was a deacon in the African + Methodist Church, made his living this way and that way. He did odd jobs + for people, and he fished and hunted when fishing and hunting were in + season. + </p> + <p> + On this June day he had risen early and walked three miles to pick + cherries “on shares.” He had picked ten quarts and left four of them with + the farmer whose trees had produced them. At six cents a quart he would + profit thirty-six cents by his walk of six miles and his work of a + half-day. + </p> + <p> + The sun was scorching and Pop was tired. He decided to rest in the barren + field, at its very edge in shade of the woods. He climbed the zigzag fence + with some labour and at the expense of a few of his cherries. He sat down + upon a little knob of earth, took off his hat, drew a red handkerchief + from the inside thereof, and slowly wiped his perspiring brow. + </p> + <p> + He looked up at the sky, which was so brightly blue that it made his eyes + blink. He sought optical relief in the dark green of the woods. Then, in + steadying his pail of cherries between his legs, he turned his glance to + the ground in front of him. + </p> + <p> + His attention was caught by a lump of earth that sparkled at points In the + sun's rays, a mere clod composed of clay and mica, lying In the dry bed of + a bygone streamlet. Because it glittered he picked it up and examined it. + After a time he bethought him that he was yet two and a half miles from + town and very hungry. He arose, somewhat stiff, and put the shining clod + in his coat-tail pocket. On his way back to the road he noticed other + little earth lumps that shone. He resumed his walk townward, his knees + shaking regularly at every step, as was their wont. + </p> + <p> + At three o'clock in the afternoon he had reached home, sold his cherries, + and dined on dried beef and bread in his little unpainted wooden house on + the edge of the creek at the back of the town. + </p> + <p> + He owned his house and a small lot upon which it stood. Near it was a + flour-mill, whose owner held a mortgage upon Pop's house and lot. The old + negro had been compelled to borrow $200 to pay bills incurred during the + illness and subsequent funeral of the late Mrs. Thornberry, and thus to + avoid a sheriff's sale. Hence came the mortgage. It would expire on the + 10th of September. Pop was almost ready to meet that date. He already had + $192 hidden in his cellar, unknown to any one. + </p> + <p> + He had heard rumours of the mill-owner's desire to build an addition to + his mill. To do this would necessitate the acquisition of contiguous + property. But Pop had not suspected any ulterior motive when the miller + had offered to lend him the money. + </p> + <p> + “I kin soon lay by 'nuff t' pay off d' mohgage, w'en I ain't got no one + but m'se'f t' puvvide foh no moah,” he had said, after the loan had been + made. + </p> + <p> + And, having dined on this June day, he took twenty cents from the amount + received for cherries and placed it in a cigar-box to be added to the + $192. He kept that sixteen cents with which to purchase provisions for + to-morrow, and then he walked down the quiet street to the railway + station. He often made a dime by carrying some one's satchel from the + station to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + The railroad division superintendent, a well-fed and easy-going man, came + down from his office on the second floor of the station building and saw + Pop sitting on a baggage-truck. The old negro, forgetful of the clod in + his coat-tail pocket, had felt it when he sat down. He had taken it out of + his pocket and was now casually looking at it as he held it in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Pop!” said the division superintendent, upon whose hand time was + hanging heavily. “What have you there?” + </p> + <p> + “Doan' know, Mistah Monroe. Doan' know, sah. Looks like jes' a chunk o' + mud.” + </p> + <p> + He held out the clod to Mr. Monroe. + </p> + <p> + The spectacle of the division superintendent talking to the old negro + attracted a group of lazy fellows,—the driver of an express wagon, + the man who hauls the mail to the post-office, a boy who sold fruit to + passengers on the train, two porters, with tin signs upon their hats, who + solicited patronage from the hotels. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Pop,” said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, “this lump + looks as though it contained gold.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” put in the expressman, “that's how gold comes in a mine. I've often + handled it. That's the stuff, sure.” + </p> + <p> + The fruit-selling boy and the mail-man grinned. Pop Thornberry opened wide + his mouth and eyes and softly repeated the word: + </p> + <p> + “Goal!” + </p> + <p> + “I'd be careful of it,” advised Mr. Monroe, handing the clod back to the + negro. + </p> + <p> + Pop took it with a trembling hand and looked at it. Presently he asked: + </p> + <p> + “W'at'll you give me foh dat air goal, Mistah Monroe.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a piece like that would be no use to me. It has to be washed and it + wouldn't be worth while putting just one piece through the whole process + of cleaning. Now. If you have a lot of it, we might go into partnership in + the gold business.” + </p> + <p> + Before the old man could answer to this pleasantry a whistle was heard up + the track, and Pop was forgotten in the excitement attending the arrival + of the train. + </p> + <p> + Dislodged from the baggage-truck, the old man looked around for Mr. + Monroe, but the superintendent had disappeared. Pop did not seek to carry + any satchels that day. His mind was full of other matters. He went behind + the station and sat down beside the river. + </p> + <p> + “Goal!” That meant proper tombstones for the graves of his wife and + children, a new pulpit for the African Methodist Church, equal to that of + the African Baptist Church, future ease for his somewhat weary legs and + arms and back. + </p> + <p> + The next afternoon the division superintendent found himself awaited at + his office door by Pop Thornberry, who was very dusty and who carried a + basket heavy with clods of clay and mica. He had been out to the arid + field that morning. + </p> + <p> + “H-sh!” whispered Pop. “Doan' say a word, Mistah Monroe! Hyah's a lot o' + dem air goal lumps, and I know weah dey's bushels moah,—plenty 'nuff + to go into pahtnehship on.” + </p> + <p> + The superintendent, looked bewildered, then amused, then ashamed. + Embarrassed for a reply, he finally said: + </p> + <p> + “I haven't time to talk to you now, Pop. Besides, I've made up my mind not + to go into the gold business. You see, I'm rich enough already. Good day.” + </p> + <p> + Thereafter Pop lay in wait for Mr. Monroe daily, but the superintendent + always avoided him. Pop neglected to earn his living and spent his time + going about town with his basket of clods in search of the superintendent. + Finally being openly ignored by Mr. Monroe when the two met face to face, + Pop became angry and took his secret to a jeweller on Main Street. The + jeweller laughed and told Pop that the gold in the basket must be worth at + least a thousand dollars, but he was not in a position to buy crude gold. + Then the jeweller made known to many that Pop Thornberry was crazy over + some lumps of mud and mica that he mistook for gold. + </p> + <p> + After that, people would stop Pop on the street and say: + </p> + <p> + “Let's see a piece of the gold in your basket.” + </p> + <p> + Pop, astonished that his secret was out, but somewhat proud at being + thought the possessor of a treasure, would hesitate and then comply. The + small boys soon recognized in Pop's delusion a new means of fun. Observing + the solicitude with which he watched his clod while out of his own hands, + they would innocently ask for a glimpse into his basket. This granted, + they would grasp a piece of his treasure and run away, greatly annoying + the old man, who was in a state of keen distress until he recovered the + abstracted clod. These affairs between Pop and the boys were of hourly + recurrence. They diverted barroom loungers and passers-by. + </p> + <p> + Pop called on one local capitalist after another, seeking one who would + buy his gold or aid into preparing it for the market. All laughed at his + delusion, deeming it harmless, and all gave him good reason for not + accepting his offer of business partnership. So he went from the bank + president to the baker, from the member of congress for whom he had voted + to the barber, from the hotel proprietor to the bartender. The negroes of + the town, feeling that their race was humiliated in Pop, began to hold + aloof from him. No serious-minded person who learned of his delusion gave + it a second thought. + </p> + <p> + “Say Pop, where do you get this gold, anyhow?” asked a tobacco-chewing + gamin at the railroad station one day. + </p> + <p> + “Dat's my business,” replied Thornberry, with some dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said his questioner, “I know. Tobe McStenger followed you out the + other day and saw where you got it. He'd a brung some in hisself, but it + wasn't on his property.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Pop, you better look out,” put in a telegraph operator, “or you'll + be taken up for trespassing. 'Tisn't your land, you know, where you find + your gold.” + </p> + <p> + There was no truth in the assertion of the gamin. No one had taken the + trouble to follow Pop in his semiweekly excursions to the barren field. + But the old man knew that the field was not his. A ludicrous expression of + overwhelming fright came over his face. + </p> + <p> + Three days afterward, the farmer who owned the worthless field was + astonished when Pop offered to buy it. + </p> + <p> + “But what on earth do you want that land fer?” asked the farmer, sitting + on his barnyard fence. + </p> + <p> + Pop made a guilty attempt to appear guileless, and told the farmer that he + wished to build a shanty and raise potatoes. He was tired of living in + town and sought the quietude of the hills. + </p> + <p> + “Bein' as dat ere fiel' ain't good foh much, I thought you might be + willin' to paht with it,” explained Pop. + </p> + <p> + The farmer eventually agreed to build a shanty on the field and sell it to + Pop for $180. Pop desired immediate occupancy. There was a legal hitch, + owing to the badness of the land and the questionable condition of Pop's + mind. But the transfer of the property was finally recorded. + </p> + <p> + Pop no longer had to fear arrest for trespass. His gold field was now + legally his. But he was still kept uneasy by his inability to make his + gold marketable. His uneasiness increased as September approached. He had + applied to the purchase of the field the sum saved to cancel the mortgage + upon his house at the rear end of the town. + </p> + <p> + The three days before the foreclosure of the mortgage were days of + exquisite anguish to Pop. When the foreclosure came and he and his goods + were turned out on the banks of the creek to make room for the + mill-owner's improvements, his mental turmoil ended. He took the crisis + calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Jes' wait,” he said to a neighbour who had stopped at sight of the + moving-out. “Wait till I get dat ere goal on de mahket. I'll bull' a mill + dat'll drive dis yer mill out o' d' business. Den I'll done buy back dis + yer ol' home.” + </p> + <p> + But the next day, when the unexpected happened,—when builders began + to tear down his house,—the enormity of his deed dawned upon him. + After a day of moaning and staring, as he sat amidst his household goods + on the bank of the creek, he became animated by a deep rage against the + mill-owner. Now more than ever had he a special purpose for enriching + himself by means of his treasure across the hill. + </p> + <p> + The coming of two circuses in succession had taken the interest of the + boys away from Pop during August and part of September. Now they turned + again to him for amusement. First they besieged the abandoned stable to + which he had conveyed his goods, and in which he slept,—for he had + not found will to betake himself from the town he had so long inhabited, + and his shanty in the field remained unoccupied. His purchase of the land + had betrayed to general knowledge the location of his treasure, of which + he continued to bring in new specimens. + </p> + <p> + One October day he had just come from vainly attempting to induce the + postmaster to join him in the enterprise of exploiting his gold-field. In + front of the post-office, he was met by some boys coming noisily from + school. They surrounded him and demanded to see the gold in his basket. As + the town policeman was sauntering up the street, Pop felt safe in + refusing. The boys, also observing the officer of the law, contented + themselves with retaliating in words only, + </p> + <p> + “Say, Pop,” cried one of them, “you'd better keep an eye on your + gold-field. Nick Hennessey knows where it is, and he's gittin' up a + diggin' party to take a wagon out some night and bring away all your + gold.” + </p> + <p> + The boys, laughing at this quickly invented announcement, ran off after a + hand-organ. The old man stood perfectly still, or as nearly so as the + feebleness of his legs would permit. + </p> + <p> + That evening Pop was missing from the town. And when Abraham Wesley, who + had often lent his shotgun to the old man, went to look for that weapon, + intending to shoot glass balls in the fairgrounds across the river, the + fowling-piece too was missing. + </p> + <p> + Pop had gone out to protect his possession. Three nights passed and three + days. The few country folk and others who travelled that way during this + time saw the old man walking about in his field or sitting in front of his + shanty, his shotgun on his shoulders, his eyes fixed suspiciously on all + who might become intruders. Night and day he patrolled his little domain. + </p> + <p> + At dusk of the third day a lively party was returning to the town in a + wagon from a search for nuts. The full moon was rising and the merrymakers + were singing. One of the girls was thirsty. When she saw the shanty in the + rugged field, she asked a young man to get her a glass of water at the + hut. The wagon stopped and the youth climbed astride the rail fence. + Suddenly an unnaturally shrill and excited voice was heard: + </p> + <p> + “Hyah, you, doan' come no farder! Dese yer's my premises!” + </p> + <p> + From behind the empty shanty appeared the thin old negro, bareheaded, his + shotgun at his shoulder, a striking figure against the rising moon. + </p> + <p> + The young man descended from the fence into the field. There came a flash + and a crack from Pop Thornberry's gun. The youth felt the sting of a piece + of birdshot in his leg. Howling and limping, he turned quickly over the + fence into the wagon, which made a hasty flight. + </p> + <p> + The next morning some idlers went out from the town to the scene of the + adventure. They found the old man lying hatless in the middle of the + field, face downwards, upon the shotgun. He had died of sheer exhaustion, + on guard—and on his own land, as befit an honest citizen who had + never intruded upon the peace of other men. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI. — AT THE STAGE DOOR + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Courtesy of <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>.Copyright, 1892, by J. + B. Lippincott Company.] + </p> + <p> + First let me explain how I came to be sitting in so unsavoury a place as + Gorson's “fifteen cent oyster and chop house” that night. Most newspaper + men—the rank and file—receive remuneration by the week. Those + not given over to domesticity, those who enjoy that alluring regularity + identical with liberty, fare sumptuously, as a rule, on “pay-day.” + Thereafter the quantity and quality of the good things of life that they + enjoy diminish daily until the next pay-day. + </p> + <p> + Pay-day with us was Friday. This was Thursday night. I having gone to + unusual lengths of good cheer in the early part of that week, had now + fallen low, and was duly thankful for what I could get—even at + Gorson's. + </p> + <p> + As my glance wandered over my table, over the beer-bottles and the + oysters, beyond the crowd of ravenous and vulgar eaters and hurrying + waiters, to the street door, some one opened that door from the outside + and entered. An odd looking personage this some one. + </p> + <p> + A person very tall and conspicuously thin. These peculiarities were + accentuated by the dilapidated frock coat that reached to his knees, and + thus concealed the greater portion of his gray summer trousers, which + “bagged” exceedingly and were picturesquely frayed at the bottom edges, as + I could see when he came nearer to me. He wore a faded straw hat, which + looked forlorn, as the month was January. His face, despite its angularity + of outline and its wanness, had that expression of complacency which often + relieves from pathos the countenances of harmlessly demented people. His + hair was gray, but his somewhat formidable looking moustache was still + dark. He carried an unadorned walking-stick and under his left arm was + what a journalistic eye immediately recognized as manuscript. From the + man's aspect of extreme poverty, I deduced that his manuscripts were never + accepted. + </p> + <p> + As he passed the cashier's desk, he stopped, lowered his body, not by + stooping in the usual way, but by bending his knees, and with a quick + sweep of his eyes by way of informing himself whether or not he was + observed, he picked up a cigar stump that some one had dropped there. + </p> + <p> + Then he walked with a rather shambling but self-important gait to the + table next mine, carefully placed his manuscript upon a chair, and sat + down upon it. He was soon lost in a prolonged contemplation of the limited + bill of fare posted on the wall, a study which resulted in his ordering, + through a hustling, pugnacious-looking waiter, a bowl of oatmeal. + </p> + <p> + A bowl of oatmeal is the least expensive item on the bill of fare at + Gorson's. When I hear a man ordering oatmeal in a cheap eating-house, my + heart aches for him. I had just the money and the intention to procure + another bottle of beer and another box of cigarettes. The sum required to + obtain these necessaries of life is exactly the price of a bowl of oatmeal + and a steak at Gorson's. So I hastily arose to go, and on my way out I had + a brief conversation with the bellicose-appearing waiter, which resulted + in my unknown friend's being overwhelmed with amazement later when the + waiter brought him a warm steak with his oatmeal and said that some one + else had already paid his bill. I did not wait to witness this result, for + the man looked one of the sort to put forth a show of indignation at being + made an object of charity. + </p> + <p> + An hour later I saw him walking with an air of consequence up Broadway, + smoking what was probably the bit of cigar he had picked up in the + restaurant. He still carried his manuscript, which was wrapped in a soiled + blue paper. As I was hurrying up-town on an assignment for the newspaper, + I could not observe his movements further than to see that when he reached + Fourteenth Street he made for one of the benches in Union Square. + </p> + <p> + It was by the size, shape, and blue cover that I recognized that + manuscript two days later upon the desk of the editor of the Sunday + supplementary pages of the paper, as I was submitting to that personage a + “special” I had written upon the fertile theme, “Producing a Burlesque.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask what that stuff is wrapped in blue?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. A crank in the last stages of alcoholism and mental depression + brought it in yesterday. It's an idiotic jumble about Beautiful Women of + History, part in prose and part in doggerel.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you'll reject it?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. I'll ease his mind by telling him the subject lacks + contemporaneousness. Have a cigarette? By the way, have you any special + interest in the rubbish?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I only think I've seen it before somewhere. What's the writer's name + and address?” + </p> + <p> + “It's to be called for. He didn't leave any address. From that fact and + his appearance, I infer that he doesn't have any permanent abode. Here's + his name,—Ernest Ruddle. Not half as much individuality in the name + as in the man. I remember him because he had a straw hat on.” + </p> + <p> + The burlesque production which had served as material for my Sunday + article saw the light for the first time on the following Monday night. + There being no other theatrical novelty in New York that night, the town—represented + by the critics and the sporting and self-styled Bohemian elements—was + there. The performance was to have a popular comedian as the central + figure, and was to serve, also, to reintroduce a once favourite + comic-opera prima donna, who had been abroad for some years. This stage + queen had once beheld the town at her feet. She had abdicated her throne + in the height of her glory, having made the greatest success of her career + on a certain Monday night, and having disappeared from New York on + Tuesday, shortly afterward materializing in Paris. + </p> + <p> + There was abundant curiosity awaiting the appearance of Louise Moran, as + the playbills called her. It was whispered, to be sure, by some who had + seen her in burlesque in London, after her flight from America, that she + had grown a bit passée; but this was refuted by the interviewers who had + met her on her return and had duly chronicled that she looked “as rosy and + youthful as ever.” Brokers, gilded youth, all that curious lot of + masculinity classified under the general head of “men about town,” crowded + into the theatre that night, and when, after being heralded at length by + the chorus, the returned prima donna appeared, in shining drab tights, she + had a long and noisy reception. + </p> + <p> + My friendly acquaintance with the leading comedian and the stage manager + had served to obtain for me an unusual privilege,—that of witnessing + the first night's performance from the wings. As I looked out across the + stage and the footlights, and saw the sea of faces in the yellowish haze, + a familiar visage held my eye. It was in the front row of the top gallery, + and was projected far over the railing, putting its owner in some risk of + decapitation. An intent look on the pale countenance at once distinguished + it from the terrace of uninteresting, monotonous faces that rose back of + it. The face was that of my man of the restaurant and of the blue-covered + manuscript. + </p> + <p> + I stood, somewhat in the way of the light man, where my eye could command + most of the stage, and a brief section of the auditorium, from parquet to + roof. The star of the evening, having rattled off, with much sang-froid + and a London intonation, a few lines of thinly humourous dialogue, came + toward the footlights to sing. While the conductor of the orchestra poised + his baton and cast an apprehensive look at her, she began: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I'm one of the swells + Whose accent tells + That we've done the Contenong.” + </pre> + <p> + When she had sung only to this point, people in the audience were + exchanging significant smiles. There was no doubt of it; Louise Moran's + voice had lost its beauty. The years and joys of life abroad had done + their work. We now knew why she had given up comic opera and had gone into + burlesque. The house was so taken by surprise that at the end of her + second stanza, where applause should have come, none came. There was no + occasion for her to draw upon her supply of “encore verses.” + </p> + <p> + Unprepared for the chilling silence that followed her song, she bestowed + upon the audience a look of mingled astonishment, pain, and resentment. + But she recovered self-possession promptly and delivered the few spoken + lines preceding her exit gaily enough. Her face clouded as soon as she was + off the stage. She abused her maid in her dressing-room and sent the + comedian's “dresser” out for some troches. The state of her mind was not + improved by the sound of a hail-storm-like sound that came from the + direction of the stage shortly after,—the applause at the leading + comedian's entrance. + </p> + <p> + As the newspapers said the next day, the only honours of that performance + were with the comedian. The star of Louise Moran had set. Not only was her + singing-voice a ruin, but the actress had grown coarse in visage. The once + willowy outlines of her figure had rounded vulgarly. On the face, audacity + had taken place of piquancy. Even the dark gray eyes, which somehow seemed + black across the footlights, had lost some lustre. + </p> + <p> + Why had the once lovely creature come back from Europe to disturb the + memories of her other radiant self, and to turn those dainty photographs + of her earlier person into lies? + </p> + <p> + Every man in the house was thinking this question at the end of the first + act. + </p> + <p> + She had another solo to sing in the second act. It was while she was + attempting this that my glance strayed to the man in the gallery. His face + this time surprised me. + </p> + <p> + It wore a look of ineffable sympathy and sorrow. Surely tears were falling + from the sad eyes. + </p> + <p> + This pity touched me. It was so solitary. The feeling of the rest of the + audience was plainly one of resentful derision at being disappointed. + </p> + <p> + After the performance I waited for the comedian. He was called before the + curtain and a speech was extorted from him. There were but a few faint + cries for the actress, to which she did not respond. She had summoned the + manager to her dressing-room. While she hastily assumed her wraps for the + street, she was excitedly complaining of the musical director “for not + knowing his business,” the comedian for “interfering” in her scenes, the + composer for writing the music too high, and the librettist for supplying + such “beastly rubbish” in the way of dialogue. + </p> + <p> + “Very well; I'll call a rehearsal to-morrow at ten,” the conciliatory + manager replied. “You talk to Myers” (the musical director) “yourself + about it. And you can introduce those two songs you speak of. Myers will + fix the other music to suit your voice.” + </p> + <p> + “And you start Elliott to write over the libretto at once,” she commanded, + “and see that that song and dance clown” (the comedian) “never comes on + the stage when I'm on, if it can be helped, or I won't go on at all. + That's settled!” + </p> + <p> + The comedian and I left the stage door together. The actress's cab was + waiting at the opposite side of the dark alley-like street upon which the + stage door opened. This street or court, stretching its gloomy way from a + main street, is a place of tall warehouses, rear walls, and bad paving. + The electric light at its point of junction with the main street does not + penetrate half-way to the stage entrance, and the blackness thereabout is + diluted with the rays of the lonely, indifferent gas-lamp that projects + above the old wooden door. Farther on, an old-fashioned street-lamp marks + the place where the alley turns to wind about until it eventually reaches + another main street. + </p> + <p> + This dark region, the feeble lamp above the stage door, the shadows + opposite, have a peculiar charm, especially at night. One would not think + that within that door is a short corridor leading to the mystic realm + which the people “in front" idealize into a wonderful inaccessible + country, the playworld. Back here, especially on a rainy night and before + the playworld's inhabitants begin to sally forth to partake of terrestrial + beer and sandwiches, one seems millions of miles away from the crowds of + men and women in the theatre and from the illumined street in front. + </p> + <p> + The ordinary world, when passing this strange place, peers in curiously + from the main street. Sometimes folks wait at the corner of the street to + see the stage people come out. If the piece is a burlesque or a comic + opera, much life moves in the darkness back here. Light comes from the + up-stairs windows of the theatre, the dressing rooms of the subordinate + players being up there. Snatches of song from feminine throats, mere + trills sometimes, isolated fragments of melody, break into the silence. + These are always numerous during the half-hour after the performance and + before the actors have left the theatre. Chorus girls in ulsters emerge in + troops, usually by twos, from the door beneath the light, and it is + constantly opening and shutting. In the gloom opposite the door hover a + few bold youths, suddenly become timid, smoking cigarettes and trying to + look like men of the world. As the comedian and I came forth, one of these + young men struck a match to light a cigarette. The momentary flash + attracted my eye, and I saw in the farthest shadow, with his gaze upon the + stage door, my man of the restaurant, and the manuscript, and the gallery. + If possible, he looked more haggard than before, and, as it was cold, he + shivered perceptibly. + </p> + <p> + “Whom can he be waiting for, I wonder?” I said, aloud. + </p> + <p> + The comedian, thinking that I alluded to the cabman, half-asleep upon his + seat, replied, as he turned up the collar of his overcoat: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's waiting for Miss Moran. She didn't always go home from the + theatre in a cab. She acquired the habit abroad, I suppose. How she's + changed. I knew her in other days.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? I didn't know that. Tell me about her.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a common story. She's the result of a mercenary mother's schemes. + She's not as old as people think, you know. Her career has been eventful, + which makes it seem long. But I was in the cast, playing a small part in + the first play she ever appeared in, and that was only twelve years ago. + She was about twenty-one then. She waited on customers in her mother's + little stationery store, until one day she eloped with a poor young fellow + whom she loved, in order to escape a rich old man whom her mother had + selected for a son-in-law. She could have endured poverty well enough, if + the mother hadn't done the 'I—forgive—and—Heaven—bless—you—my—children' + act, after which she succeeded in making the girl quarrel with her husband + continually. She was a schemer, that mother. A theatrical manager, whom + she knew, was introduced to the girl, who was more beautiful then than + ever afterward. The mother managed to have the girl's husband discharged + from the bank where he was employed on the same day that the manager made + the girl an offer to go on the stage. The boy naturally wanted to keep his + wife with him, but the mother told him he was a fool. + </p> + <p> + “'I'll travel with her,' she said, 'and you stay here and get another + situation.' The wife, intoxicated at the prospects of stage triumphs, + urged, and the boy gave in. + </p> + <p> + “A year or so after that, the girl had drifted completely out of the + husband's life, as they say in society plays, the mother managed to bring + about the estrangement so promptly. + </p> + <p> + “The husband stayed at home and got work in a railroad office or + somewhere, so as to earn money with which to drink himself to death—I + say, let's go in here and eat. If we go to the club, I'll be bored to + death with congratulations.” + </p> + <p> + We turned into a lighted vestibule and mounted the stairs to a modest + little café over a Broadway saloon. There, over the cigars and Pilsner + presently the comedian continued the story: + </p> + <p> + “When the husband learned that to his charming mother-in-law's + machinations he owed the loss of his position and his wife, he bided his + time, like a sensible fellow, and one day he called upon the old lady at + her flat. Without a word, he proceeded to pull out much of her hair and + otherwise to disfigure her permanently, which, as she was a vain woman, + made her miserable the rest of her days. Then he disappeared, and has not + been heard of since. It seems strange the thing never got into the + newspapers. By the way, you won't print this story, my boy, until she or I + leave the profession.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Are you the only man who knows it?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it was general gossip in the profession at that time.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you get it so straight?” + </p> + <p> + “She told me. I knew her well in those days. Oh, use the story if you + like, only don't credit it to me. She's very mad because I made a hit + to-night and she didn't.” + </p> + <p> + “But what was the name of her husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil!—his name was—what was it, anyhow? By Jove, I + can't think of it! It'll come back to me, though, and I'll let you know + later. He had literary aspirations, by the way. She used to laugh at the + poetry he had written about her. Poor boy!” + </p> + <p> + The next night, radical changes having been effected in the burlesque, the + prima donna made a more creditable showing. I happened to be at the stage + door again when she came out with her maid after the performance, as I had + under my guidance one of the newspaper's artists, who had been making some + sketches of life behind the scenes. She was in a gayer mood than that in + which she had been on the previous night. + </p> + <p> + As she was entering the cab, I heard a muffled exclamation, which came + from the shadow opposite the stage door. Dimly in that shadow could be + seen a form with arms outstretched toward the woman, as in an involuntary + gesture. The cab rolled away. The form emerged from the darkness and + wearily strode by. It was that of my manuscript man. He had the same straw + hat, stick, and frock coat. + </p> + <p> + “That queer old chap must be really in love with her,” I thought, smiling. + Such things often happen. I knew a gallery god—but that will keep. + Evidently here was an amusing case, not without its aspect of pathos. + </p> + <p> + Being in that vicinity on the following night, I strolled up to the stage + door, merely to see whether the straw hat would be there again. There it + was, patiently waiting, scourged by the most ferocious of January winds. + </p> + <p> + Doubtless the man came here every night to catch a glimpse of his + divinity. He was quite unobtrusive, and I was probably the only one who + noticed his constant attendance. I learned at the newspaper office that he + had called for the rejected manuscript bearing his name,—Ernest + Ruddle. Then for a time I neither saw nor thought of him. + </p> + <p> + One night, in the last of January,—the coldest of that savage + winter,—I happened again to be in the corridor leading to the stage + door, having come from within the theatre in advance of my friend the + comedian, with whom I was to have supper at the Actors' Athletic Club. The + actress's cab was waiting. The dark little portion of the world back there + was deserted. + </p> + <p> + Along the corridor, through which the sound of chorus girls' laughter + came, strolled the comedian, his cigar already lighted and behind it his + cheerful, hearty, smooth-shaven visage appearing ruddy from the recent + washing off of “make-up.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he began, thrusting his hand into his overcoat pockets. “By the + way, while I think of it, I just passed Miss Moran coming from the + dressing-room, and suddenly that name came back to me, the name of her + husband. It was a peculiar name,—Ernest Ruddle.” + </p> + <p> + Ernest Ruddle! the name on the manuscript! The man of the restaurant and + the gallery, the tears, the waiting at the stage door, were explained now. + Ere we reached the stage door, the actress herself appeared in the + corridor, on the arm of her maid. She was laughing, rather coarsely. We + stepped aside to let her pass out into the night. + </p> + <p> + “So the manager said he'd give me $50 more on the road,” she was saying, + “and I said he would have to make it $75 more—gracious! what's + this?” + </p> + <p> + She had stumbled over something just outside the threshold of the stage + door. Her companion stooped, while the actress jumped aside and looked + down at the large black object with both fright and curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “It's a man,” said the maid; “drunk, or asleep, or dead. He looks frozen. + He's a tramp, I guess; hurry away! We'll tell the policeman on the + corner.” + </p> + <p> + The actress passed on, with a final look of half-aversion, half-pity, at + the prostrate body. The comedian and I were both by that body within two + seconds. + </p> + <p> + “Frozen or starved, sure!” said the comedian. “Poor beggar! Look at his + straw hat. Observe his death-clutch on the cane.” + </p> + <p> + From down the alley came two sounds: one was a policeman's approaching + footsteps; the other, of a woman's laughter. What, to be sure, was the + dead or drunken body of an unknown vagabond to her? + </p> + <p> + And it seems strange that I, who never exchanged speech with either the + woman or the man, was the only one in the world who might recognize in the + momentary contact of the living with the dead, a dramatic situation. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII. — “POOR YORICK” + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Courtesy of <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>. Copyright, 1892, by + J.B. Lippincott Company.] + </p> + <p> + The name by which he was indicated on the playbills was Overfield. His + real name was buried in the far past. By several members of the company to + which he belonged he was often called “Poor Yorick.” + </p> + <p> + I asked the leading juvenile of the company—young Bridges, who was + supposed to attract women to the theatre, and for whose glorification “The + Lady of Lyons” was sometimes revived at matinées—how the old man had + acquired the nickname. + </p> + <p> + “I gave it to him myself last season,” replied Bridges, loftily. “Can't + you guess why? You remember the graveyard scene in 'Hamlet.' The skull of + Yorick, you know, had lain in the earth three and twenty years. Yorick had + been dead that long. Well, the old man had been dead for about the same + length of time,—professionally dead, I mean. See?” + </p> + <p> + It was true that, so far as being known by the world went, the old man was + as good, or as bad, as dead. He no longer played other than quite + unimportant parts. + </p> + <p> + It was said by some one that he was the poorest actor and the noblest man + in the country; a statement commended by Jennison, an Englishman who + usually played villains, to this, that his were the worst art and best + heart in the profession. + </p> + <p> + Poor Yorick was a thin man, with a smooth, gentle face, lamblike blue + eyes, and curling gray locks that receded gracefully from his forehead. He + had just an individualizing amount of the pomposity characteristic of many + old-time actors. He was not known to have any living kin. He permitted + himself one weakness, a liking for whiskey, an indulgence which was never + noticed to have brought appreciable harm upon him. + </p> + <p> + Once I asked him when he had made his début. He answered, “When Joe + Jefferson was still young and before Billie Crane was heard of.” + </p> + <p> + “In what rôle?” + </p> + <p> + “As four soldiers,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “How could that be?” + </p> + <p> + He explained that he had first appeared as a super in a military drama, + marching as a soldier. The procession, in order to create an illusion of + length, had passed across the stage and back, the return being made behind + the scenes four times continuously in the same direction. + </p> + <p> + The old man took uncomplainingly to the name applied to him by Bridges. He + must have known what it implied, for surely he could not have mistaken + himself for “a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.” His + non-resentment was but an evidence of his good nature, for he was aware + that it was not a very general custom of actors to give each other + nicknames, and that his case was an exception. + </p> + <p> + When he was playing the insignificant part of the old family servant of a + New York banker, in the most successful comedy of that season, he came to + know Bridges better than ever before. Poor Yorick had little more to do in + the play than to come on and turn up some light, arrange some papers on a + desk, go off, and afterward return and lower the light. Bridges was doing + the rôle of the bank clerk in love with the banker's daughter. Yorick and + Bridges, through some set of circumstances or other, were sharers of the + same dressing-room. + </p> + <p> + Upon a certain Wednesday, and after a matinée, the two were in their + dressing-room, hastily washing up their faces and putting on their street + clothes. Said the old man: + </p> + <p> + “Did you notice the pretty little girl in the upper box? She reminds me of—” + here his voice fell and took on suddenly a tone of sadness—“of some + one I knew once, long ago.” + </p> + <p> + Bridges, drying his face with a towel before the big mirror, did not + observe the old man's change of voice, nor did he heed the last part of + the sentence. + </p> + <p> + “Notice her?” he answered, with a touch of triumphant vanity in his manner + of speech. “I should say I did. She was there on my account. I'm going to + make a date with her for supper after the performance to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Old Overfield, sitting on a trunk, stared at Bridges in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know her?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied the leading juvenile. “That is, I have never met her, but + she's been writing me mash notes lately, asking for a meeting. In the last + one she said she could get away from her house this evening, as her + father's out of town and her mother is going over to Philadelphia this + afternoon. So she invited me to have supper with her to-night, and was + good enough to say she'd occupy that box this afternoon, so I could see + what she was like. Didn't you observe her embarrassment when I came on the + stage? I paid no attention to her first letter. But, having seen her, you + bet I'll answer the last one right away. Don't you wish you were me, old + fellow?” + </p> + <p> + The old fellow stood up and looked at Bridges severely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do wish I were you,—just long enough to see that you don't + answer that girl's letter. Surely you don't mean to!” + </p> + <p> + “Hello! What have you got to do with it? Do you know the young woman?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't. But I can easily guess all about her. She's some romantic + little girl, still pure and good, afflicted with one of those idiotic + infatuations for an actor, which is sure to bring trouble to her if you + don't behave like a white man. You want to show her the idiocy of writing + those letters, by ignoring them. You know that actors who care to do + themselves and the profession credit make it a rule never to answer a + letter from a girl like that, unless to give her a word of advice. Come, + my boy, don't disgrace yourself and profession. Don't spoil the life of a + pretty but foolish girl who, if you do the right thing, will soon repent + her silliness, and make some square young fellow a good wife.” + </p> + <p> + Bridges had continued to dress himself during this long speech, assuming a + show of contemptuous indignation as it progressed. When Overfield, + astonished at his own eloquence, had subsided, the young man replied, in a + quiet but rather insolent tone: + </p> + <p> + “Look here, old man, don't try to work the Polonius racket on me. I don't + like advice, and I'm going to meet that girl, see? She arranged the whole + thing herself; she's to be at a certain spot at eleven-thirty P.M. with a + cab. All I've got to do is to signify my assent in a single line, which + I'm going to write and send by messenger as soon as I get out of here. Of + course, if the girl was a friend of yours, it would be different, but she + isn't, and if you want to remain on good terms with me, you won't put in + your oar. Now that's all settled.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it? Well, young man, I don't want to remain on good terms with anybody + I can't respect. I can't respect a man who would take advantage of a + love-struck girl's ignorance of life. If you meet her, you will simply be + obtaining favours on false pretences, anyhow, for you know you're not + really half the fascinating, romantic, clever youth that you seem when + you're on the stage speaking another man's thoughts. That girl is probably + good, and she looks like some one I used to know. If I can save her, I + will, by thunder!” + </p> + <p> + “Really, old man, you're quite worked up. If you could act half that well + on the stage, you'd be doing lead, instead of dusting furniture while the + audience gets settled in its seats.” + </p> + <p> + Old Yorick stood for a moment speechless, stung by the insult. Then he + took up his hat, excitedly, and left the dressing-room without a word. + </p> + <p> + Some of the other members of the company wondered at the angry, flushed + look on his face when he hurried through the corridor to the stage door. A + few minutes later he was seen walking down the street, apparently much + heated in mind. When he reached a certain café he went in, sat down, and + called for whiskey. He remained alone in deep thought, mechanically and + unconsciously answering the salutations bestowed upon him by two or three + acquaintances who strolled in. Suddenly he nodded thrice, as if denoting + the acquiescence of his judgment in some plan of action formed by his + inventive faculty. He rose quickly, paid his bill at the cashier's desk, + and moved rapidly across the street to the —— Hotel. Passing + in through a broad entrance, he turned aside to a writing-room, where, + without removing his soft hat, he sat down at a desk. + </p> + <p> + He was soon immersed in the composition of a letter, which caused him many + contractions of the brow, many lapses during which he abstractedly stared + at vacancy, many fresh beginnings, and the whole of the two hours allowed + him before the evening's performance for dinner. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished the letter, he carefully read it, and made a few + corrections. Then he folded it up, put it in an envelope, and placed it + unsealed in his inside coat pocket. He arose with an expression of + resolution about his eyes that was quite new there. + </p> + <p> + Ascertaining by the clock in the thronged main corridor that the time was + ten minutes after seven, the old man rushed into the café, where he + devoured hastily a chicken croquette, and swallowed a cup of coffee and a + glass of whiskey before starting to the theatre. He was in his + dressing-room and in his shirt-sleeves, touching up his eyebrows, when + Bridges arrived. A cool greeting passed between the two. + </p> + <p> + “You sent the note?” asked the old man. + </p> + <p> + “What note?” gruffly queried Bridges, taking off his coat. + </p> + <p> + “To that girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly.” + </p> + <p> + A curious look, unobserved by Bridges, shot from Poor Yorick's eyes. It + seemed to say, “Wait, things may happen that you're not looking for.” + </p> + <p> + At about the time when Bridges and Yorick were dressing for the + performance, a newspaper reporter, wishing to make a few notes of an + interview that had been accorded him by a politician staying in the hotel + at which the old man had written his long letter, went into the + writing-room and made use of the desk where the actor had sat earlier in + the evening. Several sheets of blank paper were scattered over it. One of + them contained almost a page of writing. Yorick had negligently left it + there. It was a beginning made by him before he had succeeded in obtaining + a satisfactory wording for his thoughts. This rejected opening read: + </p> + <p> + “My DEAR, FOOLISH YOUNG LADY:—Something has happened which prevents + Mr. Bridges from keeping the appointment with you, and you're much better + off on that account, for nothing but unhappiness can come to you if you + allow yourself to be carried out of your senses by your infatuation for a + man who has neither the brains nor the manliness which he seems to have + when playing parts that call for the mere simulation of these gifts. Never + make an appointment with a man you do not know, especially a young and + vain actor who has once got the worst of it in a divorce suit. You'll be + thankful some day for this advice, for I know what I speak of. I was once, + years ago, just such an actor. The woman got into all sorts of trouble + because she wrote me such letters as you have written Bridges, and brought + to an early end a life that might have been very happy and youthful. + Looked like you, and it is a memory of what she lost and suffered that + makes me wish to save you. My dear young ——” + </p> + <p> + There were yet two lines to spare at the foot of the page. The newspaper + man, interested by the fragment, thrust it into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + When Poor Yorick had finished his final scene in the comedy at the ——Theatre + that night, he made haste to dress and to leave the playhouse. But he + loitered near the stage entrance, keeping in the shadow on the other side + of the alley, out of the range of the light from the incandescent globe + over the door. + </p> + <p> + Bridges was slightly surprised, on returning to his dressing-room, to find + that Yorick had already gone. But he attributed this to the ill feeling + that had arisen on account of the intended meeting with the girl of the + letters and the box. + </p> + <p> + The leading juvenile attired himself for the conquest carefully but + rapidly. When he was ready he surveyed his reflection complacently in the + long mirror, assuming the slightly languid look that he intended to + maintain during the first half-hour of the supper. He retained the dress + suit which he wore in the second and third act of the play, and which he + rarely displayed outside of the theatre. He flattered himself that he was + quite irresistible, and wondered whether she would take him to Delmonico's + or to some quiet little place. He indulged, too, in some vague speculation + as to what the supper might result in. The girl was evidently of a rich + family, but her people would doubtless never hear of her making a match + with him, that divorce affair being in recent memory. A marriage was + probably out of the question. However, the girl was a beauty and this + meeting was at least worth the trouble. So he donned his coat and hat and + swaggered out of the theatre. He had no sooner turned from the alley upon + which the stage door opened than Yorick, unnoticed by him, darted out in + pursuit. Ten minutes' walking brought the leading juvenile near the spot + where he was to be awaited by the girl in the cab. Yorick, whose only + means of ascertaining the place of meeting was to follow Bridges, kept as + near the young actor as was compatible with safety from discovery by the + latter. Bridges, strutting along unconscious of Yorick's presence a few + yards behind, had half-traversed the deserted block of tall brown stone + residences, when he saw a cab standing at the corner ahead of him. He + quickened his pace in such a way as to warn the old man that the eventful + moment was at hand. The cab stood under an electric light before an + ivy-grown church. + </p> + <p> + Yorick, with noiseless steps, accelerated his gait. Bridges, as he neared + the cab, deflected his course toward the curbstone and threw his head back + impressively. This little action, interpreted rightly by the pursuer, was + the old man's cue. Yorick suddenly rushed forward with surprising agility. + </p> + <p> + Before Bridges could be seen by the occupant of the cab for which he was + making, he was dazed by a blow on the side of the head, just beneath the + ear, and knocked off his feet by a sound thump on the same spot. He + reeled, clutched at the air, and fell heavily upon the sidewalk. There he + lay stunned and silent. + </p> + <p> + Yorick, not waiting to see what became of the man whom he had felled, + dashed forward to the cab. Opening the door, he caught a momentary vision + of a white, round face, with big, scared eyes, above a palpitating mass of + soft silk and fur, and against a black background. He thrust toward her + the letter, which he had quickly drawn from his pocket, and whispered, + huskily: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bridges couldn't come. Here's a note.” + </p> + <p> + Then he slammed the cab door, and called out in a commanding tone: + </p> + <p> + “Drive on there! Quick!” + </p> + <p> + The cabman, who had evidently received directions in advance from the + girl, jerked his reins, and the cab moved forward, turned, and rattled + away, the horse at a brisk trot. + </p> + <p> + Yorick speedily left the scene. At the next corner he met a policeman, to + whom he said: + </p> + <p> + “There's a man lying on the sidewalk back there by the church. I don't + know whether he's drunk or not.” + </p> + <p> + He was off before the officer could detain him. + </p> + <p> + Bridges spent the night in a station-house, recovering from the effects of + a fall, which the police attributed to drunkenness. Assuming that he had + received his blows from some masculine relative or admirer of the girl, he + gave a false account of the bruises when the next night he asked the + manager for a few nights of rest and enabled his understudy to obtain a + chance long coveted. + </p> + <p> + The leading juvenile manifestly thought best not to attempt a renewal of a + flirtation with a young woman who had so formidable a protector; and the + girl herself, whatever became of her, addressed him no more epistles of + adoration, or of any sort whatever. + </p> + <p> + Yorick got from the stage manager permission to change his dressing-room. + Thereafter he and Bridges maintained a mutual coolness, until one day the + leading juvenile, warmed by cocktails, melted, and addressed the old man + familiarly by his nickname. + </p> + <p> + “Old fellow,” said Bridges, over a café table, “when I come to play + Hamlet, I'll send for you to act Poor Yorick. You'd do it well. You're + always best, you know, in parts that don't require you to come on the + stage at all.” + </p> + <p> + The old man smiled grimly and then shrugged his shoulders at this + pleasantry. When he died the other day, he left a curious will, in which, + after naming several insignificant legacies, he bequeathed his skull “to a + so-called actor, one Charles Bridges, to be used by him in the graveyard + scene when he shall have become able to play Hamlet,—if the skull be + not disintegrated by that time.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIII. — COINCIDENCE + </h2> + <p> + Max took us down into a German place into the bowels of the earth. It was + a bit of Berlin transplanted to Philadelphia and thriving beneath a + Teutonic eating-house. Imagine a great cellar, with stone floor, + ornamented ceiling, massive rectangular pillars of brown wood, substantial + tables, heavy mediaeval chairs, crossbeams bearing pictures of peasant + girls and lettered with sentiments of good cheer in German, and walls + covered with beer-mugs of every size and device. + </p> + <p> + Scores of men sat talking at the tables, smoking, devouring sandwiches, + upturning their mugs of beer over the capacious receptacles provided by + nature. + </p> + <p> + The mediaeval chairs appealed to the romanticism that lies beneath + Breffny's satirical exterior; and when Max called our attention to the + fact that the mugs of beer came through apertures from caves beneath the + street, we were content. + </p> + <p> + For the hour, the problem of human happiness was solved for us three by + three foaming mugs, three sandwiches, and tobacco. + </p> + <p> + Here communed we three, blown from various winds, to this local Bohemia: + Max, native of the free German City of Frankfort, operatic manager in Rio + Janeiro, musician in New York, Denver resident by adoption, Philadelphia + newspaperman by preference; Breffny, born in a Spanish village, reared in + Continental countries, professedly an Irishman, but more than half-Latin + in temperament and appearance, a cyclopedia for the benefit of his + friends, and myself. + </p> + <p> + The talk ran to the imposture recently attempted by young Mr. Herdling, + who claimed that the dead body found at Tarrytown was that of his wife. + </p> + <p> + “A very touching fake,” said Max. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; thanks to the skill of the reporters who wrote up his story,” cried + Breffny. + </p> + <p> + “We visited many morgues in search of her, Louise and I,” said I, quoting + the most effective passage of the narrative. + </p> + <p> + “I did know of one case of a husband starting off at random to find his + runaway wife,” observed Breffny. + </p> + <p> + “As there's yet an hour to midnight, we have time for one of your + stories.” + </p> + <p> + “I can tell this in five minutes. All I know of the story is the + beginning. No one ever heard of the end. It was like this: + </p> + <p> + “When I lived in Glasgow, I knew a young fellow there who was timekeeper + in a shipyard. He was a very quiet, pleasant boy, so bashful that I used + to wonder how he had ever summoned the courage to propose to the pretty + Scotch girl who was his wife. As I got to know more of the pair, I divined + the secret. Although poor, he was of good Glasgow parentage, while the + wife had been a country girl so eager to get to the city that she had + courted him while he was on a visit to the village in which she had lived. + She had merely used him as a means for finding the life for which she had + longed. + </p> + <p> + “How much he really loved her was never suspected until he came home one + evening and found that she had run away with the youngest son of one of + the proprietors of the shipyard. + </p> + <p> + “He learned within a week that they had sailed for America. He packed a + valise, took the money that he had saved, and started out. + </p> + <p> + “'But where are you going to look for them?' I asked him. + </p> + <p> + “'To America,' he said, turning toward me, his face drawn and gaunt with + the grief that he had survived. + </p> + <p> + “'But America is a vast country.' + </p> + <p> + “'I will hunt till I find her.' + </p> + <p> + “'And when you find her—you will not kill her, surely!' + </p> + <p> + “'I will try to get her to come back to me.' + </p> + <p> + “He took passage in the steerage, and I do not know what happened to him + after that.” + </p> + <p> + Each of us hid his emotions in his beer-mug. Then Max ordered fresh mugs, + and said that Breffny's story recalled a somewhat similar thing that he + had witnessed in Denver. + </p> + <p> + “When I was a reporter out there, I was standing one evening in front of a + hotel. A crowd collected to see the body of a guest brought out and placed + upon an ambulance. + </p> + <p> + “'Where are you taking him, and what is it?' I asked the driver. + </p> + <p> + “'To the lazaretto. Smallpox.'” + </p> + <p> + For a moment, while he was being lifted into the ambulance, the victim's + face was visible. A loud cry was heard in the crowd. It came from a + ragged, wild-looking man, whose unkempt beard made him look much older + than I afterward found him to be. As the ambulance hurried off, he ran + after it, shouting: + </p> + <p> + “'I must see that man! Stop! I must ask him something!' + </p> + <p> + “But he tripped upon a horse-car track, and when he had staggered to his + feet, the ambulance was out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “I ran into the hotel and asked the clerk about the lazaretto patient. He + was a young European—an Englishman—they thought, who had + arrived from the East two days ago, and whose condition had just been + discovered. + </p> + <p> + “Coming out, I went to the tramp who had cried out at the sight of the ill + man. I found him seated on the curbstone, weeping like a child. I asked + him why he wished to see the smallpox victim, and said that I could get + him admission to the lazaretto, if he would tell me what he knew, and + wouldn't let any other reporter have the story. + </p> + <p> + “He jumped up eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “'It's this,' he said. 'That man ran away with my wife, and I've hunted + them over sea and land. This is the first sight I've had of him.' + </p> + <p> + “'Then,' I said, 'if you mean to harm him, I'm afraid I can't bring you to + him.' + </p> + <p> + “'Him!' said the ragged man, disdainfully. 'I don't want to hurt him. I + only want to find out where she is. I swear I wouldn't harm either of + them.' + </p> + <p> + “I accompanied him to the city physician, with whom he had a long talk. + That official finally promised to take him to the lazaretto. The doctor + led the man to the side of the iron bed where the smallpox patient lay. + The latter started like a frightened child at sight of his pursuer. + </p> + <p> + “'Remember,' said the doctor to the sick man, 'you have scarcely a chance + for life. You would do well to tell the truth.' + </p> + <p> + “'Only tell me where she is,' pleaded the husband, 'and I'll forgive you + all.' + </p> + <p> + “The sick man gasped: + </p> + <p> + “'I left her in Philadelphia—at the station. She had smallpox. It + was from her I got it. I was a coward—a cur. I left her to save + myself. The money I had brought from home was nearly all gone. Ask her to + forgive me.' + </p> + <p> + “He was dead that evening. The husband was then upon an east-bound + freight-train. The newspaper telegraphed to Philadelphia, but nothing + could be found out about the woman. I've often wondered what became of the + man.” + </p> + <p> + The loud hubbub of conversation,—nearly all in German,—the + shouts of the waiters, the noise of their footfalls upon the stone floor, + the sound of mugs being placed upon tables and of Max draining his “stein” + of beer, bridged the hiatus between the ending of Max's narrative and the + beginning of my own: + </p> + <p> + “Your story reminds me of one to which the city editor assigned me on one + of my 'late nights.' I took a cab and went to the station-house. The case + had been reported by a policeman at Ninth and Locust Streets, who had + called for a patrol-wagon. From him I got the story. He had seen the thing + happen. + </p> + <p> + “He was walking down Locust at half-past twelve that night, and was + opposite the Midnight Mission, when his attention was attracted to the + only two persons who were at that moment on the other side of the street. + One was a man of the appearance of a vagabond, coming from Ninth Street. + The other was a woman, who had come from Tenth Street, and who seemed to + walk with great difficulty, as if ready to sink at every step from + weakness. + </p> + <p> + “The woman dropped her head as she neared the man. The man peered into her + face, in the manner of one who had acquired the habit of examining the + countenances of passers-by. + </p> + <p> + “The two met under the gas-lamp that is so conspicuous a night feature of + the north side of Locust Street, between Ninth and Tenth. + </p> + <p> + “The woman gave no attention to the man. So exhausted was she that she + leaned helplessly against the fence. The man ran forward, shrieking like a + lunatic. + </p> + <p> + “'Jeannie!' + </p> + <p> + “The woman lifted her eyes in a dull kind of amazement and whispered: + </p> + <p> + “'Donald!' + </p> + <p> + “She fell back, but he caught her in his arms and kissed her lips a dozen + times, with a half-savage gladness, crying and laughing hysterically, as + women do. + </p> + <p> + “When the policeman had reached the pair, the woman had seen the last of + this world. + </p> + <p> + “Afterward we found that she had been discharged from the municipal + hospital, where she had been in the smallpox ward two weeks before; and we + surmised that she had virtually had nothing to eat since then. + </p> + <p> + “At the station-house the man explained that the woman was his runaway + wife. He had started in search of her two years before, with no other clue + as to her whereabouts than the knowledge that she had sailed for America + with a man named Ferriss—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” cried Max. “Was the name Archibald Ferriss? That was the name of + the man who died in the Denver lazaretto—” + </p> + <p> + But Max was stopped by Breffny, who almost shouted in excitement: + </p> + <p> + “And the name of the son of McKeown & Ferriss, of Glasgow, in whose + shipyard was employed as timekeeper the Donald Wilson—” + </p> + <p> + “Donald Wilson was the name of the man who met his wife that night in + front of the Midnight Mission,” said I, in further confirmation. + </p> + <p> + It was remarkable. One of the three chapters of this tragic story had + entered into the experience of each of us three who sat there emptying + stone mugs. Now, for the first time, was the story complete to each of us. + </p> + <p> + “But what became of the man?” asked Breffny. + </p> + <p> + “When the police lieutenant spoke of having her body interred in Potter's + Field, the husband spoke up indignantly. He brought forth two gold pieces, + saying: + </p> + <p> + “'I have the money for her grave. I saved this through all my wanderings, + because I thought that when I should find her she might be homeless and + hungry and in need.' + </p> + <p> + “So he had her buried respectably in the suburbs somewhere, and I was too + busy at that time to follow up his subsequent movements. It is enough for + the story that he found his wife.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIV. — NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN + </h2> + <p> + It was not his real name or his stage name, but it was the one under which + he was best known by those who best knew him. It had been thrown at him in + a café one night by a newspaper man after the performance, and had clung + to him. Its significance lay in the fact that his “gags”—supposedly + comic things said by presumably comic men in nominal opera or burlesque—invariably + were old. The man who bestowed the title upon him thought it a fine bit of + irony. + </p> + <p> + Newgag received it without expressed resentment, but without mirth, and he + bore its repetition patiently as seasons went by. He was accustomed to + enduring calmly the jests, the indignities that were elicited by his + peculiar appearance, his doleful expression, his slow and bungling speech + and movement, his diffident manner. + </p> + <p> + He was one of the forbearing men, the many who are doomed to continual + suffering of a kind that their sensitiveness and timidity make it the more + difficult for them to bear. + </p> + <p> + Undying ambition burned beneath his undemonstrative surface; dauntless + courage lay under his lack of ability. + </p> + <p> + He was an extremely spare man, of extraordinary height, and the bend of + his shoulders gave to his small head a comical thrust forward. His black + hair was without curl, and it would tolerate no other arrangement than + being combed back straight. It was allowed to grow downward until it + scraped the back of Newgag's collar, a device for concealing the + meagreness of his neck. + </p> + <p> + He had a smooth, pale face, slanting from ears to nose like a wedge, and + the dimness of the blue eyes added to its introspective cast. He blushed, + as a rule, when he met new acquaintances or was addressed suddenly. He had + a gloomy look and a hesitating way of speech. An amusing spectacle was his + mechanical-looking smile, which, when he became conscious of it, passed + through several stages expressive of embarrassment until his normal + mournful aspect was reached. + </p> + <p> + As he usually appeared in a sack coat when off the stage, the length of + his legs was divertingly emphasized. After the fashion of great actors of + a bygone generation, he wore a soft black felt hat, dinged in the crown + from front to rear. + </p> + <p> + He had entered “the profession” from the amateur stage, by way of the + comic opera chorus, and to that chance was due his being located in the + comic opera wing of the great histrionic edifice. He had originally + preferred tragedy, but the first consideration was the getting upon the + stage by any means. Having industriously worked his way out of the chorus, + he had been reconciled by habit to his environment, and had come to aspire + to eminence therein. He had reached the standing of a secondary comedian,—that + is to say, a man playing secondary comic rôles in the pieces for which he + is cast. He was useful in such companies as were directly or indirectly + controlled by their leading comedians, for there never could be any fears + of his outshining those autocratic personages. Only in his wildest hopes + did he ever look upon the centre of the stage as a spot possible for him + to attain. + </p> + <p> + His means of evoking laughter upon the stage were laborious on his part + and mystifying to the thoughtful observer. He took noticeable means to + change from his real self. It mattered not what was the nature of the part + he filled, he invariably assumed an unnatural, rasping voice; he stretched + his mouth to its utmost reach and lowered the extremities of his lips; he + turned his toes inward (naturally his feet described an abnormal angle) + and bowed his arms. Brought up in the school which teaches that to make + others laugh one must never smile one's self, he wore a grotesquely + lugubrious and changeless countenance. Such was Newgag in his every + impersonation. When he thought he was funniest, he appeared to be in most + pain and was most depressing. + </p> + <p> + “My methods are legitimate,” he would say, when he had enlisted one's + attention and apparent admiration across a table bearing beer-bottles and + sandwiches. “The people want horse-play nowadays. But when I've got to + descend to that sort of thing, I'll go to the variety stage or circus ring + at once—or quit.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a happy thought, old man,” said a comedian of the younger school, + one night, when Newgag had uttered his wonted speech. “Why don't you + quit?” + </p> + <p> + Such a speech sufficed to rob Newgag of his self-possession and to reduce + him to silence. He could not cope with easy, offhand, impromptu jesters. + In truth, no one tried more than Newgag to excel in “horse-play,” but his + temperament or his training did not equip him for excelling in it; he + defended the monotony, emptiness, and toilsomeness of his humour on the + ground that it was “legitimate.” + </p> + <p> + One night Newgag drank two glasses of beer in rapid succession and looked + at me with a touching countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Old boy,” he said, in his homely drawl, “I'm discouraged! I begin to + think I'm not in it!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what's wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've dropped to the fact that, after all these years in the + business, I can't make them laugh.” + </p> + <p> + I was just about to say, “So you've just awakened to that?” but pity and + politeness deterred me. Every one else had known it, all these years. + Newgag, to be sure, should naturally have been, as he was, the last to + discover it. + </p> + <p> + Newgag thus went one step further than any comedian I have ever known. + Having detected his inability to amuse audiences, he confessed it. + </p> + <p> + People who know actors and read this will already have said that it is a + fiction, and that Newgag's admission is false to life. Not so; I am + writing not about comedians in general, but about Newgag. + </p> + <p> + That he had come to so exceptional a concession marked the depth of his + despair. I tried to cheer him. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, my boy! They give you bad parts. Go out of comic opera. Try + tragedy.” + </p> + <p> + I had spoken innocently and sincerely, but Newgag thought I was jesting. + Instead of his usual attempt at lofty callousness, however, he smiled that + dismal, marionette-like smile of his. That gave me an idea, of which I + said nothing at the time. + </p> + <p> + Several months afterward, a manager, who is a friend of mine, was suddenly + plunged in distress because of the serious illness of an actor who was to + fill a part in a new American comedy that the manager was to produce on + the next night. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth shall I do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Play the part yourself, as Hoyt does in such an emergency—or get + Newgag.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's Newgag?” + </p> + <p> + “He's a friend of mine, out of a position. I met him to-day very much + frayed.” + </p> + <p> + “Bring him to me.” + </p> + <p> + Newgag was overwhelmed when I told him of the opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “I never acted in straight comedy,” he said. “I can't do it. I might as + well try to play Juliet.” + </p> + <p> + “He wants you only to speak the lines, that's all. You're a quick study, + you know. Come on!” + </p> + <p> + I had almost to drag the man to the manager. He allowed himself, in a + semistupefied condition, to be engaged. He took the part, sat up all night + in his boarding-house and learned it, went to rehearsal almost + letter-perfect in the morning, and nervously prepared to face the ordeal + of the evening. + </p> + <p> + At six o'clock, he wished to go to the manager and give up the part. + </p> + <p> + “I can never do it,” he wailed to me. “I haven't had time to form a + conception of it and to get up byplay. You see, it's an eccentric + character part,—a man from the country whom everybody takes for a + fool, but who shows up strong at the last. I can't—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't act it. You're only engaged in the emergency, you know. Simply + go on and say your lines and come off.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all I can do,” he said, with a dubious shake of the head. “If only + I'd had time to study it!” + </p> + <p> + American plays had taken foothold, and this premier of a new one by an + author of two previous successes drew a “typical first night audience.” + Newgag, having abandoned all idea of making a hit, or of acting the part + any further than the mere delivery of the speeches went, was no longer + inordinately nervous. When he first entered he was a trifle frightened, + and his unavoidable lack of prepared stage business made him awkward and + embarrassed for a time. The awkwardness remained, but the embarrassment + eventually passed away. He spoke in his natural voice and retained his + actual manner. When the action required him to laugh, he did so, + exhibiting his characteristic perfunctory smile. + </p> + <p> + He received a special call before the curtain after the third act. He had + no thought that it was meant for him until the stage manager pushed him + out from the wings. He came back looking distressed. + </p> + <p> + “Are they guying me?” he asked the stage manager. + </p> + <p> + The papers agreed the next day that one of the hits of the performance was + made by Newgag “in an odd part which he had conceived in a strikingly + original way, and impersonated with wonderful finish and subtle drollery.” + </p> + <p> + “What does it mean?” he gasped. + </p> + <p> + I enlightened him. + </p> + <p> + “My boy, you simply played yourself. Did it never occur to you that in + your own person you're unconsciously one of the drollest men I ever saw?” + </p> + <p> + “But I didn't act!” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't. And take my advice—don't!” + </p> + <p> + And he doesn't. Upon the reputation of his success in that comedy he + arranged with another manager to appear in a play especially written for + him. He is a prosperous star now. Whatever his play or part he always + presents the same personality on the stage and he has made that + personality dear to many theatre-goers. He does not appear too frequently + or too long in any one place; hence he is warmly welcomed wherever and + whenever he returns. He is classed among leading actors, and the ordinary + person does not stop sufficiently long to observe that he is no actor at + all. + </p> + <p> + “This isn't exactly art,” he said to me, the other night, with a tinge of + self-rebuke. “But it's success.” + </p> + <p> + And the history of Newgag is the history of many. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXV. — AN OPERATIC EVENING + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + <i>A Desperate Youth</i> + </p> + <p> + The second act of “William Tell” had ended at the Grand Opera House. The + incandescent lights of ceiling and proscenium flashed up, showering + radiance upon the vast surface of summer costumes and gay faces in the + auditorium. The audience, relieved of the stress of attention, became + audible in a great composite of chatter. A host streamed along the aisles + into the wide lobbies, and thence its larger part jostled through the + front doors to the brilliantly illuminated vestibule. Many passed on into + the wide sidewalk, where the electric light poured its rays upon countless + promenaders whose footfalls incessantly beat upon the aural sense. Scores + of bicyclists of both sexes sped over the asphalt up and down, some now + and then deviating to make way for a lumbering yellow 'bus or a hurrying + carriage. + </p> + <p> + Men and women, young people composing the majority, strolled to and fro in + the roomy lobby that environs the auditorium on all sides save that of the + stage. A group of enthusiasts stood between the rear door of the + box-office and the wide entrance to the long middle aisle. + </p> + <p> + “How magnificently Guille held that last note!” + </p> + <p> + “What good taste and artistic sense Madame Kronold has!” + </p> + <p> + “Del Puente hasn't been in better voice in years.” + </p> + <p> + “But you know, Mademoiselle Islar is decidedly a lyric soprano.” + </p> + <p> + These were some of the scraps of the conversation of that group. A lithe, + athletic-looking man of thirty stood mechanically listening to them, as he + stroked his black moustache. He was in summer attire, evidently disdaining + conventionalities, preferring comfort. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly losing interest in the conversation in his vicinity, he started + toward the Montgomery Avenue side of the lobby, with the apparent + intention of breathing some outside air at one of the wide-barred exits, + where children stood looking in from the sidewalk, and catching what + glimpses they could of the audience through the doorways in the glass + partition bounding the auditorium. + </p> + <p> + He by chance cast his glance up the unused staircase leading to the + balcony from the northern part of the lobby. He saw upon the third step a + young woman in a dark flannel outing-dress, her face concealed by a veil. + She seemed to be watching some one among those who stood or moved near the + Montgomery Avenue exits, which had wire barriers. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” he said, within himself, “surely I know that figure! But I + thought she had gone to the Catskills, and I never supposed her capable of + wearing negligee clothes at the theatre. There can be no mistaking that + wrist, though, or that turn of the shoulders.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped softly to her side and lightly touched one of the admired + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + She turned quickly and suppressed an exclamation ere it was half-uttered. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Harry—Doctor Haslam, I mean! How did you know it was I?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Amy—that is to say, Miss Winnett! What on earth are you doing + here? Pardon the question, but I thought you were on the mountains. I'm + all the more glad to see you.” + </p> + <p> + While he pressed her hand she looked searchingly into his eyes, a fact of + which he was conscious despite her veil. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not here—as far as my people may know. I'm at the Catskills + with my cousins—except to my cousins themselves. To them I've come + back home for a week's conference with my dressmaker. Our house isn't + entirely closed up, you know. Aunt Rachel likes the hot weather of + Philadelphia all summer through, and she's still here. When I arrived here + this morning, I told her the dressmaker story. She retires at eight and + she thinks I'm in bed too. But I'm here, and nobody suspects it but you + and Mary, the servant at home, who knows where I've come, and who's to + stay up for me till I return to-night. That's all of it, and now, as + you're a friend of mine, you mustn't tell any one, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “But I know nothing to tell,” said the bewildered doctor. “What does all + this subterfuge, this mystery mean?” + </p> + <p> + Amy Winnett considered silently for a moment, while Doctor Haslam mentally + admired the slim, well-rounded figure, the graceful poise of the little + head with its mass of brown hair beneath a sailor hat of the style that + “came in” with this summer. + </p> + <p> + “I may as well tell you all,” she answered, presently. “I may need your + assistance, too. I can rely upon you?” + </p> + <p> + “Through fire and water.” + </p> + <p> + “I've come to Philadelphia to prevent a suicide.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You see, I've broken the engagement between me and Tom Appleton.” + </p> + <p> + “What! You don't mean it?” + </p> + <p> + There was a striking note of jubilation in the doctor's interruption. Miss + Winnett made no comment thereupon, but continued: + </p> + <p> + “I finally decided that I didn't care as much for Tom as I'd thought I + did, and then I had a suspicion—but I won't mention that—” + </p> + <p> + “No, you needn't. Your fortune—pardon me, I simply took the + privilege of an old friend who had himself been rejected by you. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't interrupt again. As I said, I concluded that I couldn't be Tom's + wife, and I told him so. He went to the Catskills when we went, you know, + as he thought he could keep up his law studies as well there as here. You + can't imagine how he took it. I'd never before known how much he—he + really wished to marry me. But I was unflinching, and at last he left me, + vowing that he would return to Philadelphia and commit suicide. He swore a + terrible oath that my next message from him would be found in his hands + after his death. And he set to-night as the time for the deed.” + </p> + <p> + “But why couldn't he have done it there and then?” + </p> + <p> + “How hard-hearted you are! Probably because he wanted to put his affairs + in order before putting an end to his life.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke in all seriousness. Doctor Haslam succeeded with difficulty in + restraining a smile. + </p> + <p> + “You don't imagine for a moment,” he said, “that the young man intended + keeping his oath.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't I? You should have seen the look on his face when he spoke it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I couldn't sleep with the thought that a man was going to kill + himself on my account. It makes me shudder. I'd see his face in my dreams + every night of my life. Then if a note were really found in his hands, + addressed to me, the whole thing would come out in the newspapers, and + wouldn't that be horrible? Of course I couldn't tell my cousins anything + about his threat, so I invented my excuse quickly, packed a small handbag, + disguised myself with Cousin Laura's hat and veil, and took the same train + that Tom took. I've kept my eye on him ever since, and he has no idea I'm + on his track. The only time I lost was in hurrying home with my handbag to + see my aunt, but I didn't even do that until I'd followed him on Chestnut + Street to the down-town box-office of this theatre and seen him buy a + seat, which I later found out from the ticket-seller was for to-night. So + here I am, and there he is.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Standing over there by that wire thing like a fence next the street.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked over as she motioned. He soon recognized the slender + figure, the indolent attitude of Tom Appleton, the blasé young man whom he + was so accustomed to meeting at billiard-tables, in clubs, or hotels. A + tolerant, amiable expression saved the youth's smooth, handsome face from + vacuity. He was dressed with careful nicety. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Haslam, “a man about to take leave of this life doesn't + ordinarily waste time going to the opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? He probably came here to think. One can do that well at the + opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Tom Appleton think?—I beg pardon again. But see, he's talking to a + girl now, Miss Estabrook, of North Broad Street. His smile to her is not + the kind of a smile that commonly lights up a man's face on his way to + death.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't suppose he would conceal his intentions from people by putting + on his usual gaiety, do you?” she replied, ironically; adding, rather + stiffly, “He has at least sufficiently good manners to do that, if not + sufficient duplicity.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't mean to offend you. My motive was to comfort you with the + probability that he has changed his mind about shuffling off his mortal + coil.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not very complimentary, Doctor Haslam. Perhaps you don't think + that being jilted by me is sufficient to make a man commit suicide.” + </p> + <p> + “Frankly I don't. If I had thought so three years ago, I'd be dust or + ashes at this present moment. It can't be that you would feel hurt if Tom + Appleton there should fail to keep his oath and should continue to live in + spite of your renunciation of him?” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you think me so vain and cruel, when I've taken all this trouble + and come all this distance simply to prevent him from keeping his oath?” + </p> + <p> + “But how in the world would you prevent him if he were honestly bent on + getting rid of himself?” + </p> + <p> + “By watching him until the moment he makes the attempt, and then rushing + up and telling him that I'd renew our engagement. That would stop him, and + gain time for me to manage so that he'd fall in love with some other girl + and release me of his own accord.” + </p> + <p> + “But think a moment. You can watch him until the opera is out and perhaps + for some time later. But if he means to die he certainly has a sufficient + share of good manners to induce him to die quietly in his own home. So + he'll eventually go home. When his door is locked, how are you going to + keep your eye on him, and how can you rush to him at the proper moment?” + </p> + <p> + “I never thought of that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you're a woman.” + </p> + <p> + She proceeded to do some thinking there upon the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said, finally, “I know what to do. I'll follow him until he does + go home, to make sure he doesn't attempt anything before that time, and + then I'll tell the police. They'll watch him.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll probably get Mr. Tom Appleton into some very embarrassing + complications by so doing.” + </p> + <p> + “What if I do,” she said, heroically, “if I save his life? Now, will you + assist me to watch him? I'll need an escort in the street, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I put myself at your command from now henceforth, if only for the joy of + the time that I am thus privileged to pass with you.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled pleasantly, and with pleasure, trusting to her veil to hide the + facial indication of her feelings. But Haslam's trained gray eye noted the + smile, and also what kind of smile it was, and the discovery had a potent + effect upon him. It deprived him momentarily of the power of speech, and + he looked vacantly at her while colour came and went in his face. + </p> + <p> + Then he regained control of himself and he sighed audibly, while she + dropped her eyes. + </p> + <p> + They were still standing upon the stairs, heedless of the confusion of + vocal sounds that arose from the lobby strollers, from the boys selling + librettos, from the people returning from the vestibule in a thick stream, + from the musicians afar in the orchestra, tuning their instruments, from + the many sources that provide the delightful hubbub of the entr'acte. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said Amy to Haslam. “Stand in front of me, so that Tom won't see + me if he looks up here as he passes. He's coming this way.” + </p> + <p> + Young Appleton, chaffing with the persons whom he had met at the exit, was + sharing in the general movement from the byways of the lobby to the middle + entrance of the parquet. The electric bell in the vestibule had sounded + the signal that the third act was to begin. Mr. Hinrichs had returned to + the director's stand in the orchestra and was raising his baton. + </p> + <p> + Arrived at the middle entrance, Appleton raised his hat to those with whom + he had been talking, as if not intending to go in just then. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hinrichs's baton tapped upon the stand, the music began, and the + curtain rose. + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn't he go in?” whispered Amy, alluding to Appleton. + </p> + <p> + But the young man yawned, looked at his watch, and departed from the lobby—not + to the auditorium, but out to the vestibule. + </p> + <p> + “He's going to leave the theatre,” said Miss Winnett, excitedly. “We must + follow.” + </p> + <p> + And she tripped hastily down the stairs, Haslam after her. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + <i>A Triangular Chase</i> + </p> + <p> + Tom Appleton sauntered out through the great vestibule, turning his eyes + casually from the marble floor up to the balconies that look down from + aloft upon this outer lobby. He was whistling an air from “Apollo” which + he had heard a few weeks before at the New York Casino. + </p> + <p> + He hastened his steps when he saw a 'bus passing down Broad Street. A leap + down the Grand Opera House steps and a lively run enabled him to catch the + 'bus before it reached Columbia Avenue. He clambered up to the top and was + soon being well shaken as he enjoyed the breeze and the changing view of + the handsome residences on North Broad Street. + </p> + <p> + Haslam's sharp eyes took note of Appleton's action. + </p> + <p> + “He's on that 'bus,” said the doctor to Amy as she took his arm on the + sidewalk. “Shall we take the next one?” + </p> + <p> + “No; for then we can't see where he gets off. Can't we find a cab?” + </p> + <p> + “There's none in sight. We can have one called here, but we'll have to + wait for it at least ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “That will never do. To think he could elude us so easily, without even + knowing that we're after him!” + </p> + <p> + Vexation was stamped upon the dainty face, with its soft brown eyes, as + she raised her veil. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I have it,” said Haslam, who would have gone to great lengths to + drive that vexation away. + </p> + <p> + “A bicycle! This section teems with bicycle shops. We can hire a tandem. + It's a good thing we're both expert bicyclists.” + </p> + <p> + “And that I'm suitably dressed for this kind of a race,” replied Amy, as + the two hurried down the block. + </p> + <p> + She stood outside the bicycle store and kept her gaze upon the 'bus, which + was growing less and less distinct to the eye as it rolled down the + street, while Haslam hastily engaged a two-seated machine. + </p> + <p> + The 'bus had not yet disappeared in the darkness when the pursuers, Amy + upon the front seat, glided out from the sidewalk and down over the + asphalt. The passage became rough below Columbia Avenue, where the asphalt + gives away to Belgian block paving. Haslam's athletic training and the + acquaintance of both with the bicycle served to minimize this + disadvantage. + </p> + <p> + The frequent stoppages of the 'bus made it less difficult for them to keep + in close sight of it. Conversation was not easy between them. Both kept + silence, therefore, their eyes fixed upon the 'bus ahead, and carefully + watching its every stop. + </p> + <p> + “You're sure he hasn't gotten off yet?” she asked, at Girard Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Certain.” + </p> + <p> + “He's probably going to his rooms down-town.” + </p> + <p> + “Or to his club.” + </p> + <p> + So they pressed southward. Before them stretched the lone vista of + electric lights away down Broad Street to the City Hall invisible in the + night. + </p> + <p> + The difficulty of talking made thinking more involuntary. Haslam's mind + turned back three years. Was it, as he had dared sometimes to fancy, a + juvenile capriciousness that had impelled this girl in front of him to + reject him when she was seventeen, after having manifested an unmistakable + tenderness for him? And now that she was twenty, and had in the meantime + rejected several others, and broken one engagement, was it too late to + attempt to revive the old spark? + </p> + <p> + His meditations were suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the girl + herself. + </p> + <p> + “Look! He's left the 'bus. He's going into the Park Theatre.” + </p> + <p> + So he was. His slim person was easily distinguishable in the wealth of + electric light that flooded the street upon which looked the broad + doorways and the allegorical facades of the Park. + </p> + <p> + The second act of “La Belle Helene” was not yet over when Appleton entered + and stood at the rear of the parquet circle. He indifferently watched the + finale, made some mental comments upon the white flowing gown of Pauline + Hall, the make-up of Fred Solomon, and the grotesqueness of the five + Hellenic kings. Then he scanned the audience. + </p> + <p> + Haslam and Amy dismounted near the theatre and entrusted the bicycle to a + small boy's care. When they had bought admission tickets and reached the + lobby, the gay finale of the second act was being given. The curtain fell, + was called up three times, and then people began to pour forth from the + entrance to drink, smoke, or enjoy the air in the entr'acte. + </p> + <p> + Appleton was involved in the movement of those who resorted to the little + garden with flowers and fountain and asphalt paving, accessible through + the northern exits. He paused for a time by the fountain, not sufficiently + curious to join the crowd that stood gaping at the apertures through which + the members of the chorus could be seen ascending the stairs to the upper + dressing-rooms, many of them carolling scraps of song from the opera as + they went. + </p> + <p> + Appleton soon reëntered the lobby and again surveyed the audience closely. + Haslam caught sight of him just in time to avoid him. Amy had resumed the + concealment of her veil. + </p> + <p> + To the surprise of his watchers, Appleton left the theatre before the + third act opened. Again he jumped upon a 'bus, but this time it was upon + one moving northward. + </p> + <p> + “It looks as if he were going back to the Grand Opera House,” suggested + Amy, as she and her companion started to repossess the bicycle. + </p> + <p> + “His movements are a trifle unaccountable,” said Haslam, thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Now you admit he is acting queerly. Perhaps you'll see I was quite + right.” + </p> + <p> + Again mounted upon the bicycle, the doctor and the young woman returned to + the chase. They were soon brought to a second stop by Appleton's departure + from the 'bus at Girard Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Where can he be going to now?” queried Amy. + </p> + <p> + “He's going to take that east-bound Girard Avenue car.” + </p> + <p> + “So he is. What can he mean to do in that part of town?” + </p> + <p> + They turned down Girard Avenue. The car was half a block in advance of + them. + </p> + <p> + “You're energetic enough in this pursuit,” Amy shouted back to the doctor + as the machine fled over the stones, “even if you don't believe in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Energetic in your service, now and always.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer. + </p> + <p> + This time her reflections were abruptly checked—as his had been on + Broad Street—by the cry of the other. + </p> + <p> + “See! He's getting off at the Girard Avenue Theatre.” + </p> + <p> + Again they found a custodian for their bicycle and followed Appleton into + a theatre. + </p> + <p> + The young man stopped at the box-office in the long vestibule, bought a + ticket, and had a call made for a coupé. Then he passed through the + luxurious little foyer, beautiful with flowers and soft colours, and stood + behind the parquet circle railing. + </p> + <p> + Adelaide Randall's embodiment of “The Grand Duchess” held his attention + for a time. Haslam and Miss Winnett, to avoid the risk of being discovered + by him, sought the seclusion of the balcony stairs. + </p> + <p> + “We had a few bars of Offenbach at the Park, and here we have Offenbach + again,” commented the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “And again, only a few bars, for there goes our man.” + </p> + <p> + Appleton, having given as much attention to the few spectators as to the + players, left the theatre and got into the cab that had been ordered for + him. + </p> + <p> + Haslam, behind the pillar at the entrance to the theatre, overheard + Appleton's direction to the driver. It was: + </p> + <p> + “To the Grand Opera House. Hurry! The opera will soon be over.” + </p> + <p> + The cab rumbled away. + </p> + <p> + “It's well we heard his order,” observed Haslam to Amy. “We couldn't have + hoped to keep up with a cab. He'll probably wait at the Grand Opera House + till we get there.” + </p> + <p> + “But we mustn't lose any time, for, as he said, the performance will soon + be over.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, 'Tell' is a long opera and Guille will have an encore for the aria in + the last act. That will give us a few minutes more.” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + <i>A Telegraphic Revelation</i> + </p> + <p> + A boy walking down Girard Avenue, as Appleton got into the cab, had been + whistling the tune of “They're After Me,”—a thing that was new to + the variety stage last fall, but is dead this summer. The air, whistled by + the boy, clung to Appleton's sense, and he unconsciously hummed it to + himself as his cab went on its grinding way over the stones. + </p> + <p> + The cabman was considerate of his horse, and he coolly ignored Appleton's + occasional shouts of, “Get along there, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + It was, therefore, not impossible for the bicyclists to keep in sight of + the coupé. + </p> + <p> + “All this concern about a man you say you don't care for,” said Haslam to + Amy, as the bicycle turned up Broad Street. “It's unprecedented.” + </p> + <p> + “It's only humanity.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't bother about following me around like this when you threw me + over.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't threaten to kill yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “No; if I had, I'd have carried out my threat. But for months I endured a + living death—or worse.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? Did you, though?” + </p> + <p> + Eager inquiry and sudden elation were expressed in this speech. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I did. Why do you ask in that way?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—you took me by surprise. Why did you never tell me it affected + you so? I thought—I thought—” + </p> + <p> + “What did you think?” + </p> + <p> + “That if you really cared for me you would have—tried again.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Then I was fatally ignorant! I thought that when you said a thing, + you meant it.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know what I meant until it was too late.” + </p> + <p> + “But is it too late—ah! see, he's getting out of the cab at the + Grand Opera House.” + </p> + <p> + They quickly switched the bicycle from the street to the sidewalk, and + both dismounted. + </p> + <p> + They were checked at the entrance to the theatre by the appearance of + Appleton. He was coming from within the building, and with him were two + women, one elderly and unattractive, the other a plump young person with + bright blue eyes in a saucy face that had more claim to piquant effrontery + than to beauty. She was simply dressed and was all smiles to Appleton. + </p> + <p> + Amy and Haslam quickly turned their backs, thus avoiding recognition, and + while they seemed to be looking through the glass front into the + vestibule, they overheard the following conversation between the blue-eyed + girl and Appleton. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad you found us at last, Tom. Three acts of grand opera are about + enough for me, thanks, and we'd have left sooner if your telegram that + you'd be in town to-night hadn't made me expect to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've been hunting for you in every open theatre in town where + there's grand opera. In your answer to my telegram from the Catskills, you + said merely you were going to the opera this evening. You didn't say what + opera, but I supposed it was this one, so I bought a ticket as soon as I + arrived in town at the down-town office. I got here after the first act, + and spent all the second act looking around for you.” + </p> + <p> + “It's strange you didn't see us. We were in the middle of row K, right.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I missed you, that's all, and I kept a watch on the lobby after the + act, thinking you'd perhaps come out between the acts. Then I went to the + Park Theatre, and then to the Girard Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + Amy and Haslam went into the vestibule. Amy was crimson with anger. Haslam + quietly said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to continue the pursuit?” + </p> + <p> + Before she found time to answer, another matter distracted her attention. + </p> + <p> + “Look! There's Mary, the housemaid, who was to stay up for me till I got + home. She has come here for me.” + </p> + <p> + The servant stood by the door leading into the lobby, in a position + enabling her to scan the faces of people coming out from the auditorium. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Miss Amy, are you here? I was waiting for you to come out. Here's a + telegram that came about a half-hour ago. I thought it might be + important.” + </p> + <p> + Amy tore open the envelope. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” she said to Haslam, “this was sent to-day from Philadelphia to me + at the Catskills, and my cousins have had it repeated back to me. And look—it's + signed by you.” + </p> + <p> + “I surely didn't send it.” + </p> + <p> + But there was the name beyond doubt, “Henry Haslam, M.D.” + </p> + <p> + “This is a mystery to me, I assure you,” reiterated the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “But not to me,” cried Amy. “Read the message and you'll understand.” + </p> + <p> + He read these words: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Appleton is very ill. His life depends upon his will-power. He tells + me that you alone can say the word that will save him. Henry Haslam, M.D.” + </p> + <p> + Haslam smiled. + </p> + <p> + “A clever invention to make you think he tried to execute his threat. Now + you know what he was doing while you were taking your handbag home. He + probably concocted the scheme on his journey. But why did he sign my name, + I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + She dropped her eyes and answered in a low tone: + </p> + <p> + “Because he knew that I would believe anything said by you.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you believe that I love you still more than I did three years ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; if it came from your own lips—not by telegraph.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her eyes now, and her lips, too; Mary the housemaid sensibly + looked another way. + </p> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From Bohemia, by Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + +***** This file should be named 8869-h.htm or 8869-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/6/8869/ + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales From Bohemia + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8869] +This file was first posted on August 17, 2003 +Last Updated: May 18, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + +TALES FROM BOHEMIA + + +By Robert Neilson Stephens + + + + +ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS--A MEMORY + +One crisp evening early in March, 1887, I climbed the three flights of +rickety stairs to the fourth floor of the old "Press" building to begin +work on the "news desk." Important as the telegraph department was +in making the newspaper, the desk was a crude piece of carpentry. My +companions of the blue pencil irreverently termed it "the shelf." This +was my second night in the novel dignity of editorship. Though my rank +was the humblest, I appreciated the importance of a first step from "the +street." An older man, the senior on the news desk, had preceded me. He +was engaged in a bantering conversation with a youth who lolled at such +ease as a well-worn, cane-bottomed screw-chair afforded. The older man +made an informal introduction, and I learned that the youth with pale +face and serene smile was "Mr. Stephens, private secretary to the +managing editor." That information scarcely impressed me any more +than it would now after more than twenty years' experience of managing +editors and their private secretaries. + +The bantering continued, and I learned that the youth cherished literary +aspirations, and that he performed certain work in connection with the +dramatic department for the managing editor, who kept theatrical news +and criticisms within his personal control. + +Suddenly a chance remark broke the ice for a friendship between the +young man and me which was to last unbroken until his untimely death. +Stephens wrote the Isaac Pitman phonography! Here had I been for more +than three years wondering to find the shorthand writers of wide-awake +and progressive America floundering in what I conceived to be the +Serbonian bog of an archaic system of stenography. Unexpectedly a +most superior young man came within my ken who was a disciple of Isaac +Pitman. Furthermore, like myself, he was entirely self taught. No old +shorthand writer who can look back a quarter of a century on his own +youthful enthusiasm for the art can fail to appreciate what a bond of +sympathy this discovery constituted. From that night forward we were +chosen friends, confiding our ambitions to each other, discussing the +grave issues of life and death, settling the problems of literature. +Notwithstanding his more youthful appearance, my seniority in age +was but slight. Gradually "Bob," as all his friends called him with +affectionate informality, was given opportunities to advance himself, +under the kindly yet firm guidance of the managing editor, Mr. Bradford +Merrill. That gentleman appreciated the distinct gifts of his young +protege, journalistic and literary, and he fostered them wisely and +well. I remember perfectly the first criticism of an important play +which "Bob" was permitted to write unaided. It was Richard Mansfield's +initial appearance in Philadelphia as "Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde," at the +Chestnut Street Theatre on Monday, October 3, 1887. + +After the paper had gone to press, and while Mr. Merrill and a few of +the telegraph editors were partaking of a light lunch, the night editor, +the late R.E.A. Dorr, asked Mr. Merrill "how Stephens had made out." + +"He has written a very clever and very interesting criticism," Mr. +Merrill replied. "I had to edit it somewhat, because he was inclined to +be Hugoesque and melodramatic in describing the action with very short +sentences. But I am very much pleased, indeed." + +That was the beginning of Bob's career as a dramatic critic, a career +in which he gained authority and in which his literary faculties, his +felicity of expression and soundness of judgment found adequate scope. + +In the following two or three years the cultivation of the field of +dramatic criticism occupied his time to the temporary exclusion of his +ambition for creative work. He and I read independently; but our +tastes had much in common, though his preference was for imaginative +literature. Meanwhile I was writing short stories with plenty of plot, +some of which found their way into various magazines; but his taste lay +more in the line of the French short story writers who made an +incident the medium for portraying a character. Historical romance had +fascinations for me, but Alphonse Daudet attracted both of us to the +artistic possibilities that lay in selecting the romance of real life +for treatment in fiction as against the crude and repellent naturalism +of Zola and his school. This fact is not a little significant in view of +the turn toward historical romance which exercised all the activities of +Robert Neilson Stephens after the production of his play, "An Enemy to +the King," by E.H. Sothern. + +Still our intimacy had prepared me for the change. Through many a long +night after working hours we had wandered through the moonlit streets +until daybreak exchanging views freely and sturdily on historical +characters on the philosophy of history, on the character of Henry of +Navarre and his followers, and on the worthies of Elizabethan England, +in the literature of which we had immersed ourselves. Kipling had +recently burst meteor-like on the world, and Barrie raised his head with +a whimsical smile closely chasing a tear. Thomas Hardy was in the saddle +writing "Tess," and in France Daudet was yet active though his prime was +past. Guy de Maupassant continued the production of his marvellous +short stories. These were the contemporary prose writers who engaged our +attention. A little later we hailed the appearance of Stanley J. Weyman +with "A Gentleman of France," and the Conan Doyle of "The White +Company" and "Micah Clarke" rather than the creator of "Sherlock Holmes" +commended our admiration. We were by no means in accord on the younger +authors. Diversity of opinion stimulates critical discussion, however. I +had not yet become reconciled to Kipling, who provoked my resentment +by certain coarse flings at the Irish, but "Bob" hailed him with +whole-hearted enthusiasm. + +We were not the only members of the staff with literary aspirations. +Others, like the late Andrew E. Watrous, had achievements of no mean +order in prose and verse. Still others were sustaining the traditions of +"The Press" as a newspaper office which throughout its history had +been a stepping stone to magazine work and other forms of literary +employment. Richard Harding Davis was on the paper and "Bob" Stephens +was one of the two men most intimately in his confidence regarding his +ambitions. + +Finally Bob told me that "Dick" had taken him to his house and read to +him "A bully short story," adding, "It's a corker." + +I inquired the nature of the story. + +"Just about the 'Press' office," Bob replied, + +Among other particulars I asked the title. + +"'Gallegher,'" said Bob. + +Three years elapsed after our first acquaintance before Bob Stephens +began writing stories and sketches. The "Tales from Bohemia" collected +in this volume represent his early creative work. We were in the better +sense a small band of Bohemians, the few friends and companions who will +be found figuring in the tales under one guise or another. Many a merry +prank and many a jest is recalled by these pages. Of criticism I have no +word to say. Let the reader understand how they came into being and they +will explain themselves. "Bob" Stephens took his own environment, the +anecdotes he heard, the persons whom he met and the friends whom he +knew, and he treated them as the writers of short stories in France +twenty years ago treated their own Parisian environment. He made an +incident the means of illustrating a portrayal of character. Later he +was to construct elaborate plots for dramas and historical novels. + +"Bohemianism" was but a brief episode in the life of "R. N. S." It +ceased after his marriage. But his natural gaiety remained. Seldom was +his joyous disposition overcast, or his winning smile eclipsed. For six +months I was privileged to live in the house with his mother. If he +had inherited his literary predilections from his father,--a highly +respected educator of Huntington, Pa. from whose academy many eminent +professional men were graduated,--his gentleness, his cheerfulness, his +winning smile and the ingratiating qualities to which it was the key, as +surely came from his mother. + +I remember a time when he was inordinately grave for several days +and pursued a tireless course of special reading through the office +encyclopaedias and some books he had borrowed. At last he drew aside the +veil of reserve which concealed his family affairs from even his closest +friends and inquired if I could direct him to any recent authority on +cancer. I divined the sad truth that his tenderly beloved mother was +suffering from the dread disease. That was the day before serums, and +nothing that he found to read in books or periodicals gave him a faint +hope that his dear one could be cured. Thenceforward, mother and +son awaited the inevitable end with uncomplaining patience which was +characteristic of both. His cheerful smile returned, and while the blow +of bereavement was impending practically all these "Tales from Bohemia" +were written. + +To follow the career of "R.N.S." and trace his development after he gave +up newspaper work in the fall of 1893 is not required in this place. +"Tales from Bohemia" will be found interesting in themselves, apart from +the fact that they illustrate another phase of the literary gift of +a young writer who contributed so materially to the entertainment of +playgoers and novel readers for a period of ten years after the work in +this book was all done. + +J.O.G.D. + + + + +CONTENTS + +I. THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED + +II. A BIT OF MELODY + +III. ON THE BRIDGE + +IV. THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY + +V. OUT OF HIS PAST + +VI. THE NEW SIDE PARTNER + +VII. THE NEEDY OUTSIDER + +VIII. TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE + +IX. HE BELIEVED THEM + +X. A VAGRANT + +XI. UNDER AN AWNING + +XII. SHANDY'S REVENGE + +XIII. THE WHISTLE + +XIV. WHISKERS + +XV. THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + +XVI. THE SCARS + +XVII. "LA GITANA" + +XVIII. TRANSITION + +XIX. A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD + +XX. MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO + +XXI. AT THE STAGE DOOR + +XXII. "POOR YORICK" + +XXIII. COINCIDENCE + +XXIV. NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN + +XXV. AN OPERATIC EVENING + + + + +TALES FROM BOHEMIA + + + + + +I. -- THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED + +When Jack Morrow returned from the World's Fair, he found Philadelphia +thermometers registering 95. The next afternoon he boarded a Chestnut +Street car, got out at Front Street, hurried to the ferry station, and +caught a just departing boat for Camden, and on arriving at the other +side of the Delaware, made haste to find a seat in the well-filled +express train bound for Atlantic City. + +While he was being whirled across the level surface of New Jersey, past +the cornfields and short stretches of green trees and restful cottage +towns, he thought of the pleasure in store for him--the meeting with the +young person whom he had gradually come to consider the loveliest girl +in the world. Having neglected to read the list of "arrivals" in the +newspapers, he knew not at what hotel she and her aunt were staying. But +he would soon make the rounds of the large beach hotels, at one of which +she was likely to be found. + +She did not expect to see him. Therefore her first expression on +beholding him would betray her feelings toward him, whatever they were. +Should the indication be favourable, he would propose to her at the +first opportunity, on beach, boardwalk, hotel piazza, pavilion, yacht +or in the surf. Such were the meditations of Jack Morrow while the train +roared across New Jersey to the sea. + +The first sign of the flat green meadows, the smooth waters of the +thoroughfare, the sails afar at the inlet and the long side of the +sea-city stretching out against the sky at the very end of the earth is +refreshing and exhilarating to any one. It gave a doubly keen enjoyment +to Jack Morrow. + +"Within an hour, perhaps," he mused, as the reviving odour of the salt +water touched his nostrils, "I shall see Edith." + +When with the crowd he had made his way out of the train, and traversed +the long platform at the Atlantic City station, ignoring the stentorian +solicitations of the 'bus drivers, he started walking toward the ocean +promenade, invited by the glimpse of sea at the far end of the avenue. +Thus he crossed that wide thoroughfare--Atlantic Avenue--with its +shops and trolley-cars; passed picturesque hotels and cottages; crossed +Pacific Avenue where carriages and dog-carts were being driven rapidly +between the rows of pretty summer edifices, and traversed the famously +long block that ends at the boardwalk and the strand. + +He succeeded in getting a third-floor room on the ocean side of the +first hotel where he applied. He learned from the clerk that Edith was +not at this house. Sea air having revived his appetite, he decided to +dine before setting out in search of her. + +When, after his meal, he reached the boardwalk, the electric lights had +already been turned on and the regular evening crowd of promenaders was +beginning to form. He strolled along now looking at the beach and the +sea, now at the boardwalk crowd where he might perhaps at any moment +behold the face of "the loveliest girl in the world." He beheld instead, +as he approached the Tennessee pier, the face of his friend George +Haddon. + +"Hello, old boy!" exclaimed Morrow, grasping his friend's hand. "What +are you doing here? I thought your affairs would keep you in New York +all summer." + +"So they would," replied Haddon, in a tone and with a look whose +distress he made little effort to conceal. "But something happened." + +"Why, what on earth's the matter? You seem horribly downcast." + +Haddon was silent for a moment; then he said suddenly: + +"I'll tell you all about it. I have to tell somebody or it will split +my head. But come out on the pier, away from the noise of that +merry-go-round organ." + +Neither spoke as the two young men passed through the concert pavilion +and dancing hall out to a quieter part of the long pier. They sat near +the railing and looked out over the sea, on which, as evening fell, the +rippling band of moonlight grew more and more luminous. They could see, +at the right, the long line of brilliant lights on the boardwalk, and +the increasing army of promenaders. Detached from the furthest end of +the line of boardwalk lights, shone those of distant Longport. Above +these, the sky had turned from heliotrope to hues dark and indefinable, +but indescribably beautiful. Down on the beach were only a few people, +strolling near the tide line, a carriage, a man on horseback, and three +frolicking dogs. + +"It's simply this," abruptly began Haddon. "Six weeks ago I was married +to--" + +"Why, I never heard of it. Let me congrat--" + +"No, don't, I was married to a comic opera singer, named Lulu Ray. +I don't suppose you've ever heard of her, for she was only recently +promoted from the chorus to fill small parts. We took a flat, and lived +happily on the whole, for a month, although with such small quarrels +as might be expected. Two weeks ago she went out and didn't come back. +Since then I haven't been able to find her in New York or at any of the +resorts along the Jersey coast. I suppose she was offended at something +I said during a quarrel that grew out of my insisting on our staying +in New York all summer. Knowing her liking for Atlantic City--she was a +Philadelphia girl before she went on the stage--I came here at once to +hunt her up and apologize and agree to her terms." + +"Well?" + +"Well, I haven't found her. She's not at any hotel in Atlantic City. I'm +going back to New York to-morrow to get some clue as to where she is." + +"I suppose you're very fond of her still?" + +"Yes; that's the trouble. And then, of course, a man doesn't like to +have a woman who bears his name going around the country alone, her +whereabouts unknown." + +Morrow was on the point of saying: "Or perhaps with some other man," +but he checked himself. He was sufficiently mundane to refrain from +attempting to reason Haddon out of his affection for the fugitive, or +to advise him as to what to do. He knew that in merely letting Haddon +unburden on him the cause of anxiety, he had done all that Haddon would +expect from any friend. + +He limited himself, therefore, to reminding Haddon that all men have +their annoyances in this life; to treating the woman's offence as light +and commonplace, and to cheering him up by making him join in seeing the +sights of the boardwalk. + +They looked on at the pier hop, while Professor Willard's musicians +played popular tunes; returned to the boardwalk and watched the pretty +girls leaning against the wooden beasts on the merry-go-round while the +organ screamed forth, "Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow Wow;" experienced +that not very illusive illusion known as "The Trip to Chicago;" were +borne aloft on an observation wheel; made the rapid transit of the +toboggan slide, visited the phonographs and heard a shrill reproduction +of "Molly and I and the Baby;" tried the slow and monotonous ride on +the "Figure Eight," and the swift and varied one on the switchback. They +bought saltwater taffy and ate it as they passed down the boardwalk and +looked at the moonlight. Down on the Bowery-like part of the boardwalk +they devoured hot sausages, and in a long pavilion drank passable beer +and saw a fair variety show. Thence they left the boardwalk, walked to +Atlantic Avenue and mounted a car that bore them to Shauffler's, where +among light-hearted beer drinkers they heard the band play "Sousa's +Cadet March" and "After the Ball," and so they arrived at midnight. + +All this was beneficial to Haddon and pleasant enough in itself, but +it prevented Morrow that night from prosecuting his search for the +loveliest girl in the world. He postponed the search to the next day. +And when that time came, after Haddon had started for New York, occurred +an event that caused Morrow to postpone the search still further. + +He had decided to go up the boardwalk on the chance of seeing Edith in +a pavilion or on the beach. If he should reach the vicinity of the +lighthouse without finding her, he would turn back and inquire at every +hotel near the beach until he should obtain news of her. + +He had reached Pennsylvania Avenue when he was attracted by the white +tents that here dotted the wide beach. He went down the high flight +of steps from the boardwalk to rest awhile in the shade of one of the +tents. + +Although it was not yet 11 o'clock, several people in bathing suits were +making for the sea. A little goat wagon with children aboard was passing +the tents, and after it came the cart of the "hokey-pokey" peddler, +drawn by a donkey that wore without complaint a decorated straw +bathing hat. Morrow, looking at the feet of the donkey, saw in the sand +something that shone in the sunlight. He picked it up and found that it +was a gold bracelet studded with diamonds. + +He questioned every near-by person without finding the owner. He +therefore put the bracelet in his pocket, intending to advertise it. +Then he resumed his stroll up the boardwalk. He went past the lighthouse +and turned back. + +He had reached the Tennessee Avenue pier without having found the +loveliest girl in the world. His eye caught a small card that had just +been tacked up at the pier entrance. Approaching it he read: + +"Lost--On the beach between Virginia and South Carolina Avenues, a gold +bracelet with seven diamonds. A liberal reward will be paid for its +recovery at the ---- Hotel." + +The hotel named was the one at which Morrow was staying. He hurried +thither. + +"Who lost the diamond bracelet?" he asked the clerk. + +"That young lady standing near the elevator. Miss Hunt, I think her name +is," said the clerk consulting the register. "Yes, that's it, she only +arrived last night." + +Morrow saw standing near the elevator door, a lithe, well-rounded girl +with brown hair and great gray eyes that were fixed on him. She was +in the regulation summer-girl attire--blue Eton suit, pink shirtwaist, +sailor hat, and russet shoes. He hastened to her. + +"Miss Hunt, I have the honour to return your bracelet." + +She opened her lips and eyes with pleasurable surprise and reached +somewhat eagerly for the piece of jewelry. + +"Thank you ever so much. I took a walk on the beach just after breakfast +and dropped it somewhere. It's too large." + +"I picked it up near Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a curious coincidence +that it should be found by some one stopping at the same hotel. But, +pardon me, you're going away without mentioning the reward." + +She looked at him with some surprise, until she discovered that he +was jesting. Then she smiled a smile that gave Morrow quite a pleasant +thrill, and said, with some tenderness of tone: + +"Let the reward be what you please." + +"And that will be to do what you shall please to have me do." + +"Ah, that's nice. Then I accept your services at once. I am quite alone +here; haven't any acquaintances in the hotel. I want to go bathing and +I'm rather timid about going alone, although I'd made up my mind to do +so and was just going up after my bathing suit." + +"Then I am to have the happiness of escorting you into the surf." + +They went bathing together not far from where he had found the bracelet. +He discovered that she could swim as well as he; also that in her dark +blue bathing costume, with sailor collar and narrow white braid, she was +a most shapely person. + +She laughed frequently while they were breasting the breakers; and +afterwards, as in their street attire they were returning on the +boardwalk, she chatted brightly with him, revealing a certain cleverness +in off-hand persiflage. + +He took her into the tent behind the observation wheel to see the +Egyptian exhibition, and she was good enough to laugh at his jokes about +the mummies, although the mummies did not seem to interest her. Further +down the boardwalk they stopped at the Japanese exhibition, and on the +way out he caught himself saying that if it were possible, he would take +great pleasure in hauling her in a jinrikisha. + +"I'll remember that promise and make you push me in a wheel-chair," she +answered. + +When they were back at the hotel, she turned suddenly and said: + +"By the way, what's your name? Mine's Clara Hunt." + +He told her, and while she went up the elevator with her bathing suit, +he arranged with the head waiter to have himself seated at her table. + +He learned from the clerk that she had arrived alone with a letter of +introduction from a former guest of the house, and intended to stay at +least a fortnight. + +At luncheon he proposed that they should take a sail in the afternoon. +She said, with a smile: + +"As it is you who invites me, I'll give up my nap and go." + +They rode in a 'bus to the Inlet, and after spending half an hour +drinking beer and listening to the band on the pavilion, they hired a +skipper to take them out in his catboat. Six miles out the boat pitched +considerably and Miss Hunt increased her hold on Morrow's admiration +by not becoming seasick. At his suggestion they cast out lines for +bluefish. She borrowed mittens from the captain and pulled in four fish +in quick succession. + +"What an athletic woman you are," said Morrow. + +"Yes, indeed." + +"In fact, everything that's charming," he continued. + +She replied softly: "Don't say that unless you mean it. It pleases me +too much, coming from you." + +Morrow mused: "Here's a girl who is frank enough to say so when she +likes a fellow. It makes her all the more fascinating, too. Some women +would make me very tired throwing themselves at me this way. But it is +different with her." + +They gave the fish to the captain and returned from the Inlet by the +Atlantic Avenue trolley, just in time for dinner. She did not lament +her lack of opportunity to change her clothes for dinner, nor did she +complain about the coat of sunburn she had acquired. + +In the evening, they sat together for a time on the pier, took a turn +together at one of the waltzes, although neither cared much for dancing +at this time of year, walked up the boardwalk and compared the moon with +the high beacon light of the lighthouse. + +He bought her marshmallows at a confectioner's booth, a fan at a +Japanese store, and a queer oriental paper cutter at a Turkish bazaar. +They took two switchback rides, during which he was compelled to put his +arm around her. Finally, reluctant to end the evening, they stood for +some minutes leaning against the boardwalk railing, listening to the +moan of the sea and watching the shaft of moonlight stretching from +beach to horizon. + +It was not until he was alone in his room that Morrow bethought of his +neglect of the loveliest girl in the world. And remorseful as he was, he +did not form any distinct intention of resuming his search for her the +next day. He rather congratulated himself on not having met her while he +was with this enchanting Clara Hunt. + +And he passed next day also with the enchanting Clara Hunt. They sat on +the piazza together reading different parts of the same newspaper for +an hour after breakfast; went to the boardwalk and turned in at a +shuffle-board hall, where they spent another hour making the weights +slide along the sanded board and then took another ocean bath. + +After luncheon they walked up the boardwalk to the iron pier. + +Seeing the lifeboat there, rising and falling in the waves, Clara asked: + +"Would the lifeguard take us in his boat for a while, I wonder?" + +Morrow went down to the beach and shouted to the lifeguard, who was none +other than the robust and stentorian Captain Clark. The captain brought +the boat ashore and as there were no bathers in the water at this point, +he agreed to row the young people out to the end of the pier. + +"This is a great place for brides and grooms this summer," remarked the +captain in his frank and jocular way. + +Clara looked at Morrow with a blush and a laugh. Morrow was pleased at +seeing that she seemed not displeased. + +"We're not married," said Morrow to the captain. + +"Not yet, mebbe," said the captain with one of his significant winks, +and then he gave vent to loud and long laughter. + +That evening Morrow and Clara took the steamer trip from the Inlet +to Brigantine and the ride on the electric car along flat and sandy +Brigantine beach. On the return, they became very sentimental. They +decided to walk all the way from the Inlet down the boardwalk. He found +himself quite oblivious to the crowd of promenaders. The loveliest girl +in the world might have passed him a dozen times without attracting his +attention. He had eyes and ears for none but Clara Hunt. + +And that night, far from reproaching himself for his conduct toward +the loveliest girl, etc., he hardly thought of her at all, more than +to wonder by what good fortune he had avoided meeting her. Some of the +people at their hotel made the same mistake regarding Morrow and Clara +as Captain Clark had made; the two were seen constantly together. Others +thought they were engaged. + +Morrow spoke of this to her next morning as they were being whirled down +to Longport on a trolley car along miles of smooth beach and stunted +distorted pine trees. "I heard a woman on the piazza whisper that I was +your fiance," he said. + +"Well, what if you were--I mean what if she did?" + +At Longport they took the steamer for Ocean City. They rode through that +quiet place of trees and cottages on the electric car, returning to the +landing just in time to miss the 11.50 boat for Longport. They had to +wait an hour and a half and they were the only people there who were not +bored by the delay. They returned by way of Somers' Point. + +While the boat was gliding through the sunlit waters of Great Egg +Harbour Inlet, Clara's hand happened to fall on Morrow's, which was +resting on the gunwale. She let her hand remain there. Morrow looked at +it, and then at her face. She smiled. When the Italian violin player on +the boat came that way, Morrow gave him a dollar. Alas for the loveliest +girl in the world! + +They passed most of that evening in a boardwalk pavilion, ostensibly +watching the sea and the crowd. They went up the thoroughfare in a +catboat the next morning, and, strange as it seemed to them, were the +only people out who caught no fish. The captain winked at his mate, who +grinned. + +In the afternoon, while Morrow and Clara stood on the boardwalk looking +down at the Salvation Army tent, along came that innocent eccentric +"Professor" Walters in bathing costume and with his swimming machine. +The tall, lean whiskered, loquacious "Professor" had made Morrow's +acquaintance in a former summer and now greeted him politely. + +"How d'ye do?" said the "Professor." "Glad to see you here. You turn up +every year." + +"You're still given to rhyming," commented Morrow. + +"Yes, I have a rhyme for every time, in pleasure or sorrow. Is this Mrs. +Morrow?" + +"No." + +"You ought to be sorry she isn't," remarked the "Professor," taking his +departure. + +Morrow and Clara walked on in silence. At last he said somewhat +nervously: + +"Everybody thinks we're married. Why shouldn't we be?" + +She answered softly, with downcast eyes: + +"I would be willing if I were sure of one thing." + +"What's that?" + +"That you have never loved any other woman. Have you?" + +"How can you ask? Believe me, you are the only girl I have ever loved." + +That evening, after dinner, Morrow and Clara, the newly affianced, about +starting from the hotel to the boardwalk, were at the top of the hotel +steps when a man appeared at the bottom. + +Morrow uttered a cry of recognition. + +"Why, Haddon, old boy, I'm glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my +wife that is to be." + +Haddon stood still and stared. Clara, too, remained motionless. After a +moment, Haddon said very quietly: + +"You're mistaken. Let me introduce you to my wife that is." + +Morrow looked at Clara. She turned her gray eyes fearlessly on Haddon. + +"You, too, are mistaken," she said. "I had a husband before you married +me. He's my husband still. He's doing a song and dance act in a variety +theatre in Chicago. I'm sorry about all this, Mr. Morrow. I really like +you. Good-bye." + +She ran back into the hotel and arranged to make her departure on an +early train next morning. + +Haddon turned toward the boardwalk, and Morrow, quite dazed, +involuntarily followed him. After a period of silence, Morrow said: + +"This is astonishing. A bigamist, and a would-be trigamist. She came +here the night before you left. How did you find out she was here?" + +"I read it in the Atlantic City letter of _The Philadelphia Press_ that +one of the Comic Opera singers daily seen on the boardwalk is Miss Clara +Hunt, who is known to theatre-goers by her stage name, Lulu Ray. These +newspaper correspondents know some of the obscurest people. If I had +told you her real name, you would have known who she was in time to have +avoided being taken in by her." + +"Her having another husband lets you out." + +"Yes. I'm glad and sorry, for damn it, I was fond of the girl. Excuse me +awhile, old fellow. I want to go on the pier and think awhile." + +Haddon went out on the pier and looked down on the incoming waves and +thought awhile. He found it a disconsolate occupation, even with a cigar +to sweeten it. So he came back and mingled with the gay crowd on the +boardwalk and tried to forget her. + +Morrow had no sooner left Haddon than he felt his arm touched. Looking +around, he saw the smiling face of the loveliest girl in the world. + +"Well, by Jove, Edith," he said. "At last I've found you!" + +"Yes. I heard you were down here. You see, I've been up in town for the +last week. Gracious, but Philadelphia is hot! Here's Aunt Laura." + +Morrow spent the evening with Edith. One night a week later, he proposed +to her on the pier. + +"I will say yes," she replied, "if you can give me your assurance that +you've never been in love with any one else." + +"That's easily given. You know very well you're the only girl I've ever +loved." + + + + +II. -- A BIT OF MELODY + + +[Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker, and used by the courtesy +of the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_.] + +It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the lodging-house +for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians +coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They +belonged to the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, and were returning from a +dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on +the following night. + +Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded +to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and +passed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded +face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering +gaslight. + +The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in +disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he +stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the +danger of the icy pavements. "I'm t'ankful to be at last home," he said, +showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler from +his neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an +ample red beard. "Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay +warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera." + +"Thanks for your solicitude," I said, "but I must have my walk. Play +to your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into +geniality. Good night." + +The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the +taciturnity of his countryman and confrere, with a gesture and a look +of reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he +disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs. + +As I passed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my +footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas in +his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf. + +My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of +heart. Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, +while his practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second +violinist. When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a smile: + +"My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity +cofers a multitude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer." + +We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and +matinee duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, +and because those of us who could remember his long German surname could +not pronounce it. + +One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his +friend Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival +from Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned +that he had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had +departed the day before. The professor took him home, clothed him and +cared for him until eventually another second violin was needed in the +---- Theatre orchestra. + +Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, +and he picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and +waltzes. + +All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk +in that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to +collide with my friend the doctor. + +"I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat," I said. "Won't you join +me? I know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where +devilled crabs are as good as the broiled oyster." + +"With pleasure," he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; "not for +your food, but for your society. But do you know what you did when you +ran against me at the corner? For a long time I've been trying to recall +a certain tune that I heard once. Three minutes ago, as I was walking +along, it came back to me, and I was whistling it when you came up. You +knocked it quite out of mind. I'm sorry, for interesting circumstances +connected with my first hearing of it make it desirable that I should +remember it." + +"I can never express my regret," I said. "But you may be able to catch +it again. Where were you when it came back to you three minutes ago?" + +"Two blocks away, passing a church. I think it was the shining of the +electric light upon the stained glass window that brought it back to +me, for on the night of the day when I first heard it in Paris a strong +light was falling upon the stained glass windows of the church opposite +the house in which I had apartments." + +"Perhaps, then," I suggested, "the law of association may operate again +if you take the trouble to walk back and repass the church in the same +manner and the same state of mind, as nearly as you can resume them." + +"By Jove," said the doctor, who likes experiments of this kind, "I'll +try it. Wait for me here." + +I stood at the corner while the doctor briskly retraced his steps. His +firmly built, comfortable-looking form passed rapidly away. Within five +minutes he was back, a triumphant smile lighting his face. + +"Success!" he said. "I have it, although whether from chance or as a +result of repeating my impression of light falling on a church window +I can't say. Certainly, after all these years, the tune is again mine. +Listen." + +As we proceeded up the street the doctor whistled a few measures +composing a rather peculiar melody, expressive, it seemed to me, of +unrest. I never forget a tune I have once heard, and this one was soon +fixed in my memory. + +"And the interesting circumstances under which you heard it?" I +interrogated. "Surely after the concern I've shown in the matter, you're +not going to deprive me of the story that goes with the tune?" + +"There is no reason why I should. But I hope you will not circulate the +melody. It is the music that accompanies a tragedy." + +"Indeed? You have written one, then? It must be brief, as there isn't +much of the music." + +"I refer to a tragedy which actually occurred. Tragedies in real life +are not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this +case music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in +Paris, apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife. +His name, as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he +came from Breslau. The wife, a very young and pretty creature, showed +herself, by her attire and manners, to be frivolous and vain, and +without having more than the slightest acquaintance with the pair, I +soon learned that she had no knowledge of or taste for music. He had +married her, I suppose, for her beauty, and had too late discovered the +incompatibility of their temperaments. But he loved her passionately +and jealously. One day I heard loud words between them, from which I +gathered unintentionally that something had aroused his jealousy. She +replied with laughter and taunts to his threats. The quarrel ended with +her abrupt departure from the room and from the house. + +"He did not follow her, but sat down at the piano and began to play +in the manner of one who improvises. Correcting the melody that +first responded to his touch, modifying it at several repetitions, he +eventually gave out the form that I have just whistled. + +"Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that +strain over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my +lamp light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the +way. Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you +dine?' I heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech +was plainly distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; +'you were with----.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I +know what she said in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only +a confused sound, which did not impress me at the time as indicating a +struggle, and which was followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or +a sullen truce had been restored in the household, and thought no more +about the affair. The next morning the wife was found dead, strangled. +The husband had disappeared, and has never, I believe, been heard of to +this day." + +We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the +account had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm cafe, with +appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me +again the husband's name. + +"Heinrich Spellerberg." + +"And who had the woman been?" + +"I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little +blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. +She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique." + +"You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?" + +"No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong." + +"Do you remember the exact date of the murder?" + +"Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February +17, 187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and +on, ever since--forgotten, most of the time; a few times recalled--as +to-night." + +"And the man, what did he look like?" + +"Slim and of medium height. Very light complexion and eyes. His face +was entirely smooth. His hair, a bit flaxen in colour, was curly and +plentiful, especially about the back of his neck." + +"In your evidence did you say anything about the strain of music, which +was manifestly of the murderer's own composition?" + +"No, it did not recur to me until later." + +"And nothing was said about it by anybody?" + +"No one but myself knew anything about it--except the murderer; and +unless he afterward circulated it, he and you and I are the only men in +the world who have heard it." + +"But if he continued, wherever he went, to exercise his profession, he +doubtless made some use of that bit of melody. The tune is so odd--quite +too good for him to have wasted." + +"Still, neither of us has ever heard it, or anything like it. And if you +ever should come upon it, it would be interesting to trace the thing, +wouldn't it?" + +"Rather." + +I began to whistle the air softly. Presently two handsome girls, with +jimp raiment and fearless demeanour, came in and took possession of an +adjacent table. + +"What'll it be, Nell?" + +"I'll take a dozen panned. I'm hungry enough to eat all the oysters that +ever came out of the sea. A rehearsal like that gives one an appetite." + +"A dozen panned, and lobster salad for me, and two bottles of beer," was +the order of the first speaker to the waiter. + +I recognized the faces as pertaining to the chorus of the opera company +at the ---- Theatre. I stopped whistling while I watched them. + +Suddenly, like a delayed and multiplied echo of my own whistling, came +in a soft hum from one of the girls the notes of the doctor's tragically +associated strain of music. + +The doctor and I exchanged glances. The girl stopped humming. + +"I think that's the prettiest thing in the piece, Maude," said she. + +Undoubtedly it was the comic opera to be produced at the ---- Theatre to +which she alluded as "the piece." + +"Amazing," I said to the doctor. "Millocker composed the piece she's +talking about. Millocker never killed a wife in Paris. Nor would he +steal bodily from another. Perhaps the thing has been interpolated by +the local producer. It doesn't sound quite like Millocker, anyhow. I +must see about this." + +"Where are you going?" + +"To the Actors' Club, or a dozen other places, until I find Harry +Griffiths. He's one of the comedians in the company at the ---- Theatre, +and he has a leading part in that piece to-morrow night. He'll know +where that tune came from." + +"As you please," said the amiable doctor. "But I must go home. You +can tell me the result of your investigation to-morrow. It may lead to +nothing, but it will be interesting pastime." + +"And again," I said, putting on my overcoat, "it may lead to something. +I'll see you to-morrow. Good night." + +I found Griffiths at the Actors' Club, telling stories over a +mutton-chop and a bottle of champagne. When the opportunity came I drew +him aside. + +"I have bet with a man about a certain air in the new piece. He says +it's in the original score, and I say it's introduced, because I don't +think Millocker did it. This is it," and I whistled it. + +"Quite right, my boy. It's not in the original. Miss Elton's part was +so small that she refused to play until the manager agreed to let her +fatten it up. So Weinmann composed that and put--" + +"This Weinmann," I interrupted, abruptly, "what do you know about him? +Who is he?" + +"He's Gustav Weinmann, the new musical director. I don't know anything +about him. He's not been long in the country. The manager found him in +some small place in Germany last summer." + +"How old is he? Where does he live?" + +"Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you +want to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?" + +"Good idea, this. Good night." + +I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German +town. I would go to him and bluntly say: + +"Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it +is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?" + +Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed. + +All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I +began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour +down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The +only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. +The latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We +all were used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy +caprices, the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent +house. + +I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room +but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains +that used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys +took touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor. + +Suddenly the musical summonings of the player assumed a familiar +aspect,--that of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for +the past hour. + +Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in +the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, would doubtless know more about the +antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able to +tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come +from Germany. + +I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking +through the open door, beheld the professor at the piano. + +The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept +grandly in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's +head in soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of +the opposite wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined +Schaaf, who had fallen asleep listening while the professor played. + +The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain--so often +mutual companions--were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break the +spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, +however, I began quietly: + +"Professor." + +The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to +face me, smiling pleasantly. + +"Pardon me," I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the +moonshine that he might recognize me, "but I was attracted by the +air you were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was +composed by your new conductor at the ----" + +The professor answered with a laugh: + +"Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn't +matter." + +"Ah, then it isn't his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?" + +"Me." + +"You?" + +"Ja. And I have many oder to gif sheap, too." + +"But where did you get it?" + +"I make it." + +"When?" + +"Long 'go. I forget. I have make so many. Dey go away from my mindt an' +come again back long time after." + +"Professor, what would you give me to tell you where and when you +composed that tune?" + +He looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression. It was with an +effort that I continued, as I looked straight into his eyes: + +"I will hazard a guess. Could it have been in Paris--one day twelve +years ago--" + +"I neffer be in Paris," he interrupted, with a start which shocked and +convinced me, slight evidence though it may seem. So I spoke on: + +"What, never? Not even just that night--that 17th of February? Try to +recall it, Heinrich Spellerberg. You remember she came in late, and--who +would think that those soft white fingers had been strong enough?" + +"Hush, my friendt! I not touch her! She kill herself--she try to hang +and she shoke her neck. No, no, to you I vill not lie! You speak all +true! Mein Gott! Vat vill you do?" + +The man was on his knees. I thought of the circumstances, the persons +concerned, the high-strung, sensitive lover of music, the coarse, +derisive, perhaps faithless woman, and I replied quickly: + +"What will I do? Nothing to-night. It's none of my business, anyhow. +I'll sleep over it and tell you in the morning." + +I left him alone. + +In the morning the professor's door stood ajar. I looked in. Man, +clothes, violin case, and valise had gone. Whither I have not tried to +ascertain. + +When the new opera was produced that evening the ---- Theatre +orchestra was unexpectedly minus two of its second violins, for Schaaf, +half-distracted, was wandering the cold streets in search of his friend. + + + + +III. -- ON THE BRIDGE + +When I tell you, my only friend, to whom I so rarely write and whom +I more rarely see, that my lonely life has not been without love for +woman, you will perhaps laugh or doubt. + +"What," you will say, "that gaunt old spectre in his attic with his +books, his tobacco, and his three flower-pots! He would not know that +there is such a word as love, did he not encounter it now and then in +his reading." + +True, I have divided my days between the books in a rich man's +counting-room and those in my attic. True, again, I have never been more +than merely passable to look at, even in my best days. + +Yet I have loved a woman. + +During the five years when my elder brother lay in a hospital across +the river, where he died, it was my custom to visit him every Sunday. +I enjoyed the afternoon walk to the suburbs, when the air has more of +nature in it, especially that portion of the walk which lay upon the +bridge. More life than was usual upon the bridge moved there on Sunday. +Then the cars were crowded with people seeking the parks. Many crossed +on foot, stopping to look idly down at the dark and sluggish water. + +One afternoon, as I stood thus leaning over the parapet, the sound of +woman's gentle laugh caused me to turn and ocularly inquire its source. +The woman and a man were approaching. At the side of the woman walked +soberly a handsome dog, a collie. There was that in their appearance +and manner which plainly told me that here were husband and wife, of +the middle class, intelligent but poor, out for a stroll. That they were +quite devoted to each other was easily discoverable. + +The man looked about thirty years of age, was tall, slender, and was +neither strong nor handsome, but had an amiable face. He was doubtless a +clerk fit to be something better. The woman was perhaps twenty-four. She +was not quite beautiful, yet she was more than pretty. She was of good +size and figure, and the short plush coat that she wore, and the manner +in which she kept her hands thrust in the pockets thereof, gave to her +a dauntless air which the quiet and affectionate expression of her face +softened. + +She was a brunette, her eyes being large and distinctly dark brown, her +face having a peculiar complexion which is most quickly affected by any +change in health. + +The colour of her cheek, the dark rim under her eyes, and the other +indefinable signs, indicated some radical ailment. In the quick glance +that I had of that pair, while the woman was smiling, a feeling of pity +came over me. I have never detected the exact cause of that emotion. +Perhaps in the woman's face I read the trace of past bodily and mental +suffering; perhaps a subtle mark that death had already set there. + +Neither the woman nor her husband noticed me as they passed. The dog +regarded me cautiously with the corner of his eye. I probably would +never have thought of the three again had I not seen them upon the +bridge, under exactly the same circumstances, on the next Sunday. + +So these young and then happy people walked here every Sunday, I +thought. This, perhaps, was an event looked forward to throughout the +week. The husband, doubtless, was kept a prisoner and slave at his desk +from Monday morning until Saturday night, with respite only for eating +and sleeping. Such cases are common, even with people who can think +and have some taste for luxury, and who are not devoid of love for the +beautiful. + +The sight of happiness which exists despite the cruelty of fate and +man, and which is temporarily unconscious of its own liabilities to +interruption and extinction, invariably fills me with sadness, and the +sadness which arose at the contemplation of these two beings begat in me +a strange sympathy for an interest in them. + +On Sundays thereafter I would go early to the bridge and wait until +they passed, for it proved that this was their habitual Sunday walk. +Sometimes they would pause and join those who gazed down at the black +river. I would, now and again, resume my journey toward the hospital +while they thus stood, and I would look back from a distance. The bridge +would then appear to me an abrupt ascent, rising to the dense city, and +their figures would stand out clearly against the background. + +It became a matter of care to me to observe each Sunday whether the +health of either had varied during the previous week. The husband, +always pale and slight, showed little change and that infrequently. +But the fluctuations of the woman as indicated by complexion, gait, +expression and otherwise, were numerous and pronounced. Often she looked +brighter and more robust than on the preceding Sunday. Her face would be +then rounded out, and the dark crescents beneath her eyes would be less +marked. Then I found myself elated. + +But on the next Sunday the cheeks had receded slightly, the healthy +lustre of the eyes had given way to an ominous glow, the warning of +death had returned. Then my heart would sink, and, sighing, I would +murmur inaudibly: + +"This is one of the bad Sundays." + +There came a time when every Sunday was a bad one. + +What made me love this woman? Simply the unmistakable completeness and +constancy of her devotion to her husband,--the absorption of the woman +in the wife. Had the strange ways of chance ever made known to her my +feelings, and had she swerved from that devotion even to render me back +love for love, then my own adoration for her would surely have departed. + +Yes, I loved her,--if to fill one's life with thoughts of a woman, if in +fancy to see her face by day and night, if to have the will to die for +her or to bear pain for her, if those and many more things mean love. + +My richest joy was to see her content with her husband, and the darkest +woe of my life was to anticipate the termination of their happiness. + +So the Sundays passed. One afternoon I waited until almost dusk, yet the +couple did not appear. + +For seven Sundays in succession I did not meet them upon their wonted +walk. + +On the eighth Sunday I saw the dog first, then the man. The latter was +looking over the railing. The woman was not with him. Apprehensively I +sought with my eyes his face. Much grief and loneliness were depicted +there. + +Was he or I the greater mourner? I wondered. + +I suppose two years passed after that day ere I again beheld the +widower--whose name I did not and probably never shall know--upon +the bridge. The dog was not with him this time. It was a fine, sunny +afternoon in May. Grief was no longer in his face. By his side was a +very pretty, animated, rosy little woman whom I had never seen before. +They walked close to each other, and she looked with the utmost +tenderness into his face. She evidently was not yet entirely accustomed +to the wedding-ring which I observed on her finger. + +I think that tears came to my eyes at this sight. Those great brown +eyes, the plush sack, the lovely face that had borne the impress of +sorrow so speedily, had felt death--those might never have existed, so +soon had they been forgotten by the one being in the world for whom that +face had worn the aspect of a perfect love. + +Yet one upon whom those eyes never rested has remembered. And surely the +memory of her is mine to wed, since he, whose right was to cherish it, +has allowed himself to be divorced from it in so brief a time. + +The memory of her is with me always, fills my soul, beautifies my life, +makes green and radiant this existence which all who know me think cold, +bleak, empty, repellent. + +You will not laugh, then, my friend, when I tell you that love is not to +me a thing unknown. + + * * * * * + +So runs a part of the last letter to my father that the old bookkeeper +ever wrote. + + + + +IV. -- THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_.Copyright, 1892, by J.B. +Lippincott Company.] + +Mr. Mogley was an actor of what he termed the "old school." He railed +against the prevalence of travelling theatrical troupes, and when he +attitudinized in the barroom, his left elbow upon the brass rail, his +right hand encircling a glass of foaming beer, he often clamoured for +a return of the system of permanently located dramatic companies, and +sighed at the departure of the "palmy days." + +A picturesque figure, typical of an almost bygone race of such figures, +was Mogley at these moments, his form being long and attenuated, +his visage smooth and of angular contour, his facial mildness really +enhanced by the severity which he attempted to impart to his countenance +when he conversed with such of his fellow men as were not of "the +profession." + +Like Mogley's style of acting, his coat was old. But, although neither +he nor any of his acquaintances suspected it, his heart was young. He +still waited and hoped. + +For Mogley's long professional career had not once been brightened by +a distinct success. He had never made what the men and women of his +occupation designate a hit, or even what the dramatic critics wearily +describe as a "favourable impression." This he ascribed to lack of +opportunity, as he was merely human. Mr. and Mrs. Mogley eagerly sent +for the newspapers on the morning after each opening night and sought +the notices of the performance. These records never contained a word of +either praise or censure for Mogley. + +Mrs. Mogley had first met Mogley when she was a soubrette and he a +"walking gentleman." It was his Guildenstern (or it may have been his +Rosencrantz) that had won her. Shortly after their marriage there came +to her that life-ailment which made it impossible for her to continue +acting. She had swallowed her aspirations, shedding a few tears. She +lived in the hope of his triumph, and, as she had more time to think +than he had, she suffered more keenly the agony of yearning unsatisfied. + +She was a little, fragile being, with large pale blue eyes, and a face +from which the roses had fled when she was twenty. But she was very much +to Mogley: she did his planning, his thinking, the greater part of his +aspiring. She always accompanied him upon tours, undergoing cheerfully +the hard life that a player at "one-night stands" must endure in the +interest of art. + +This continued through the years until last season. Then when Mogley was +about to start "on the road" with the "Two Lives for One" Company, +the doctor said that Mrs. Mogley would have to stay in New York or +die,--perhaps die in any event. So Mogley went alone, playing the +melodramatic father in the first act, and later the secondary villain, +who in the end drowns the principal villain in the tank of real water, +while his heart was with the pain-racked little woman pining away in the +small room at the top of the dingy theatrical boarding-house on Eleventh +Street. + +The "Two Lives for One" Company "collapsed," as the newspapers say, +in Ohio, three months after its departure from New York; this +notwithstanding the tank of real water. Mogley and the leading actress +overtook the manager at the railway station, as he was about to flee, +and extorted enough money from him to take them back to New York. + +Mogley had not returned too soon to the small room at the top of the +house on Eleventh Street. He turned paler than his wife when he saw her +lying on the bed. She smiled through her tears,--a really heartrending +smile. + +"Yes, Tom, I've changed much since you left, and not for the better. I +don't know whether I can live out the season." + +"Don't say that, Alice, for God's sake!" + +"I would be resigned, Tom, if only--if only you would make a success +before I go." + +"If only I could get the chance, Alice!" + +As the days went by, Mrs. Mogley rapidly grew worse. She seemed to fail +perceptibly. But Mogley had to seek an engagement. They could not live +on nothing. Mrs. Jones would wait with the daily increasing board-bill, +but medicine required cash. Each evening, when Mogley returned from his +tour of the theatrical agencies of Fourteenth Street and of Broadway, +the ill woman put the question, almost before he opened the door: + +"Anything yet?" + +"Not yet. You see this is the bad part of the season. Ah, the profession +is overcrowded!" + +But one Monday afternoon he rushed up the stairs, his face aglow. In the +dark, narrow hallway on the top floor he met the doctor. + +"Mrs. Mogley has had a sudden turn for the worse," said the physician, +abruptly. "I'm afraid she won't live until midnight." + +Doctors need not give themselves the trouble to "break news gently" in +cases where they stand small chances of remuneration. + +Mogley staggered. It was cruel that this should occur just when he had +such good news. But an idea occurred to him. Perhaps the good news would +reanimate her. + +"Alice," he cried, as he threw open the door, "you must get well! My +chance has come. The tide, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune, +is here." + +She sat up in bed, trembling. "What is it, Tom?" + +"This. Young Hopkins asked me to have a drink at the Hoffman this +afternoon, and, while I was in there, Hexter, who managed the 'Silver +King' Company the season I played Coombe, came in all rattled. 'Why this +extravagant wrath?' Hopkins asked, in his picturesque way. Then Hexter +explained that his revival of Wilkins' old burlesque on 'Faust' couldn't +be put on to-night, because Renshaw, who was to be the Mephisto, was too +sick to walk. 'No one else knows the part,' Hexter said. Then I told him +I knew the part; how I'd played Valentine to Wilkins' Mephisto when the +piece was first produced before these Gaiety people brought their 'Faust +up-to-date' from London. You remember how, as Wilkins was given to late +dinners and too much ale, he made me understudy his Mephisto, and if the +piece had run more'n two weeks, I'd probably had a chance to play it. +Well, Hexter said, as everything was ready to put on the piece, if +I thought I was up in the part, he'd let me try it. So we went to +Renshaw's room and got the part and here it is." + +"But, Tom, burlesque isn't in your line." + +"Isn't it? Anything's in my line. 'Versatility is the touchstone +of power.' That's where we of the old stock days come in! Besides, +burlesque is the thing now. Look at Leslie, and Wilson, and Hopper, and +Powers. They're the men who draw the salaries nowadays. If I make a hit +in this part, my fortune is sure." + +"But Hexter's Theatre is on the Bowery." + +"That doesn't matter. Hexter pays salaries." + +Objections like this last one had often been made, and as often overcome +in the same words. + +"And then besides--why, Alice, what's the matter?" + +She had fallen back on the bed with a feeble moan. He leaned over her. +Slowly she opened her eyes. + +"Tom, I'm afraid I'm dying." + +Then Mogley remembered the doctor's words. Alice dying! Life was hard +enough even when he had her to sustain his courage. What would it be +without her? + +The typewritten part had fallen on the bed. He pushed it aside. + +"Hexter and his Mephisto be d----d!" said Mogley. "I shall stay at home +with you to-night." + +"No, no, Tom: your one chance, remember! If you should make a hit before +I die, I could go easier. It would brighten the next world for me until +you come to join me." + +Mogley's weaker will succumbed to hers. So, with his right hand around +Mrs. Mogley's wrist, turning his eyes now and then to the clock in the +steeple which was visible through the narrow window, that he might know +when to administer her medicine, he held his "part" in his left hand and +refreshed his recollection of the lines. + +At seven o'clock, with a last pressure of her thin fingers, a kiss upon +her cheek where a tear lay, he left her. He had thought she was asleep, +but she murmured: + +"May God help you to-night, Tom! My thoughts will be at the theatre with +you. Good-bye." + +Mrs. Jones's daughter had promised to look in at Mrs. Mogley now and +then during the evening, and to give her the medicine at the proper +intervals. + +Mogley reported to the stage manager, who showed him Renshaw's +dressing-room and gave him Renshaw's costume for the part. His mind ever +turning back to the little room at the top of the house and then to the +words and "business" of his part, he got into Renshaw's red tights and +crimson cape. Then he donned the scarlet cap and plume and pasted the +exaggerated eyebrows upon his forehead, while the stage manager stood +by, giving him hints as to new "business" invented by Renshaw. + +"You have the stage to yourself, you know, at that time, for a +specialty." + +"Yes, I'll sing the song Wilkins did there. I see it's marked in the +part and the orchestra must be 'up' in it. In the second act I'll do +some imitations of actors." + +At eight he was ready to go on the stage. + +"May God be with you!" reechoed in his ear,--the echo of a weak voice +put forth with an effort. + +He heard the stage manager in front of the curtain announcing that, +"owing to Mr. Renshaw's sudden illness, the talented comedian, Mr. +Thomas Mogley, had kindly consented to play Mephisto, at short notice, +without a rehearsal." + +He had never heard himself called a talented comedian before, and +he involuntarily held his head a trifle higher as the startling and +delicious words reached his ears. + +The opening chorus, the witless dialogue of secondary personages, then +an almost empty stage, old Faust alone remaining, and the entrance of +Mephisto. + +Some applause that came from people that had not heard the preliminary +announcement, and whose demonstration was intended for Renshaw, rather +disconcerted Mogley. Then, ere he had spoken a word, or his eyes +had ranged over the hazy lighted theatre on the other side of the +footlights, there sounded in the depths of his brain: + +"My thoughts will be at the theatre with you!" + +There were many vacant seats in the house. He singled out one of them on +the front row and imagined she was in it. He would play to that vacant +seat throughout the evening. + +In all burlesques of "Faust" the role of Mephisto is the leading comic +figure. The actor who assumes it undertakes to make people laugh. + +Mogley made people laugh that night, but it was not his intentional +humourous efforts that excited their hilarity. It was the man himself. +They began by jeering him quietly. Then the gallery grew bold. + +"Ah there, Edwin Booth!" sarcastically yelled an urchin aloft. + +"Oh, what a funny little man he is!" ironically quoted another from +a song in one of Mr. Hoyt's farces, alluding to Mogley's spare if +elongated frame. + +"He t'inks dis is a tragedy," suggested a Bowery youth. + +But Mogley tried not to heed. + +In the second act some one threw an apple at him. Mogley laboured +zealously. The ribald gallery had often been his foe. Wait until such +and such a scene! He would show them how a pupil of the old stock +companies could play burlesque! Song and dance men from the varieties +had too long enjoyed undisputed possession of that form of drama. + +But, one by one, he passed his opportunities without capturing the +house. Nearer came the end of the piece. Slimmer grew his chance +of making the longed-for impression. The derision of the audience +increased. Now the gallery made comments upon his personal appearance. + +"He could get between raindrops," yelled one, applying a recent speech +of Edwin Stevens, the comic opera comedian. + +And at home Mogley's wife was dying--holding to life by sheer power of +will, that she might rejoice with him over his triumph. Tears blinded +his eyes. Even the other members of the company were laughing at his +discomfiture. + +Only a little brunette in pink tights who played Siebel, and whom he had +never met before, had a look of sympathy for him. + +"It's a tough audience. Don't mind them," she whispered. + +Mogley has never seen or heard of the little brunette since. But he +anticipates eventually to behold her ranking first after Alice among the +angels of heaven. + +The curtain fell and Mogley, somewhat dazed in mind, mechanically +removed his apparel, washed off his "make-up," donned his worn street +attire and his haughty demeanour, and started for home. + +Home! Behind him failure and derision. Before him, Alice, dying, waiting +impatiently his return, the news of his triumph. + +"We won't need you to-morrow night, Mr. Mogley," said the stage manager +as he reached the stage door. "Mr. Hexter told me to pay you for +to-night. Here's your money now." + +Mogley took the envelope as in a dream, answered not a word, and +hastened homeward. He thought only: + +"To tell her the truth will kill her at once." + +Mrs. Mogley was awake and in a fever of anticipation when Mogley entered +the little room. She was sitting up in bed, staring at him with shining +eyes. + +"Well, how was it?" she asked, quickly. + +Mogley's face wore a look of jubilant joy. + +"Success!" he cried. "Tremendous hit! The house roared! Called before +the curtain four times and had to make a speech!" + +Mogley's ecstasy was admirably simulated. It was a fine bit of acting. +Never before or since did Mogley rise to such a height of dramatic +illusion. + +"Ah, Tom, at last, at last! And, now, I must live till morning, to read +about it in the papers!" + +Mogley's heart fell. If the papers would mention the performance at all, +they would dismiss it in three or four lines, bestowing perhaps a word +of ridicule upon him. She was sure to see one paper, the one that the +landlady's daughter lent her every day. + +Mogley looked at the illuminated clock on the steeple across the way. A +quarter to twelve. + +"My love," he said, "I promised Hexter I would meet him to-night at the +Five A's Club, to arrange about salary and so forth. I'll be gone only +an hour. Can you do without me that long?" + +"Yes, go; and don't let him have you for less than fifty dollars a +week." + +Shortly after midnight the dramatic editor of that newspaper Miss Jones +daily lent to Mrs. Mogley, having sent up the last page of his notice of +the new play at Palmer's, was confronted by the office-boy ushering +to the side of his desk a tall, spare, smooth-faced man with a sober +countenance, an ill-concealed manner of being somewhat over-awed by his +surroundings, and a coat frayed at the edges. + +"I'm Mr. Thomas Mogley," said this apparition. + +"Ah! Have a cigarette, Mr. Mogley?" replied the dramatic editor, +absently, lighting one himself. + +"Thank you, sir. I was this evening, but am not now, the leading +comedian of the company that played Wilkins's 'Faust' at the ---- +Theatre. I played Mephisto." (He had begun his speech in a dignified +manner, but now he spoke quickly and in a quivering voice.) "I was a +failure--a very great failure. My wife is extremely ill. If she knew I +was a failure, it would kill her, so I told her I made a success. I have +really never made a success in my life. She is sure to read your paper +to-morrow. Will you kindly not speak of my failure in your criticism +of the performance? She cannot live later than to-morrow morning, and I +should not like--you see--I have never deigned to solicit favours from +the press before, sir, and--" + +"I understand, Mr. Mogley. It's very late, but I'll see what I can do." + +Mogley passed out, walking down the five flights of stairs to the +street, forgetful of the elevator. + +The dramatic editor looked at his watch. "Half-past twelve," he said; +then, to a man at another desk: + +"Jack, I can't come just yet. I'll meet you at the club. Order devilled +crabs and a bottle of Bass for me." + +He ran up-stairs to the night editor. "Mr. Dorney, have you the theatre +proofs? I'd like to make a change in one of the theatre notices." + +"Too late for the first edition, my boy. Is it important?" + +"Yes, an exceptional case. I'll deem it a personal favour." + +"All right. I'll get it in the city edition. Here are the proofs." + +"Let's see," mused the dramatic editor, looking over the wet proofs. +"Who covered the ---- Theatre to-night? Some one in the city department. +I suppose he 'roasted' Gugley, or whatever his name is. Ah, here it is." + +And he read on the proof: + +"The revival of an ancient burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last +night was without any noteworthy feature save the pitiful performance +of the part of Mephisto by a doleful gentleman named Thomas Mogley, who +showed not the faintest of humour and who was tremendously guyed by +a turbulent audience. Mr. Mogley was temporarily taking the place of +William Renshaw, a funmaker of more advanced methods, who will appear in +the role to-night. There are some pretty girls and agile dancers in the +company." + +Which the dramatic editor changed to read as follows: + +"The revival of a familiar burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last +night was distinguished by a decidedly novel and original embodiment +of Mephisto by Thomas Mogley, a trained and painstaking comedian. His +performance created an abundance of merriment, and it was the manifest +thought of the audience that a new type of burlesque comedian had been +discovered." + +All of which was literally true. And the dramatic editor laughed over it +later over his bottle of white label at the club. + +By what power Mrs. Mogley managed to keep alive until morning I do not +know. The dull gray light was stealing into the little room through the +window as Mogley, leaning over the bed, held a fresh newspaper close +to her face. Her head was propped up by means of pillows. She laughed +through her tears. Her face was all gladness. + +"A new--comedian--discovered," she repeated. "Ah, Tom, at last! That is +what I lived for! I can die happy now. We've made a--great--hit--Tom--" + +The voice ceased. There was a convulsion at her throat. Nothing stirred +in the room. From the street below came the sound of a passing car and a +boy's voice, "Morning papers." Mogley was weeping. + +The dead woman's hand clutched the paper. Her face wore a smile. + + + + +V. -- OUT OF HIS PAST + +This is no fable; it is the hardest kind of fact. I met Craddock not +more than a week ago. His inebriety prevented his recognizing me. + +What a joyous, hopeful man he was upon the day of his marriage! He +looked toward the future as upon a cloudless spring dawn one looks +forward to the day. + +He had sown his wild oats and had already reaped a crop of knowledge. +"I have put the past behind me," he said. And he thought it would stay +there. + +He married one of the sweetest and best of women. The match was an ideal +one--exceptionally so. His wife's mother objected to it and moved away +on account of it. "That's a detail," said Craddock. + +There are details and details. The importance of any one of them depends +on circumstances. + +Craddock had all the qualities and attributes requisite to make him a +son-in-law to the liking of his mother-in-law--lack of money. + +So she went to live in Boston, maintained a chilly correspondence with +her daughter, and bided her time. + +Craddock had had his old loves, a fact that he did not attempt to +conceal from his wife. She insisted upon his telling her about them, +although the narration put her into manifest vexation of mind. Such is +the way of young wives. + +There was one love about which Craddock said less than about any of the +others, because it had encroached more upon his life than any of them. +It had nearly approached being a serious affair. He had a delicacy +concerning the mention of it, too, for he flattered himself that the +flame, although entirely extinguished upon his own side, yet smouldered +deep in the heart of the woman. Therefore, he spoke of that episode in +vague and general terms. + +Strange as it seemed to Craddock, clear as it is to any student of men +and women, it was this amour that excited the most curiosity in the mind +of his wife. + +"What was her name?" asked the latter. + +"Agnes Darrell." + +"I don't think she has a pretty name, at all events." + +"Oh, that was only her stage name. I really don't remember what her real +name was." + +This was a judicious falsehood. + +"Well, I'm sorry that you ever made love to actresses. I'm afraid I +can't think as much of you after knowing--" + +"After knowing that the first sight of you drove the memory of all +actresses and other women in the world out of my head," cried Craddock, +with a merry fervour that made his speech irresistible. + +So they persisted in being extremely happy together for three years, to +the grinding chagrin of Craddock's mother-in-law in Boston. + +One July Friday, Craddock's wife was at the seashore, while Craddock, +who ran down each Saturday to remain with her until Monday, was battling +with his work and the heat and the summer insects, in his office in the +city. Mrs. Craddock received her mail, two letters addressed to her at +the seaside, two forwarded from the city whither they had first come. + +Of the latter one was a milliner's announcement of removal. The other +was in a large envelope, and the address was in a chirography unknown to +her. The large envelope contained a smaller one. + +This second envelope was addressed to Miss Agnes Darrell, ---- Hotel, +Chicago, in the handwriting of Craddock. + +The feelings of Craddock's wife are imaginable. She took from this +already opened second envelope the letter that it contained. It also was +in Craddock's penmanship. She succeeded in a semistupefied condition in +reading it to the end. + +"May 13. + +"My Dearest Agnes:--I have just a moment in which to tell you the old +story that one heart, thousands of miles east of you, beats for you +alone. With what joy do I anticipate the early ending of the season, +when, like young Lochinvar, you will come out of the West. I shall +contrive to be with you as often as possible this summer. With renewed +vows of my unalterable devotion, I must hastily say good night. + +"Yours always, + +"Jack." + +Any who seek a new emotion would ask for nothing more than Craddock's +wife then experienced. It was not until the first shock had given away +to a calm, stupendous indignation that she began to comment upon the +epistle in detail. + +"May 13th--at that very time Jack was sighing at the thought of my being +away from him during the hot weather and telling me how he would miss +me. All deception! His heart at that very time was beating for her +alone. And he would contrive to see her as often as possible this +summer--during my absence!" + +It was then that Craddock's wife learned the great value of pride +and anger as a compound antidote to overwhelming grief in certain +circumstances. + +When Craddock, quite unarmed, rushed to meet her at the seashore upon +the next evening, she was en route for Boston. + +In several ensuing years, Craddock's wife's mother took care that every +communication from him, every demand for an explanation, every piteous +plea for enlightenment, for one interview, should be ignored. The mother +sent the girl to relatives in Europe; and after Craddock had spent three +years and all the money that he had saved toward the buying of a house +for his wife and himself, in trying to cross her path that he might have +a moment's hearing, he came back home and went to the dogs. + +He would have killed himself had not hope remained--the hope that some +chance turn of events would bring him face to face with her, that he +might know wherefore his punishment. He would have proudly resolved to +forget her, and he would have striven day and night to make a name that +some day would reach her ears whereever she might go, had he not felt +that some terrible mistake had taken her from him; time would eventually +rectify matters. As hope bade him live and as his inability to forget +her made it impossible for him to put his thoughts upon work, he became +a drunkard. + +He might not have done so had he been you or I; but he was only +Craddock, and whether or not you find his offence beyond the extent of +palliation, the fact is that he drank himself penniless and entirely +beyond the power of his own will to resume respectability. + +Naturally his friends abandoned him. + +"Craddock is making a beast of himself," said one who had formerly sat +at his table. "To give him money merely accelerates the process." + +"When a man loses all self-respect, how can he expect to retain the +sympathy of other people?" queried a second. + +"I never thought much of a man who would go to the gutter on account of +a woman. It shows a lack of stamina," observed a third. + +All of which was true. But particular cases have exceptionally +aggravating circumstances. Special combinations may produce results +which, although seemingly under human control, are almost, if not quite, +inevitable. + +One day Craddock's wife came back to him. In Paris she had made a +discovery. She had kept the letter from Jack to the actress in a box +that always accompanied her. Opening this box suddenly, her eye fell +upon the postmark, stamped upon the envelope. She had never noticed +this before. She knew that the date written above the letter itself was +incomplete, the year not being indicated. According to the postmark, the +year was 1875. + +That was four years before Jack married her; two years before he first +saw her. + +She had always supposed the sending of the letter to her to be the act +of some jealous rival of Jack's for the actress's affection. Now she +knew not to what it might have been attributable. + +When she arrived at the hospital where Craddock was recovering from the +effects of an unconscious attempt at suicide, she was ten years older, +in fact, than when she had left him; twenty years older in appearance. +She took him home and has been trying to make a man of him. She +manifests toward him limitless patience and tenderness, and she +tolerates uncomplainingly his bi-weekly carousals. But she can afford +to, having come into possession of a small fortune at her mother's +recent death. + +Craddock is amiably content with her. He cannot bring himself to regard +her as the beautiful young bride of his youth. So little remains of her +former charm, her former vivacity and girlishness, that it seems as if +Craddock's wife of other times had died. + +A few days ago, I met at the Sheepshead Races a _passee_ actress who was +telling about the conquests of her early career. + +"There was one young fellow awfully infatuated with me," she said, "who +used to write me the sweetest letters. I kept them long after he stopped +caring for me, until he was married; then I destroyed them. I found one +short one, though, in an old handbag some years after, and, just for a +joke I mailed it to his wife at his old address. I don't suppose it ever +reached her, though, or he would have acknowledged it, for the sake of +old times. I wonder whatever became of Jack Craddock. People used to say +he had a bright future--I say, tell that messenger-boy to come here! I'm +going to put five on Tenny for this next race. And you'll lend me the +five, won't you?" + + + + +VI. -- THE NEW SIDE PARTNER + +A chance in life is like worldly greatness--to which, indeed, it is +commonly a requisite preliminary. Some are born with it, some achieve +it, and some have it thrust upon them. + +There is a youth who has had it thrust upon him. What he will do with it +remains to be seen. Know the story, which is true in every detail save +in two proper names: + +The midnight train from New York, which crawls out of the Jersey City +ferry station at 12:25, is usually doleful, especially in the ordinary +cars. One who cannot sleep easily therein has a weary two or three +hours' time to Philadelphia. Almost any equally wakeful companion is +then a source of joy. + +A girl of medium size, wearing a veil, and being rather carelessly +attired in dark clothes which fitted a charming figure, walked jauntily +up the aisle, saw that no seat was entirely vacant, and therefore, after +a hasty glance at me, sat down beside me. + +Had not the two very young men in the seat behind us drunk too much +wine that night in New York, the girl and I might never have exchanged a +word. But the conversation of the youths was such as to cause between us +the intercommunication of smiles, and eventually of speeches. + +Then casual observations about the fulness of the car, the time of the +train, and our respective destinations,--mine being Philadelphia, +hers being Baltimore, led to the revelation that she was a constant +traveller, because she was an actress. She had been a soubrette in +musical farce, but lately she had belonged to a variety and burlesque +company. She had gone upon the stage when she was thirteen, and she was +now twenty. + +"What kind of an act do you do?" I asked, in the language of the variety +"profession." + +"Oh, I can do almost anything," she said, in a tone of a self-possessed, +careless, and vivacious woman. "I sing well enough, and I can dance +anything, a skirt dance, a clog, a Mexican fandango, a Carmencita kind +of step, anything at all. I don't know when I ever learned to dance. I +didn't learn, it just came to me; but the best thing I do is whistling. +I'm not afraid of any man in the business when it's a case of whistling. +There's no fake about my whistle; it's the real thing. I can whistle any +sort of music that goes." + +"Your company appears in Baltimore this week?" + +"Oh, no! I've left the company. You see, I've been off for six weeks on +account of illness, and now I'm going over to Baltimore to my father's +funeral. He is to be buried to-morrow. See, here's the telegram. I've +been having hard lines lately. I've not had any sleep for three days, +and I won't get to Baltimore till daylight. I want to start back to New +York to-morrow night, if I can raise the stuff. I had just enough money +to get a ticket to Baltimore, and now I'm dead broke." + +Then she laughed and got me to untie her veil. When it was removed, I +saw a frank young face with an abundance of soft brown hair. About the +light blue eyes were the marks of fatigue, and the colour of the cheeks +further confirmed her account of loss of sleep. + +Her feet pattered softly upon the floor of the car. + +"I'm doing a single shuffle," she said, in explanation of the movement +of her feet. "If you could do one too, we might do a double." + +"Do you do your act alone on the stage?" I asked, "or are you one of a +team?" + +"We're a team. My side partner's a man. It pays better that way. We +get $40 a week and transportation. I used to get only $12 except when +I stood around and posed, then I got $35 and had to pay my own railroad +fare. You can bet I have a good figure, when I get $35 for that alone! +I handle the money of the team and I divide it even between us. I don't +believe in the man getting nine-tenths of the stuff, do you? Besides, +I'm older than my partner is. I put him in the business." + +"How was that?" + +"Oh, I picked him up on the street in New York. I saw that he had a good +voice and was a bright kid, so I took him for my partner." + +"But tell me how it came about." + +She was quite willing to do so. And the rumbling of the wheels, the rush +of the train over the night-swathed plains of New Jersey, accompanied +her voice. All the other passengers were sleeping. To the following +effect was her narrative: + +At evening a crowd of boys had gathered at the corner of Broadway and +a down-town street. One of them--ragged, unkempt, but handsome--was +singing and dancing for the diversion of the others. That way came the +variety actress, then out of an engagement. She stopped, heard the boy +sing, and saw him dance. She pushed through the crowd to him. + +"How did you learn to dance?" she asked. + +"Didn't ever learn," he said, with impudent sullenness. + +"Who taught you to sing?" + +"None o' yer business." + +"But who did teach you?" + +"Nobody." + +"What's your name?" + +"None of your business." + +"Will you come along with me into the restaurant over there?" + +"No." + +But presently he was induced to go, although he continued to answer her +questions in the savage, distrustful manner of his class. They went into +a cheap eating-house and saloon, through the "Ladies' Entrance," and +while they sat at a table there, she learned by means of resolute and +patient questions that the boy earned his living by blacking shoes now +and then, and that he did not know who his parents were, as he had been +"put" with a family whose ill-usage he had fled from to live in the +street. He began to melt under her manifestations of interest in him, +and with pretended reluctance he gave his promise to wash his face and +hands and to call upon her that evening at the theatrical boarding-house +on Twenty-seventh Street where she was living. Then she left him. + +When he called, she took him to her room and induced him to allow her to +comb his hair. A deal of persuasion was necessary to this. Then she +took him out and bought him a cheap suit of clothes on the Bowery. A +half-hour later he was standing with her in the wings at Miner's Variety +Theatre. A man and woman were doing a song and dance upon the stage. + +"Watch that man," the actress said to the boy of the streets. "I want +you to do that sort of an act with me one of these days." + +When he had thus received his first lesson, she led him back to the +theatrical boarding-house, and in her room he showed her what ability he +had picked up as a singer and dancer. She secured a room for him in the +house, and she had the precaution to lock him in lest he should take +fright at his novel change of surroundings and flee in the night. When +she released him on the next morning she found him docile and cheerful. + +She escorted him into the big dining-room to breakfast. + +"Who's your friend, Lil?" asked a certain actor whose name is known from +Portland to Portland. + +"He's my new side partner," she said, looking at the boy, who was not in +the least abashed at the bold gaze of the negligently dressed soubrettes +and the chaffing comedians who sat at the tables. + +Everybody laughed. "What can he do?" was the general question. + +"Get out there and show them, young one," she said, pointing to the +centre of the dining-room. + +The boy obeyed without timidity. When he had sung and danced, there was +hilarious applause. + +"Good for the kid," said the well-known actor. "What are you going to do +with him, Lil?" + +"I'm going to try to get an engagement for us together in Rose St. +Clair's Burlesque Company." + +"I'll help you," said the actor. "I know Rose. I'll go and see her right +away, and you come there with the kid about 11 o'clock." + +When the girl and her protege arrived at the boarding-house of the fat +manageress they found that the actor had so far kept his promise as to +have inveigled her into a condition of alcoholic amiability. She asked +them what they could do. Each one sang and danced, and the girl, who +also whistled, outlined to the manageress her idea of an "act" in which +the two should appear. There was a hitch when the question of salary +arose. The girl fixed upon $40. Rose thought that amount was too large. +Lil adhered to her terms, and was about to leave without having made +an agreement, when the manageress called her back, and a contract for a +three weeks' engagement was signed at once. + +The period between that day and the beginning of the engagement, +which subsequently opened at Miner's Theatre, was spent by the girl +in coaching her protege. He was a year younger than she, a fact which +tended to increase the influence that she promptly obtained over him. +His sullenness having been overcome, he became a devoted and apt +pupil. Having beheld himself in neat clothes and acquired habits +of cleanliness, he speedily developed into a handsome youth of soft +disposition and good behaviour. + +The new song and dance "team" was successful. The boy quickly gained +applause, and especially did he easily win the liking of such women as +he met or appeared before. A new world was open to him. Naturally he +enjoyed the easy conquests that he made in the curious, careless circle +into which he had been brought. + +He is still having his "fling." But he has been from the first most +obedient and unquestioning to his benefactress. He goes nowhere, does +nothing, without previously obtaining permission from her. + +She is proud of the advancement that he has accomplished already, and +she is determined to make him a conspicuous figure upon the stage. + +What is it that actuates this girl in her endeavour to elevate this boy +in the world? What the mystery that brought to the gamin this guardian +angel in the form of a variety actress who mingles bright sayings with +lack of grammar, who tells Rabelaisian anecdotes in one minute and +philosophizes in slang about the issues of life the next? + +"You're in love with him, aren't you?" I said, as the train plunged on +through the darkness. + +"I don't know whether I am or not. He's just a kid, you know. I suppose +the proper end of such a romance is that we should marry. But then I +wouldn't be married to a man that I couldn't look up to." + +"But women don't invariably love that way. I'm sure you're in love with +the boy. Have you never thought as to whether you were or not?" + +"Have I? I should smile! I thought of it even on the first night, +after I picked him up, when I locked him in his room. But I have always +regarded him in a sort of motherly way, although only a year older. It +seems kind of unnatural for me to love him as a woman loves a man. If he +was only older!" + +"Ah, that wish is sure evidence that you love him!" + +"One thing I do know is that, though he always obeys me, he doesn't care +as much for me as I do for him." + +"How do you know that?" + +"He wouldn't think so much of other girls if he did. He doesn't look +upon me as a woman for him to fall in love with. He regards me as +an older sister. Why, he never even takes a girl to supper after the +performance without asking my permission." + +"And you give it?" + +"Yes; but he never knows how I feel when I do." + +"And how do you feel then?" + +"The first time he asked me, it was like a knife going through me. I +haven't got used to it yet." + +She paused for a time before adding: + +"But, anyhow, he's going to make a name for himself some day. He has it +in him. I'm not the only one that thinks so. I'm trying now to get him +to go to a school of acting, but he thinks variety is good enough for +him. He'll get over that, though." + +She spoke so tenderly and yet so proudly of him, that I could not +without a pang of pity meditate upon the probable outcome of this +attachment, which, according to the logic of realists, will be the boy's +eventual success in life, long after he will have forgotten the hand +that lifted him out of the depth in which he first opened his eyes. + +He knows nothing of his parentage. His benefactress once sought, by +means of Inspector Byrnes's penetrating eye, to pierce the clouds +surrounding his origin, but the inspector smiled at the hopelessness of +the attempt. + +"Where is he now?" I asked. + +"I left him in New York," she said. "I suppose he'll blow in all his +money as soon as he can possibly manage to do so." + +And she laughed and did another "shuffle" with her feet upon the floor +of the car. + + + + +VII. -- THE NEEDY OUTSIDER + +There was animation at the Nocturnal Club at three o'clock in the +morning. The city reporters who had been dropping in since midnight were +now reinforced by telegraph editors, for the country editions of the +big dailies were already being rushed in light wagons over the sounding +stones to the railroad stations. + +The cheery and urbane African--naturally called Delmonico by the +habitues of the Nocturnal Club--found his time crowded in serving +bottled beer, sandwiches, or boiled eggs to the groups around the +tables. + +To a large group in the back room Fetterson related how he had once +missed the last car at the distant extremity of West Philadelphia, and, +failing to find a cab west of Broad Street, had walked fifty blocks +after midnight and had still succeeded in getting his report in the +second edition and thus making a "beat on the town." + +Then spoke up a needy outsider whom Fetterson had brought in at one +o'clock. + +I neglected to mention Fetterson's penchant for queer company. It is +quite right that reporters know policemen, are on chaffing terms with +night cabmen, and have large acquaintance with pugilists and even +with "crooks." But Fetterson picks up the most remarkable and +out-of-the-way--not to speak of out-at-elbows--specimens of mankind, +craft in distress on the sea of humanity. The needy outsider was his +latest acquisition. + +It is enough to say of this destitute acquaintance of Fetterson's that +he was a ragged man needing a shave. In daylight, in the country, you +would have termed him a tramp. Hitherto he had sat in our group in +silence. When he opened his mouth to discourse, it was natural that he +should have a prompt and somewhat curious hearing. + +"Speaking of walking," he said, "I have walked a bit in my time. Mostly, +though, I've rode--on freight-cars. The longest straight tramp I ever +made was from Harrisburg to Philadelphia once when the trains weren't +running. The cold weather made walking unpleasant. But what do you think +of a woman--no tramp woman, either--starting from Pittsburg to walk to +Philadelphia?" + +"Oh, there is a so-called actress who recently walked from San Francisco +to New York," put in some one. + +"Yes, but she took her time, and had all the necessaries of life on the +way. She walked for an advertisement. The woman I speak of walked in +order to get there. She walked because she hadn't the money to pay her +fare. Her husband was with her, to be sure. He was a pal o' mine. +You see, it was a hard winter, years ago, and work was so scarce in +Pittsburg that the husband had to remain idle until the two had begun +to starve. He had some education, and had been an office clerk. At that +time of his life he couldn't have stood manual labour. Still he tried to +get it, for he was willing to do anything to keep a lining to his skin. +If you've never been in his predicament, you can't realize how it is +and you won't believe it possible. But I've known more than one man to +starve because he couldn't get work and wouldn't take public charity. +Starvation was the prospect of this young fellow and his wife. So they +decided to leave Pittsburg and come to Philadelphia, where they thought +it would be easier for the husband to get work. + +"'But how can we get there?' the husband asked. + +"She was a plucky girl and had known hardship, although she was frail to +look at. + +"'Walk,' she replied. + +"And two days later they started." + +The outsider paused and lighted a forbidding-looking pipe. + +When he resumed his narrative he spoke in a lower tone. The +recollections that he called up seemed to stir him within, although he +was calm enough of exterior. + +"I won't describe the experience of my pal on that trip. It was his +first tramp. He knew nothing of the art of vagabondage. Of course they +had to beg. That was tough, although he got used to it and to many +tricks in the trade. They slept in barns and they ate when and where +they could. It cut him to the heart to see his wife in such hunger +and fatigue. But her spirits kept up better than his--or at least they +seemed to. Often he repented of having started upon such a trip. But he +kept that to himself. + +"When the wife did at last give in to the cold, the hunger, and the +weariness, it was to collapse all at once. It happened in the mountain +country. In the evening of a cold, dull day they were trudging along on +the railroad ties, keeping on the west-bound track so they could face +approaching trains and get off the track in time to avoid being run +down. + +"'We'll stop in the town ahead,' the husband said. 'We can get warm in +the station, and you shall have supper if we have to knock at every door +in the town.' + +"And the wife said: + +"'Yes, we'll stop, for I feel, Harry, as if--as if I couldn't--go any +fur--Harry, where are you?' + +"She fell forward on the track. When the man picked her up she was +unconscious. Clasping her in his arms, he set his teeth and fixed his +eyes on the lights of the town ahead and hurried forward. + +"But before he reached the town, he found it was a dead body he was +carrying. + +"You see she had kept up until the very last moment, in the hope of +reaching the town before dark. + +"What the man did, how he felt when he discovered that her heart had +ceased to beat, there in the solitude upon the mountains, with the town +in sight at the foot of the slope in the gathering night, I can leave to +the vivid imaginations of you newspaper men. For four hours he mourned +over her body by the side of the track, and those in the train that +passed could not see him for the darkness. + +"Then my pal took the body in his arms and started up the mountain, for +the track at that point passed through what they call a cut, and the +hills rise steep on each side of it. He had his prejudices against +pauper burial, my pal had, and he shrunk from going to the town and +begging a grave for her. He didn't need a doctor's certificate to tell +him that life had gone for ever from her fragile body. He knew that she +had died of cold and exhaustion. + +"As he turned the base of the hill to begin to descend it, he saw in the +clouded moonlight a deserted railroad tool-house by the track. In front +of it lay a broken, rusty spade. He shouldered this and proceeded up the +mountain. It was a long walk, and he had to stop more than once to rest, +but he got to the top at last. There was a little clearing in the woods +here, where some one had camped. The ruins of a shanty still remained. + +"My pal laid down the body of her who had been his wife, with the dead +face turned toward the sky, which was beginning to be cleared of its +clouds. Then he started to dig. + +"It was a longer job than he had expected it to be, for my pal was tired +and numb. But the grave was made at last, upon the very summit of the +mountain. + +"He lifted up the body of that brave girl, he kissed the cold lips, and +he took off his coat and wrapped it carefully about the head, so that +the face would be protected from the earth. He stooped and laid the body +in the shallow grave, and he knelt down there and prayed. + +"He filled the grave up with earth with the broken spade that he had +used in digging it. All these things required a long time. He didn't +observe how the night was passing, nor that the sky became clear and the +stars shone and the moon crossed the zenith and began to descend in the +west. He didn't notice that the stars began to pale. But he worked on +until he had finished, and then he stopped and prayed again. + +"When he arose, his face was toward the east, and over the distant +hilltops he saw the purple of the dawn." + +The outsider ceased to speak. + +"What then?" + +"That's all. My pal walked down the mountain, jumped upon the first +freight-train that passed, and has been a wanderer on the face of the +earth ever since." + +There were various opinions expressed of this narrative. I quietly asked +the needy outsider as we left the club at sunrise: + +"Will you tell me who your pal was--the man who buried his wife on the +mountain-top?" + +There was contemptuous pity in the outsider's look as it dwelt a moment +upon me before he replied: "The man was myself." + +And then he condescended to borrow a quarter from me. + + + + +VIII. -- TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE + +Tommy McGuffy was growing old. The skin of his attenuated face was so +shrunk and so stretched from wrinkle to wrinkle that it seemed narrowly +to escape breaking. About the pointed chin and the cheekbones it had the +colour of faded brick. + +Old Tommy had become so thin that he dared not venture to the top of the +hill above his native village of Rearward on a windy day. + +His knees bent comically when he walked. + +For some years the villagers had been counting the nephews and nieces to +whom the savings of the old retired dealer in dry-goods would eventually +descend. + +Ten thousand dollars and a house and lot constituted a heritage worth +anticipating in Rearward. + +The innocent old man was not upon terms of intimacy with his prospective +heirs. Having remained unmarried, his only close associates were two +who had been his companions in that remote period which had been his +boyhood. One of these, Jerry Hurley, was a childless widower, a very +estimable and highly respected man who owned two farms. The other, like +himself a bachelor, was Billy Skidmore, the sexton of the church, and, +therefore, the regulator of the town clock upon the steeple. + +There came a great shock to Tommy one day. As old Mrs. Sparks said, +Jerry Hurley, "all sudden-like, just took a notion and died." + +The wealth and standing of Jerry Hurley insured him an imposing funeral. +They laid his body beside that which had once been his wife in Rearward +cemetery. His heirs possessed his farm, and time went on--slowly as it +always does at Rearward. Tommy went frequently to Hurley's grave and +wondered when his heirs would erect a monument to his memory. It is +necessary that your grave be marked with a monument if you would stand +high in that still society that holds eternal assembly beneath the pines +and willows, where only the breezes speak, and they in subdued voices. + +Years passed, and the grave of Tommy's old friend, Jerry, remained +unmarked. Jerry's relatives had postponed the duty so long that they +had grown callous to public opinion. Besides, they had other purposes to +which to apply Jerry's money. It was easy enough to avoid reproach; they +had only to refrain from visiting the graveyard. + +"Jerry never deserved such treatment," Tommy would say to Billy the +sexton, as the two met to talk it over every sunny afternoon. + +"It's an outrage, that's what it is!" Billy would reply, for the +hundredth time. + +It was, in their eyes, an omission almost equal to that of baptism or +that of the funeral service. + +One day, as Tommy was aiding himself along the main street of Rearward +by means of a hickory stick, a frightful thought came to him. He turned +cold. + +What if his own heirs should neglect to mark his own grave? + +"I'll hurry home at once, and put the money for it in a stocking foot," +thought Tommy, and his knees bent more than usually as he accelerated +his pace. + +But as he tied a knot in the stocking, came the fear that even this +money might be misapplied; even his will might be ignored, through +repeated postponement and the law's indifference. + +Who, save old Billy Skidmore, would care whether old Tommy McGuffy's +last resting-place were designated or not? Once let the worms begin +operations upon this antique morsel, what would it matter to Rearward +folks where the banquet was taking place? + +Tommy now underwent a second attack of horror, from which he came +victorious, a gleeful smile momentarily lifting the dimness from his +excessively lachrymal eyes. + +"I'll fix 'em," he said to himself. "I'll go to-day to Ricketts, the +marble-cutter, and order my own tombstone." + +Three months thereafter, Ricketts, the marble-cutter, untied the knot +in the stocking that had been Billy's and deposited the contents in the +local savings-bank. + +In the cemetery stood a monument very lofty and elaborate. Around it was +an iron fence. Within the enclosure there was no grave as yet. + +"Here," said the monument, in deep-cut-letters, but bad English, "lies +all that remains of Thomas McGuffy, born in Rearward, November 11, 1820; +died----. Gone whither the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are +at rest." + +This supplementary information was framed in the words of Tommy's +favourite passage in his favourite hymn. His liking for this was mainly +on account of its tune. + +He had left the date of his death to be inserted by the marble cutter +after its occurrence. + +Rearward folks were amused at sight of the monument, and they ascribed +the placing of it there to the eccentricity of a taciturn old man. + +Tommy seemed to derive much pleasure from visiting his tombstone on +mild days. He spent many hours contemplating it. He would enter the iron +enclosure, lock the gate after him, and sit upon the ground that was +intended some day to cover his body. + +He was a familiar sight to people riding or walking past the +graveyard,--this thin old man leaning upon his cane, contentedly +pondering over the inscription on his own tombstone. + +He undoubtedly found much innocent pleasure in it. + +One afternoon, as he was so engaged, he was assailed by a new +apprehension. + +Suppose that Ricketts, the marble-cutter, should fail to inscribe the +date of his death in the space left vacant for it! + +There was almost no likelihood of such an omission, but there was at +least a possibility of it. + +He glanced across the cemetery to Jerry Hurley's unmarked mound, and +shuddered. + +Then he thought laboriously. + +When he left the cemetery in such time as to avoid a delay of his +evening meal and a consequent outburst of anger on the part of his old +housekeeper, he had taken a resolution. + +"Threescore years and ten, says the Bible," he muttered to himself as he +walked homeward. "The scriptural lifetime'll do for me." + +A week thereafter old Tommy gazed proudly upon the finished inscription. + +"Died November 11, 1890," was the newest bit of biography there +engraved. + +"But it's two years and more till November 11, 1890," said a voice at +his side. + +Tommy merely cast an indifferent look upon the speaker and walked off +without a word. + +The whole village now thought that Tommy had become a monomaniac upon +the subject of his tombstone. Perhaps he had. No one has been able +to learn from his friend, Billy Skidmore, what thoughts he may have +communicated to the latter upon the matter. + +Tommy now lived for no other apparent purpose than to visit his +tombstone daily. He no longer confined his walks thither to the pleasant +days. He went in weather most perilous to so old and frail a man. + +One of his prospective heirs took sufficient interest in him to advise +more care of his health. + +"I can easily keep alive till the time comes," returned the antique; +"there's only a year left." + +Rapidly his hold upon life relaxed. A week before November 11, 1890, he +went to bed and stayed there. People began to speculate as to whether +his unique prediction--or I should say, his decree--would be fulfilled +to the very day. + +Upon the fifth day of his illness Death threatened to come before the +time that had been set for receiving him. + +"Isn't this the tenth?" the old man mumbled. + +"No," said his housekeeper, who with one of his nieces, the doctor, and +Billy Skidmore, attended the ill man, "it's only the 9th." + +"Then I must fight for two days more; the tombstone must not lie." + +And he rallied so well that it seemed as if the tombstone would lie, +nevertheless, for Tommy was still alive at eleven-thirty on the night +of November 11. Moreover he had been in his senses when last awake, and +there was every likelihood that he would look at the clock whenever his +eyes should next open. + +"He can't live till morning, that's sure," said the doctor. + +"But, good Lord! you don't mean to say that he'll hold out till after +twelve o'clock," said Billy Skidmore, whose anxiety only had sustained +him in his grief at the approaching dissolution of his friend. + +"Quite probably," replied the doctor. + +"Good heavens! Tommy won't rest easy in his grave if he don't die on the +11th. The monument will be wrong." + +"Oh, that won't matter," said the niece. + +Billy looked at her in amazement. Was his old friend's sacred wish to +miscarry thus? + +"Yes, 'twill matter," he said, in a loud whisper. "And if time won't +wait for Tommy of its own accord, we'll make it. When did he last see +the clock?" + +"Half-past nine," said the housekeeper. + +"Then we'll turn it back to ten," said Skidmore, acting as he spoke. + +"But he may hear the town clock strike." + +Billy said never a word, but plunged into his overcoat, threw on his +hat, and hurried on into the cold night. + +"Ten minutes to midnight," he said, as he looked up at the town clock +upon the church steeple. "Can I skin up them ladders in time?" + +Tommy awoke once before the last slumber. Billy was by his bedside, +as were the doctor, the housekeeper, and the niece. The old man's eyes +sought the clock. + +"Eleven," he murmured. Then he was silent, for the town clock had begun +to strike. He counted the strokes--eleven. Then he smiled and tried to +speak again. + +"Almost--live out--birthday--seventy--tombstone--all right." + +He closed his eyes, and, inasmuch as the town clock furnishes the +official time for Rearward, the published report of Tommy McGuffy's +going records that he passed at twenty-five minutes after eleven P.M., +November 11, 1890. + +Very few people know that time turned back one hour and a half in order +that the reputation of Tommy McGuffy's tombstone for veracity might be +spotless in the eyes of future generations. + +Billy Skidmore, the sexton, arranged to have Rearward time ready for the +sun when it rose upon the following morning. + + + + +IX. -- HE BELIEVED THEM + +He was a bachelor, and he owned a little tobacco store in the suburbs. +All the labour, manual and mental, requisite to the continuance of the +establishment, however, was done by the ex-newsboy, to whom the old +soldier paid $4 per week and allowed free tobacco. + +He had come into the neighbourhood from the interior of the state +shortly after the war, and for a time there were not ten houses within +a block of his shop. The shop is now the one architectural blemish in a +long row of handsome stores. Miles of streets have been built up around +it. + +The old soldier used to sit in an antique armchair in the rear of his +shop, smoking, from meal to meal. + +"I l'arnt the habit in the army," he would say. "I never teched tobacker +till I went to the war." + +People would look inquiringly at his empty sleeve. + +"I got that at Gettysburg in the second day's fight," he would explain, +complacently. + +He was often asked whether he was a member of the Grand Army of the +Republic. + +"No; 'tain't worth while. I done my fightin' in '63 and '64--them times. +I don't care about doin' it over again in talk. Talk's cheap." + +This made folks smile, for he was continually fighting his battles over +again in conversation. Every regular customer had been made acquainted +with the part that he had taken in each contest, where he had stood when +he received his wound, what regiment had the honour of possessing him, +and how promptly he had enlisted against the wishes of parents and +sweetheart. + +"Of course you get a pension," many would observe. + +He would shake his head and answer, in a mild tone of a man consciously +repressing a pardonable pride. + +"I never 'plied, and as long as the retail tobacker trade keeps up like +this, I reckon I won't make no pull on the gover'ment treash'ry." + +And he would puff at his cigar vigorously, beam upon the group +that surrounded his chair, and start on one of his long trains of +reminiscences. + +He was an amiable old fellow, with gray hair carefully combed back from +his curved forehead, a florid countenance, boyish blue eyes, puffed +cheeks, a smooth chin, and very military-looking gray moustache. He was +manifestly a man who ate ample dinners and amply digested them. He would +glance contentedly downward at his broad, round body, and smilingly +remark: + +"I didn't have that girth in my fightin' days. I got it after the war +was over." + +All who knew him admired him. He would tell with simple frankness how, +after distinguishing himself at Antietam, he chose to remain a private +rather than take the lieutenancy that was placed within his reach. He +would frequently say: + +"I ain't none o' them that thinks the country belongs to the soldiers +because they saved it. No, sir! If they want the country as a reward, +where's the credit in savin' it?" + +How could one help exclaiming: "What a really noble old man!" + +Finally some of the young men who received daily inspiration from his +autobiographical narratives arranged a surprise for the old soldier. +They presented him with a finely framed picture of the battle of +Gettysburg, under which was the inscription: + +"To a True Patriot. Who Fought and Suffered Not for Self-Interest or +Glory, but for Love of His Country." + +This hung in his shop until the day of his death. Then his brother came +from his native village to attend to his burial. The brother stared at +the picture, inquired as to the meaning of the inscription, and then +laughed vociferously. + +In the old soldier's trunk was found a faded newspaper that had been +published in his village in 1865. It contained an account of an accident +by which a grocer's clerk had lost his arm in a thrashing-machine. The +grocer's clerk and the old soldier were one person. + +He had never seen a battle, but so often had he told his war stories +that in his last days he believed them. + + + + +X. -- A VAGRANT + +On a July evening at dusk, two boys sat near the crest of a grass-grown +embankment by the railroad at the western side of a Pennsylvania town. +They talked in low tones of the sky's glow above where the sun had set +beyond the low hills across the river, and also of the stars, and of the +moon, which was over the housetop behind them. Then there was noise of +insects chirping in the grass and of steam escaping from the locomotive +boilers in the engine shed. + +A rumble sounded as from the north, and in that direction a locomotive +headlight came into view. It neared as the rumble grew louder, and +soon a freight-train appeared. This rolled past at the foot of the +embankment. + +From between two grain cars leaped a man, and after him another. So +rapidly was the train moving that they seemed to be hurled from it. +Both alighted upon their feet. One tall and lithe, led the way up the +embankment, followed by the other, who was short and stocky. + +"Bums," whispered one of the boys at the top of the embankment. + +The tramps stood still when they reached the top. Even in the half-light +it could be seen that their clothes were ill-fitting, frayed, and torn. +They wore cast-off hats. The tall man, whose face was clean-cut and +made a pretence of being smooth-shaven, had a pliable one; the other was +capped by a dented derby. + +"Here's yer town at last! And it looks like a very jay place at that," +said the short tramp to the tall one, casting his eyes toward the house +roofs eastward. + +The boys sitting twenty feet away became silent and cautiously watched +the newcomers. + +"Yep," replied the tall tramp, in a deep but serious and quiet voice, +"and right about here is the spot where I jumped on a freight-train +fifteen years ago, the night I ran away from home. That seems like +yesterday, though I've not been here since." + +"Skipped a good home because the old lady brought you a new dad! You +wouldn't catch me being run out by no stepfather. Billy, you was rash." + +"Mebby I was. But, on the dead, Pete, it was mostly jealousy. I thought +my mother couldn't care for me any more if she could take a second +husband. My sister thought so too, but she wasn't able to get away like +me. Of course I was strong. It was boyish pique that drove me away. I +didn't fancy having another man in my dead father's place, either. And +I wanted to get around and see the world a bit. After I'd gone I often +wished I hadn't. I'd never imagined how much I loved mother and sis. +But I was tougher and prouder in some ways than most kids. You can't +understand that sort of thing, Pete. And you can't guess how I feel, +bein' back here for the first time in fifteen years. Think of it, I was +just fifteen when I came away. Why, I spent half my life here, Petie!" + +"Oh, I've read somewhere about that,--the way great men feel when they +visit their native town." + +The short tramp took a clay pipe from his coat pocket and stuffed into +it a cigar-end fished from another pocket. Then he inquired: + +"And now you're here, Billy, what are you go'n to do?" + +"Only ask around what's become o' my folks, then go away. It won't take +me long." + +"There'll be a through coal-train along in about an hour, 'cordin' to +what the flagmen told us at that last town. Will you be back in time to +bounce that?" + +"Yes. We needn't stay here. There's little to be picked up in a place +like this." + +"Then skin along and make your investigations. I'll sit here and smoke +till you come back. If you could pinch a bit of bread and meat, by the +way, it wouldn't hurt." + +"I'll try," answered the tall tramp. "I'm goin' to ask the kids yonder, +first, if any o' my people still live here." + +The tall tramp strode over to the two boys. His companion shambled down +the embankment to obtain, at the turntable near the locomotive shed +across the railroad, a red-hot cinder with which to light his pipe. + +"Do you youngsters know people here by the name of Kershaw?" began the +tall tramp, standing beside the two boys. + +Both remained sitting on the grass. One shook his head. The other said, +"No." + +The tramp was silent for a moment. Then it occurred to him that his +mother had taken his stepfather's name and his sister might be married. +Therefore he asked: + +"How about a family named Coates?" + +"None here," replied one of the boys. + +But the other said, "Coates? That's the name of Tommy Hackett's +grandmother." + +The tramp drew and expelled a quick, audible breath. + +"Then," he said, "this Mrs. Coates must be the mother of Tommy's mother. +Do you know what Tommy's mother's first name is?" + +"I heard Tom call her Alice once." + +The tramp's eyes glistened. + +"And Mr. Coates?" he inquired. + +"Oh, I never heard of him. I guess he died long ago." + +"And Tommy Hackett's father, who's he?" + +"He's the boss down at the freight station. Agent, I think they call +him." + +"Where does this Mrs. Coates live?" + +"She lives with the Hacketts. Would you like to see the house? Me and +Dick has to go past it on the way home. We'll show you." + +"Yes, I would like to see the house." + +The boys arose, one of them rather sleepily. They led the way across the +railway company's lot, then along a sparsely built up street, and around +the corner into a more populous but quiet highway. At the corner was a +grocery and dry-goods store; beyond that were neat and airy two-story +houses, fronted by a yard closed in by iron fences. One of these houses +had a little piazza, on which sat two children. From the open half-door +and from two windows came light. + +"That's Hackett's house," said one of the boys. + +"Thanks, very much," replied the tramp, continuing to walk with them. + +The boys looked surprised at his not stopping at the house, but they +said nothing. + +At the next corner the tramp spoke up: + +"I think I'll go back now. Good night, youngsters." + +The boys trudged on, and the tramp retraced his steps. When he reached +the Hacketts' house, he paused at the gate. The children, a boy of eight +and a girl of six, looked at him curiously from the piazza. + +"Are you Mr. Hackett's little boy and girl?" he asked. + +The girl stepped back to the hall door and stood there. The boy looked +up at the tramp and answered, "Yes, sir." + +"Is your mother in?" + +"No, she's across the street at Mrs. Johnson's." + +"Grandmother's in, though," continued the boy. "Would you like to see +her?" + +"No, no! Don't call her. I just wanted to see your mother." + +"Do you know mamma?" inquired the girl. + +"Well--no. I knew her brother, your uncle." + +"We haven't any uncle--except Uncle George, and he's papa's brother," +said the boy. + +"What! Not an uncle Will--Uncle Will Kershaw?" + +"O--h, yes," assented the boy. "Did you know him before he died? That +was a long time ago." + +The tramp made no other outward manifestation of his surprise than to +be silent and motionless for a time. Presently he said, in a trembling +voice: + +"Yes, before he died. Do you remember when he died?" + +"Oh, no. That was when mamma was a girl. She and grandmother often talk +about it, though. Uncle Will started West, you know, when he was fifteen +years old. He was standing on a bridge out near Pittsburg one day, and +he saw a little girl fall into the river. He jumped in to save her, but +he was drowned, 'cause his head hit a stone and that stunned him. They +didn't know it was Uncle Will or who it was, at first, but mamma read +about it in the papers and Grandpa Coates went out to see if it wasn't +Uncle Will. Grandpa 'dentified him and they brought him back here, but, +what do you think, the doctor wouldn't allow them to open his coffin, +and so grandma and mamma couldn't see him. He's buried up in the +graveyard next Grandpa Kershaw, and there's a little monument there that +tells all about how he died trying to save a little girl from drownin'. +I can read it, but Mamie can't. She's my little sister there." + +The tramp had seated himself on the piazza step. He was looking vacantly +before him. He remained so until the boy, frightened at his silence, +moved further from him, toward the door. Then the tramp arose suddenly. + +"Well," he said, huskily, "I won't wait to see your mamma. You needn't +tell her about me bein' here. But, say--could I just get a look at--at +your grandma, without her knowing anythin about it?" + +The boy took his sister's hand and withdrew into the doorway. Then he +said, "Why, of course. You can see her through the window." + +The tramp stood against the edge of the piazza upon his toes, and craned +his neck to see through one of the lighted windows. So he remained +for several seconds. Once during that time he closed his eyes, and the +muscles of his face contracted. Then he opened his eyes again. They were +moist. + +He could see a gentle old lady, with smooth gray hair, and an expression +of calm and not unhappy melancholy. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, +her hands resting on the arms, her look fixed unconsciously on the paper +on the wall. She was thinking, and evidently her thoughts, though sad, +perhaps, were not keenly painful. + +The tramp read that much upon her face. Presently, without a word, he +turned quickly about and hurried away, closing the gate after him. + +When the two children told about their visitor later, their mother said: + +"You mustn't talk to strange men, Tommy. You and Mamie should have come +right in to grandma." + +Their father said: "He was probably looking for a chance to steal +something. I'll let the dog out in the yard to-night." + +And their grandmother: "I suppose he was only a man who likes to hear +children talk, and perhaps, poor fellow, he has no little ones of his +own." + +The tramp knew the way to the cemetery. But first he found the +house where he had lived as a boy. It looked painfully rickety and +surprisingly small. So he hastened from before it and went up by a +back street across the town creek and up a hill, where at last he stood +before the cemetery gate. It was locked; so he climbed over the wall. He +went still further up the hill, past tombstones that looked very white, +and trees that looked very green in the moonlight. At the top of the +hill he found his father's grave. Beside it was another mound, and at +the head of this, a plain little pillar. The moon was high now and the +tramp was used to seeing in the night. Word by word he could slowly read +upon the marble this inscription: + +"William Albert, beloved son of the late Thomas Kershaw and his wife +Rachel; born in Brickville, August 2, 1862; drowned in the Allegheny +River near Pittsburg, July 27, 1877, while heroically endeavouring to +save the life of a child." + +The tramp laughed, and then uttered a sigh. + +"I wonder," he said, aloud, "what poor bloke it is that's doin' duty for +me under the ground here." + +And at the thought that he owed an excellent posthumous reputation to +the unknown who had happened to resemble him fifteen years before, he +laughed louder. Having no one near to share his mirth, he looked up at +the amiable moon, and nodded knowingly thereat, as if to say: + +"This is a fine joke we're enjoying between ourselves, isn't it?" + +And by and by he remembered that he was being waited for, and he strode +from the grave and from the cemetery. + +By the railroad the short tramp, having smoked all the refuse tobacco in +his possession, was growing impatient. Already the expected coal-train +had heralded its advent by whistle and puff and roar when his associate +had joined him. + +"Found out all you wanted to know?" queried the stout little vagabond, +starting down the embankment to mount the train. + +"Yep," answered the tall vagrant, contentedly. + +The small man grasped the iron rod attached to the side of one of the +moving coal-cars and swung his foot into the iron stirrup beneath. His +companion mounted the next car in the same way. + +"Are you all right, Kersh?" shouted back the small tramp, standing safe +above the "bumpers." + +"All right," replied the tall tramp, climbing upon the end of a car. +"But don't ever call me Kersh any more. After this I'm always Bill +the Bum. Bill Kershaw's dead--" and he added to himself, "and decently +buried on the hill over there under the moon." + + + + +XI. -- UNDER AN AWNING + +For ten minutes we had been standing under the awning, driven there at +two o'clock at night by a shower that had arisen suddenly. + +"A pocket umbrella is one of the unsupplied necessities of the age," +said my companion. + +"Yes, and the peculiarity of the age is that while such luxuries as +the phonograph and the kinetograph multiply day by day, important +necessities remain unsupplied." + +My friend mused for a time, while he watched the reflection of the +electric light in the little street pools that were agitated by the +falling fine drops of rain. + +He looked from the reflection to the light itself, and thus his eyes +turned upward. + +An expression of surprise changed to mirth, and then dropping his glance +until it met mine, he said: + +"Have you noticed anything peculiar about this awning?" + +"No, what is it?" + +"Simply that there is no awning. Look up and see. Here are the posts +and there is the framework, but only the sky is above, and we've been +getting rained upon for the past ten minutes in blissful ignorance." + +It was as he said, so we ran to the next awning, which was a fact, not a +figment of fancy. + +"That reminds me," resumed my friend, "of Simpkins. He was a young man +who used to catch cold at the slightest dampness. His being out in the +rain without an umbrella never failed to result in his remaining in the +house for two or three subsequent days. + +"One night, Simpkins, surprised by an unexpected shower, took refuge +beneath the framework of an awning, which framework lacked the awning +itself. He waited for an hour, until the shower had passed, and then +joyously took up again his homeward way, without having observed his +mistake. He told me on the next day of his narrow escape from the rain. +I happened to know that the awning to which he alluded had been removed +a few weeks before. But I did not tell him so until there no longer +seemed to exist any likelihood of his catching cold from that wetting. +You see, his imagination had saved him." + +"That tale is singularly reminiscent of those dear old stories about the +man who took cold through sitting at a window that was composed of one +solid sheet of glass, so clean that he thought it was no glass at all; +and the men who, awaking in the night, stifling for want of fresh air, +broke open the door of a bookcase which they took to be a window, and +immediately noticed a pleasant draught of pure outside air." + +"There is a likeness, which simply goes toward proving the truth of all +three accounts. But the remarkable thing about Simpkins' case is that +when he once learned that there had been nothing over his head during +that rain, he immediately caught cold, although two weeks had passed +since the night of the shower. Wonderful, wasn't it?" + +"Astonishing, indeed." + +Silence ensued and we meditated for awhile. Evidently the same thought +came simultaneously into the minds of both of us, for while I was +mentally commenting upon the deserted and lonely condition of the city +streets at two o'clock on a rainy night, my friend spoke: + +"A man is alone with his conscience, the electric lights, the shadows +of the houses, and the sound of the rain at a time and place like this, +isn't he? Standing as we stand now, under an awning, during a persistent +rainfall, at this hour, with no other human being in sight, a man is for +the time upon a desert island. Which reminds me: + +"One night, at a later hour than this, when the rain was heavier than +this, I was alone under an awning that was smaller than this. Being +without umbrella and overcoat, I saw at least a quarter of an hour +waiting for me. The thought was dismal. + +"Happy idea! I would smoke. I had a cigar in my mouth in an instant. + +"Horrors! I had no matches. + +"The desire to smoke instantly increased tenfold. I puffed despairingly +at my unlit cigar. No miracle occurred to ignite it. I looked longingly +at the electric lights and the gas-lamps in the distance. + +"Like a sailor cast upon an island and straining his eyes on the lookout +for a ship, I stood there scanning the prospect in search of a man with +a light. I was Enoch Arden; the awning was my palm-tree. + +"Ten minutes passed. No craft hove in sight. + +"Suddenly uncertain footsteps were heard. I looked. Some one came +that way. It was a squalid-looking personage--a professional beggar, +half-drunk. He landed upon my island, beneath my awning. + +"'For charity's sake, give me a match!' I cried. + +"He looked at me--'sized me up,' in the technical terminology of his +trade. Intelligence began to illumine his countenance. He saw that the +opportunity of his life had come. He held out a match. + +"'I'll sell it to you for fifty cents,' he said, with a grin. + +"I had erred in revealing the depth of my want, the extent of my +distress. + +"I compromised by promising to give him a half-dollar if I should +succeed in lighting my cigar with his solitary match. We did succeed. He +took the fifty and started back for the saloon from whence he had come. + +"Oh, my boy, the irony of fate--that same old oft-quoted irony! + +"I hadn't blown three mouthfuls of smoke from that cigar when a friend +came along with a lighted cigar, an umbrella, and a box full of matches. + +"The whole effect of this story lies in the value that fifty cents +possessed for me at that time. It was my last fifty cents, and two days +stood between that night and salary day. + +"I had another experience--" + +But a night car came in view from around a corner, my friend ran for it, +and his third tale remains untold. + + + + +XII. -- SHANDY'S REVENGE + +He was old enough to know better, and a superficial observer might have +thought that he did. But a severe and haughty manner in repose is not +any indication of knowledge, nor is a well-kept beard, even when it is +turning gray. Melrose Welty, the possessor of these and other ways and +features symbolical of wisdom, had no higher occupation in life than +to sit in club-houses and cafes, telling of conquests won by him over +women, chiefly over soubrettes and chorus girls. + +Of his means of livelihood, no one had certain knowledge. He always +dressed well, but he abode in a lodging-house, to which he never invited +any of his associates. He affected the society of newspaper men, some of +whom pronounced him a good fellow until they discovered that he was an +ass; and he never refused an invitation to have a drink. + +When he had you at a table in a quiet corner of a cafe, or in front of +a bar, or in the lobby of a theatre between the acts, no matter how the +conversation began, he would invariably turn it into that realm to which +his thoughts were confined. + +"I've got a supper on hand to-night after the performance," he would +probably say, "with a blonde in the ---- Company. A lovely girl, too! +It's curious, old man, how I happened to meet her. I've talked to her +only twice, but I made a hit with her in the first five minutes. I'll +tell you how it was--" + +Whereupon, if you were polite, and did not know Welty sufficiently to +flee on a pretext, he would tell you how it was, inflicting upon you the +wearisome minute details of the most commonplace thing in the world, the +birth and growth of an acquaintance between a man about town and a silly +young woman, not fastidious as to who pays for her food and drink as +long as the food and drink are adequate. + +If you were a newspaper man, Welty was apt to supplement his story with +something like this: + +"By the way, old fellow, if you have any pull with your dramatic editor, +can't you give her a line or two? She hasn't much to do in the piece, +but she does it well, and she's clever. She may get a good part one of +these days. Have something nice said about her, won't you?" + +And if you ever gave another thought to this plea, you determined to use +whatever influence you had with the dramatic editor to this effect, that +the young woman would have to exhibit very decided cleverness indeed ere +she should have "something nice" said about her in the paper. + +Welty was not wont to retain one divinity on the altar of his +conversation longer than a week. But he did so once. He talked about the +same girl every day for a month. And thereby came his undoing. + +She was a slender little girl who was singing badly a small role in a +certain comic opera at the time of these occurrences. She had a babyish +manner across the footlights, and she was thought to be a blonde, for +she was wearing a yellow wig over her own short black hair that season. +Her first name was Emily. + +Welty managed to be introduced to her by thrusting himself upon a little +party of which she was a member, and in which was one acquaintance of +his, at a restaurant one night. He called upon her at her boarding house +the next day, where she received him with some surprise, and left most +of the conversation to him. When he visited there again, she caused him +to be told that she was out, and this took place a half dozen times. +Their real acquaintance never went any further, but an imaginary +acquaintance between them, growing from Welty's wish, made great +progress in his fancy and in the stories told by him at his club to +groups of men, some of whom doubted and looked bored, while others +believed and grinned and envied. + +It was at the point where Emily had quite forgotten Welty, and Welty's +stories portrayed her as recklessly adoring him and seeking him in cabs +at all hours, that Barry McGettigan, a despised young reporter, "doing +police," heard one of Welty's accounts of an alleged interview with +Emily; and Barry, who had a way of knowing human nature and observing +people, suspected. + +Now Barry cherished a deep-rooted grudge against Welty, all the more +dangerous because Welty was unaware of it. Its exact cause has never +been torn from Barry's breast. Some have ascribed it to Welty's having +mimicked Barry's brogue before a crowd in a saloon one night. Others +have laid it to the following passage of words, which is now a part of +the ancient history of the Nocturnal Club. + +"Spakin' of ancestors," Barry began, "I'd loike to bet--" + +"I'd like to bet," broke in Welty, "that your own ancestry leads +directly to the Shandy family." + +There was a general laugh, which Barry, whose nose was as flat as +any Shandy's could have been but who had never read Sterne, did not +understand. + +"What did he mane?" Barry asked a friend. The friend told him to read +"Tristram Shandy." He spent two hours in a public library next day and +learned how his facial peculiarity had been used by Welty to create a +laugh and incidentally to insult him. + +This he never forgave. And he bided his time. + +Now, having heard Welty boast of being the object of this Emily's +infatuation, Barry McGettigan deflected his mind from the contemplation +of murders, infanticides, fires, and other matters of general interest, +and gave his best thoughts and skill to investigating this talked-of +love affair of Welty's. + +He discovered the true situation within three days. He found that Emily +was engaged to be married to a college football player who came to the +city once a week to see her. + +He borrowed money, made himself very agreeable to Welty, and also got +himself introduced to the football player. The latter was a tall, lithe, +heavy-shouldered, brown-faced, thick-knuckled youth, who practiced all +kinds of athletic diversions. + +Barry McGettigan sounded the football man in one brief interview one +night, between the acts of the comic opera, at the saloon next door. He +found a means of fastening himself upon the football player's esteem. +The collegian expressed a mild desire to see something of police-station +life. Barry invited him to spend an evening with him on duty at Central +Station. The collegian accepted. Barry appointed a time and named a +certain cafe as a meeting place. + +Then Barry invited Welty to dine with him at the same cafe on the +same evening at the same hour. By means of his borrowed money, he had +lavished costly drinks upon Welty of late, and Welty had reason to +anticipate a dinner worth the accepting. Barry told Welty nothing of the +collegian and he told the collegian nothing more of Welty. + +When the evening came, Barry found Welty awaiting him at the cafe. The +two sat down at a table. The preliminary cocktail had only arrived when +in walked the collegian. Barry saluted him as if the meeting had only +occurred by chance. He made the collegian and Welty known to each other +by name only. And then he ordered dinner. + +When a bottle had been drunk, Barry innocently turned the current of the +conversation to women. He spoke modestly of a mythical conquest he +had recently made. The football player listened without showing much +interest. Presently Barry paused. + +Welty took a drink and began: + +"No, my boy," said he to Barry, "you're wrong there. It's like you +youngsters to think you know all about the sex, but the older you grow +the less you think you know about them, until you get to my age." + +Barry made no answer, but looked at Welty with becoming deference. + +The football man's eyes were wandering about the cafe, showing him to be +indifferent to the theme of discussion. + +"I know," continued Welty, "that many more or less writers have said, +as you say, that women must be sought and pursued to be won. They deduce +that theory from the habits of lower animals and of barbarous nations, +in which the man obtains the woman by chase and force. But it's all +a theory, and simply shows that the learned writers study their books +instead of their fellow men and women." + +The collegian looked restless, as if the conversation had gotten beyond +his depth. + +Barry remained silent, and with a flattering aspect of great interest in +Welty's observations. + +"Now," went on Welty, striking the table with the bottom of his glass, +"I've had a little experience of this sort of thing in my time, and +I can say that in nine cases out of ten, once you've attracted the +attention of your game, let it alone and it will chase you. That's how +to win women." + +The collegian looked bored. + +"Just to illustrate," said Welty, "I'll tell of a little conquest of my +own. I use it because it is the first that comes to my mind, not that +I'm given to bragging about my success in these matters. I suppose +you've seen the opera at the ---- Theatre?" + +The collegian ceased looking bored. Barry McGettigan sat perfectly, +unnaturally still. + +"And," pursued Welty, "you've doubtless noticed the three girls who +appear as the queen's maids of honour?" + +The collegian looked somewhat concerned. Barry stopped breathing. + +"Well," continued Welty, "you mayn't believe it, for we've kept it +really quiet, one of them girls is really dead gone on me." + +The collegian opened his mouth wide, and Barry began to nervously tap +his hand upon the table. + +"It's the one," said Welty, "who wears the big blond wig. Her name's +Emi--" + +There was the noise of upsetting plates, bottles, and glasses, of +a man's feet rapping up against the bottom of a table and his head +thumping down against the floor. There was the sight of an agile youth +leaping across an overturned table and alighting with one foot at each +side of the prostrate form of an astonished man, whose gray whiskers +were spattered with blood. There was the quick gathering of a crowd, an +excited explanation on the part of the collegian, a slow recovery on +the part of the man on the floor, and Barry McGettigan's vengeance was +complete. + +For, by one of those incredible coincidences that have the semblance of +fatality, the football player's fist had reduced Melrose Welty's nose to +a flatness which the nose of no imaginable Shandy ever has surpassed. + + + + +XIII. -- THE WHISTLE + +She was the wife of a railway locomotive engineer, and the two lived +in the newly built house to which he had taken her as a bride a year +before. + +Many other people in the country railroad town used to laugh at a thing +which she had once said to a gossiping neighbour: + +"I can tell the sound of the whistle on Tom's engine from all other +whistles. Every afternoon when his train gets to the crossing at the +planing-mill, I hear that whistle, and then I know it's time to get +Tom's supper." + +The gossips found something humourous in the fact that the engineer's +wife recognized the whistle of her husband's engine and knew by it when +to begin to prepare his supper. So are the small manifestations of love +and devotion regarded by coarse minds. You frequently observe this in +the conduct of certain people at the theatre when tender sentiments are +uttered upon the stage. + +Perhaps the men were envious of the engineer. He had a prettier wife, +they said, when he was not present, than was deserved by a mere freight +engineer, very recently elevated from the post of fireman. Perhaps, +also, the petty malevolence of the women was due to the wife's superior +comeliness. Be that as it may, each afternoon at half-past four or +thereabouts, when Tom's whistle was blown at the crossing by the +planing-mill, loungers in the grocery store and wives in their kitchens +smiled knowingly and said: + +"Time to begin to get Tom's supper, now." + +But the engineer was careless and his wife was disdainful of their +neighbours. She loved the sound of that whistle. In the earliest days of +their married life it even sent the crimson to her cheeks. The engineer +could make it as expressive as music. It began like a sudden glad cry; +it died away lingeringly, tenderly. Virtually it said to one pair of +ears: + +"My darling, I have come back to you." + +Whenever the engineer pulled the rope for that particular signal, he +pictured his wife arising from her work-basket in their little parlour +with a thrill of pleasure and affection, and passing out to the kitchen. + +She, likewise, at the signal, made a mental image of Tom, seated in the +engine cab, his one hand fixed upon the shining lever, his eyes fixed +upon the glistening tracks ahead. + +At six o'clock, usually, supper was hot, and Tom arrived through +the front gateway, glancing at the flower-bed in the centre of the +diminutive grass plot, carrying his dinner-pail, having divested himself +of his grimy, greasy blouse and overalls at the great repair shops, +where his engine had already begun, with much panting, to spend the +night. + +In a small railroad town on the main line, one is continually hearing +locomotive whistles. All the inhabitants know that one long moan of +the steam is the signal of the train's swift approach; that two short +shrieks of the whistle direct the trainmen to tighten the brakes; that +four, given when the train is still, are intended for the flagman, who +has gone away to the rear to warn back the next train, and that they +tell him to return to his own train as it is about to start; that +five whistles in succession announce a wreck and command the immediate +attendance of the wreck crew. + +In the town many cheeks blanch when those five long, ominous wails of +the escaping steam cleave the air. A husband, a son, a father who has +gone forth blithely in the morning, with his dinner-pail full, may be +brought out of the wreck, mangled or dead. And until complete details +are known there is a tremor in the whole community. Some hearts beat +faster, others seem to stand still. People speak in hushed tones. + +One afternoon, the engineer's wife, observing the altitude of the sun, +looked at the clock and saw that the time was a few minutes before five. + +Tom's whistle had not yet blown. + +At five-fifteen came the sound of another whistle. It was prolonged and +then repeated. The engineer's wife stood still and counted. + +Five! + +The most docile and apparently cheerful patient in the ---- Asylum for +the Insane is a widow, still young, who spends the greater time of each +day sewing and humming tunes softly to herself. Every afternoon at +about half-past four she assumes a listening attitude, suddenly hears +an inaudible whistle, smiles tenderly, starts up and places invisible +dishes and impalpable viands upon an imaginary table, and then loses +herself in a reverie which ends in slumber. + +No striking clock is allowed within her hearing. It was long ago noticed +that the stroke of five or any series of five similar sounds would cause +her to moan piteously. + +The people afar in the country town do not laugh now when they talk +of Tom and the whistle which was shrieking madly as he and his engine +plunged down the bank together on that day when the huge boulder rolled +from the hillside stone quarry and lay upon the tracks, just on this +side of the curve above the town. + + + + +XIV. -- WHISKERS + +The facts about the man we called "Whiskers" linger in my mind, asking +to be recorded, and though they do not make much of a story, I am +tempted to unburden myself by putting them on paper. It was mentally +noted as a sure thing by everybody who saw him go into the managing +editor's room, to ask for a position on the staff of the paper, that if +he should obtain a place and become a fixture in the office, he would +be generally known as Whiskers within twenty-four hours after his +instalment. + +What tale he told the managing editor no one knew, but every one in the +editorial rooms deduced later that it must have been something a trifle +out of the common, for the managing editor, who had gone through the +form of taking the names of three previous applicants that afternoon and +telling them that he would let them know when a vacancy should occur on +the staff, told the man whom we eventually christened Whiskers that he +might come around the next day and write whatever he might choose to in +the way of Sunday "specials," comic verses, or editorial paragraphs, on +the chance of their being accepted. + +The next day the hairy-faced man took possession of a desk in the room +occupied by the exchange editor and one of the editorial writers, and +began to grind out "copy." + +He was a slim, figure, with what is commonly denominated a "slight +stoop." His trousers were none too long for his thin legs, his tightly +fitting frock coat, threadbare, shiny, and unduly creased, was hardly of +a fit for his slender body and his long arms. It was his face, however, +that mostly individualized his appearance. + +The face was pale, the outlines symmetrical, but rather feeble, and the +countenance would have seemed rather lamblike but for the fact that it +was framed with thick, long hair and a luxuriant beard, which caressed +his waistcoat. + +These made him impressive at first sight. + +On the first day of his presence, he said little to the men with whom he +shared his room in the office. On the second day he grew communicative +and talked rather pompously to the exchange editor. He prated of his +past achievements as a newspaper man in other cities. He had a cheerful +way of talking in a voice that was high but not loud. His undaunted +manner of uttering self-praise caused the exchange editor to wink at the +editorial writer. It engendered, too, a small degree of dislike on the +part of these worthies; and the exchange editor made it a point to watch +for some of the new man's work in the paper, that he might be certain +whether the new man's ability was equal to the new man's opinion of it. + +The exchange editor found that it was not. The new man had been in the +office four days before any of his contributions had gone through the +process of creation, acceptance, and publication. Some verses and some +alleged jokes were his first matter printed. They were below mediocrity. +The exchange editor ceased to dislike the whiskered man and thereafter +regarded him as quite harmless and mildly amusing. + +This view of him was eventually accepted by every one who came to know +him, and he was made the object of a good deal of gentle chaffing. + +He earned probably $15 or $20 at space rates, a lamentably small amount +for so intellectual looking a man, but a very large amount considering +the quality of work turned out by him. + +Doubtless he would not have made nearly so much had not the managing +editor whispered something in the ears of the assistant editor-in-chief, +whose duty it was to judge of the acceptability of editorial matter +offered, the editor of the Sunday's supplement, and other members of +the staff who might have occasion to "turn down" the new man's +contributions, or to wink at the deficiencies in his work. + +One day Whiskers, with many apologies and much embarrassment, asked +the exchange editor to lend him a quarter, which request having been +complied with, he put on his much rubbed high hat and hurried from the +room. + +"It's funny the old man's hard up so soon," the exchange editor said +to the editorial writer at the next desk, "It's only two days since +pay-day." + +"Where does he sink his money?" asked the editorial writer. "His +sleeping-room costs him only $3 a week, and, eating the way he does, at +the cheapest hash-houses, his whole expenses can't be more than $8. No +one ever sees him spend a cent. He must sink it away in a bank." + +"Hasn't he any relatives?" + +"He never spoke of any, and he lives alone. Wotherspoon, who lodges +where he does, says no one ever comes to see him." + +"He certainly doesn't spend money on clothes." + +"No; and he never drinks at his own expense." + +"He's probably leading a double life," said the exchange editor, +jestingly, as he plunged his scissors into a Western paper, to cut out a +poem by James Whitcomb Riley. + +Without making many acquaintances, Whiskers, by reason of his hirsute +peculiarity, became known throughout the building, from the business +office on the ground floor to the composing-room on the top. When he +went into the latter one day and passed down the long aisle between the +long row of cases and type-setting machines, with a corrected proof +in his hand, a certain printer, who was "setting" up a clothing-house +advertisement, could not resist the temptation to give labial imitation +of the blowing of wind. The bygone joke concerning whiskers and the wind +was then current, and a score of compositors took up the whistle, so +that all varieties of breeze were soon being simulated simultaneously. +Whiskers coloured sightly, but, save a dignified straightening of his +shoulders, he showed no other sign that he was conscious of the rude +allusion to his copious beard. + +Whiskers chose Tuesday for his day off. + +It was on a certain Tuesday evening that one of the reporters came into +the exchange editor's room and casually remarked: + +"I saw your anti-shaving friend, who sits at that desk, riding out to +the suburbs on a car to-day. He was all crushed up and carried a bouquet +of roses." + +"That settles it," cried the editorial writer to the exchange editor, +with mock jubilation. "There can be no doubt the old man was leading a +double life. The bouquet means a woman in the case." + +"And his money goes for flowers and presents," added the exchange +editor. + +"Some of it, of course," went on the editorial writer, "and the rest +he's saving to get married on. Who'd have thought it at his age?" + +"Why, he's not over forty. It's only his whiskers that make him look +old. One can easily detect a sentimental vein in his composition." + +"That accounts for his fits of abstraction, too. So he's found favour in +some fair one's eyes. I wonder what she's like." + +"Young and pretty, I'll bet," said the exchange editor. "He's impressed +her by his dignified aspect. No doubt she thinks he's nothing less than +an editor-in-chief." + +The next day Whiskers was taciturn, as his office associates now +recalled that he was wont to be after "his day off." Doubtless his +thoughts dwelt upon his visits to his divinity. He did not respond to +their efforts to involve him in conversation. + +He was observed upon his next day off to take a car for the suburbs and +to have a bouquet in his hand and a package under his arm. The theory +originated by the editorial writer had general acceptance. It was passed +from man to man in the office. + +"Have you heard about the queer old duck with the whiskers, who writes +in the exchange room? He's engaged to a young and pretty girl up-town, +and eats at fifteen-cent soup-shops so that he can buy her flowers and +wine and things." + +"What! Old Whiskers in love! That's a good one!" + +One day while Whiskers' pen was busily gliding across the paper, the +exchange editor broke the silence by asking him, in a careless tone: + +"How was she, yesterday, Mr. Croydon?" + +Whiskers looked up almost quickly, an expression of almost pained +surprise on his face. + +"Who?" he inquired. + +"Ah, you thought because you didn't tell us, it wouldn't out. But you've +been caught. I mean the lady to whom you take roses every week, of +course." + +Whiskers simply stared at the exchange editor, as if quite bewildered. + +"Oh, pardon me," said the exchange editor, somewhat abashed. "I didn't +mean to offend you. One's affairs of the heart are sacred, I know. But +we all guy each other about each other's amours here. We're hardened to +that sort of pleasantry." + +A look of enlightenment, a blush, a deep sigh, and an "Oh, I'm not +offended," were the only manifestations made by Whiskers after the +exchange editor's apology. + +It was inferred from his manner that he did not wish to make confidences +or receive jests about his love-affairs. + +A time came when Whiskers seemed to have something constantly on his +mind. Not content with one day's vacation each week, he would go off for +periods of three or four hours on other days. + +"Do you notice how queerly the old man behaves?" said the editorial +writer to the exchange editor thereupon. "Things are coming to a +crisis." + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"Why, the wedding, of course." + +This inference received a show of confirmation afterward when Whiskers +had a private interview with the managing editor, received an order on +the cashier for all the money due him, and for a part of the managing +editor's salary as a loan, and quietly said to the exchange editor that +he would be away for a week or so. The editorial writer happened to be +at the cashier's window when Whiskers had his order cashed. So when the +editorial writer and the exchange editor compared notes a few minutes +later, the latter complimented the former upon the correctness of his +prediction that Whiskers' marriage was imminent. + +"He didn't invite us," said the exchange editor, "but then I suppose the +affair is to be a very quiet one, and we can't take offence at that. The +old man's not a bad lot, by any means. Let's do something to please him +and to flatter his bride. What do you say to raising a fund to buy them +a present, in the name of the staff?" + +"I'm in for it," said the editorial writer, producing a half-dollar. + +They canvassed the office and found everybody willing to contribute. The +managing editor and the assistant editor-in-chief had gone home, but as +they had shown kindness to Whiskers, and were, in fact, the only two men +on the staff who knew anything about his private affairs, the exchange +editor took his chances and put in a dollar for each of them. + +"And now, what shall we get--and where shall we send it?" said the +exchange editor. + +"Not to his lodging-house, certainly. He'll probably be married at the +residence of his bride's parents, as the notices say. We'd better get it +quick, and rush it up there--wherever that is--somewhere up-town." + +"But say," interposed the city editor, who was present at this +consultation, "maybe the ceremony has already come off. I saw the old +man giving in a notice for advertisement across the counter at the +business office an hour ago." + +"Well, we may be able to learn from that where the bride lives, anyhow, +and some one can go there and find out something definite about the +happy pair's present and future whereabouts," suggested the editorial +writer. + +"That's so," said the city editor. "The notice is in the composing-room +by this time. I'll run up and find it." + +The city editor left the editorial writer and the exchange editor alone +together in the room, each sitting at their own desk. + +"What shall we get with this money?" queried the former, touching the +bills and silver dumped upon his desk. + +"Something to please the woman. That'll give Whiskers the most pleasure. +He evidently loves her deeply. These constant visits and gifts speak the +greatest devotion." + +"Of course, but what shall it be?" + +The two were battling with this question when the city editor returned. +He came in and said quietly: + +"I found the notice. At least, I suppose this is it. What is the old +man's full name?" + +"Horace W. Croydon." + +"This is it, then," said the city editor, standing with his back to the +door. "The notice reads: 'On March 3d, at the Arlington Hospital for +Incurables, Rachel, widow of the late Horace W. Croydon, Sr., in her +59th year. Funeral services at the residence of Charles--'" + +"Why," interrupted the editorial writer, in a hushed voice, "that is a +death notice." + +"His mother," said the exchange editor. "The Hospital for +Incurables--that is where the flowers went." + +The editorial writer's glance dropped to the desk, where the money lay +for the intended gift. The exchange editor sat perfectly still, gazing +straight in front of him. The city editor walked softly to the window +and looked out. + + + + +XV. -- THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + +"I'm a bad man," said Tobit McStenger, after three glasses of whiskey. +And he was. In making the declaration, he echoed the expression of the +community. + +He looked it. Not only in the sneering mouth above the half-formed chin, +and in the lowering eyes of undecided colour beneath the receding brow, +but also in every shiftless attitude and movement of his great gaunt +body, and even in the torn coat and shapeless felt hat--both once black, +but both now a dirty gray--his aspect proclaimed him the preeminent +rowdy of his town. + +When out of jail he was engaged in oyster opening at Couch's saloon, or +selling fresh fish, caught in the river, or vagrancy in the streets +of Brickville. He lived in a log house containing two rooms, by Muddy +Creek, an intermittent stream that flowed--sometimes--through a corner +of the town. He was a widower and had a son nine years old, little Tobe, +who went to school occasionally, but gave most of his day to carrying a +paper flour-sack around the town and begging cold victuals, in obedience +to paternal commands, and throwing stones at other boys, who called him +"Patches," a nickname descended from his father. + +Little Tobe's face was always black, from the dust of the bituminous +coal that he was compelled to steal at night from the railroad +companies' yard. His attire was in miniature what his father's was in +the large, as his character was in embryo what the elder Tobit's was in +complete development. With long, entangled hair, a thin, crafty face, +and stealthy eyes, he was a true type of malevolent gamin, all the more +uncanny for the crudity due to his semirustic environments. + +Such were Tobit and little Tobe, the most conspicuous of the village +"characters" of Brickville, a Pennsylvania town deriving sustenance from +its brick-kiln, its railroads, and its contiguous farming interests. + +It was town talk that Tobit McStenger was a hard father; drunk or sober, +he chastised little Tobe upon the slightest occasion. + +"But," said Tobit McStenger, after admitting his severity as a parent +before the bar in Couch's saloon, "let any one else lay a finger on that +kid! Just let 'em! They'll find out, jail or no jail, I'm ugly!" And he +went on to repeat for the thousandth time that when he was ugly he was a +bad man. + +Whereupon the other loungers in Couch's saloon, "Honesty Tom Yerkes," +the hauler, Sam Hatch, the bill-poster, and the rest, agreed that a +man's manner of governing his household was his own business. + +Tobit McStenger had his word to say upon all village topics. When +in Couch's saloon one night he learned that the school directors had +decided to take the primary school from the tutorship of a woman and +to put a man over it as teacher, Tobit pricked up his ears and had many +words to say. He was working at the time, and he spoke in loud, coarse +tones, as he wielded his oyster-knife, having for an audience the usual +dozen barroom tarriers. + +"I know what that means," cried Tobit McStenger. "It means they ain't +satisfied with having our children ruled with kindness. It means Miss +Wiggins, who's kep' a good school, which I know all about, fer my son's +one of her scholars--it means she don't use the rod enough. They've made +up their minds to control the kids by force, and they went and hired a +man to lick book learnin' into 'em. Who is the feller, anyway?" + +"Pap" Buckwalder read the answer to Tobit's question from the current +number of the Brickville _Weekly Gazette_. + +"The new teacher is Aubrey Pilling, the adopted son of farmer Josiah +Pilling, of Blair Township. He has taught the school of that township +for three winters, and is a graduate of the Brickville Academy." + +Sam Hatch, standing by the stove, remembered him. + +"Why, that's the backward fellow," said he, "that the girls used to guy. +His hair and eyebrows is as white as tow, and when he'd blush his face +used to turn pink. He always walked in from the country, four miles, +every morning to school and back again at night. There ain't much +use getting him take a woman's place. He's about the same as a woman +hisself. He hardly talks above a whisper, and he's afraid to look a girl +in the face." + +"Ain't he the boy Josiah Pilling took out o' the Orphans' Home, here +about twenty years ago?" queried Pap Buckwalder. + +"Yep," replied Hatch. "I heerd somethin' about that when he went to the +'cademy here. He was took out of a home by a farmer, who gave him his +name 'cause the boy didn't know his own, nor no one else did, and so he +was brought up on the farm." + +"So that's the sort o' people they've put the education of our children +into the hands uv!" exclaimed Tobit McStenger. "Well, all I got to say +is, let him keep his hands off my boy Tobe, or he'll find out the kind +of a tough customer I am." + +Tobit McStenger, in the few weeks immediately following this change in +the primary school, remained continuously industrious, to the surprise +of all who knew him. As Tobit was an expeditious oyster-opener, Tony +Couch, the saloon-keeper who employed him, was much rejoiced. Tobit +toiled at oyster-opening and little Tobe became regular in his +attendance at school. + +The new school-teacher, a broad, awkward, bashful youth, painfully +blond, came to town and accomplished that for which he had been called. +He brought discipline to the primary school, an achievement none +easier for the fact that many of his pupils were in their teens, and +incidentally he suspended Tobit McStenger the younger. + +When little Tobe, glad of the enforced return to the liberties of his +begging days, brought home his soiled first reader and told his father +that the teacher had sent him from school with orders not to return +until he could learn to keep his face clean, the father became swollen +with an overflowing wrath. He swore frightfully, and started off, +vowing that he would "show the white-faced foundling how to treat decent +people's children." + +And he had two tall drinks of whiskey put on the slate against him at +Couch's and proceeded to carry out his threat. + +It was a cold day in December. Pilling, the teacher, sat near the stove +in the little square school-room, listening to the irrepressible hum of +his restless pupils and the predominating monotonous sound of a small +girl's voice reciting multiplication tables. + +"Three times three are nine," she whined, drawlingly; "three times four +are twelve, three times--" + +The little girl with the braided hair stopped short. A loud knock fell +upon the door. + +A boy looked through the window, evidently saw the one who had knocked, +then cast a curious look at Pilling, the teacher. Pilling observed this, +and asked the boy: + +"Who is it?" + +After a moment of hesitation, the boy replied: + +"It's old Patchy--I mean, Tobe McStenger's father." + +Pilling, whose bashfulness was manifest only in the presence of women, +had the utmost calmness before his pupils. He walked quietly to the door +and locked it. + +McStenger, furious without, heard the sound of the bolt being thrust +into place, whereupon he began to kick at the door. Pilling turned +the chair facing his class and told the girl with the braided hair to +continue. + +"Three times five are fifteen, three times six--" + +A crashing sound was heard. McStenger had broken a window. Pilling +looked around, as if seeking some impromptu weapon. While he was doing +so, McStenger broke another window-pane with a club. Then McStenger went +away. + +That evening, Pilling had Tobit McStenger arrested for malicious +mischief. The oyster-opener was held pending trial until January court. +He was then sentenced to thirty days more in the county jail. Meanwhile +little Tobe mounted a freight-train one day to steal a ride, and +Brickville has not seen or heard of him since. He enlisted in the great +army of vagabonds, doubtless. Perhaps some city swallowed him. + +Tobit McStenger felt at home in jail. It was not a bad place of +residence during the coldest months. But for one defect, jail life would +have been quite enviable; it forced upon him abstinence from alcoholic +liquor. + +Every period of thirty days has its termination, and Tobit McStenger +became a free man. He returned to his old life, opening oysters during +part of the time, idling and drinking during the other part. He made no +attempt to spoil the peace of Aubrey Pilling, and he only laughed when +he heard of the disappearance of Little Tobe. + +Pilling, by his success in conducting the primary school, had won +the esteem of Brickville's citizens. His timidity had diminished, or, +rather, it had been discovered to be merely quietness, self-communion, +instead of timidity. He had shown himself less prudish than he had been +thought. Occasionally he drank whiskey or beer, which was looked upon as +a good sign in a man of his kind. + +Tobit McStenger did not know this. He invariably evaded mention of +Pilling. People wondered what would happen when the two should meet. +For Tobit was known to be revengeful, and he was now, more than ever, in +speech and look, a bad man. + +The expected and yet the unexpected happened one night in Couch's +saloon,--the scene of most of the eventful incidents in Tobit +McStenger's life since he had dawned upon Brickville. Tobit and Honesty +Yerkes, Pap Buckwalder, old Tony Couch himself, and half a score others +were making a conversational hubbub before the bar. + +In walked Aubrey Pilling. He came quietly to an unoccupied spot at the +end of the bar and ordered a glass of beer, without looking at the +other drinkers. Some one nudged Tobit McStenger and pointed toward the +white-haired young pedagogue. The noise of talk broke off abruptly. + +McStenger placed his back against the bar, resting his elbows upon it, +and turned a scornful gaze toward Pilling, who had taken one draught +from his glass of beer. + +"Say, Tony," began McStenger, in his big, growling voice, "who's your +ladylike customer? Oh, it's him, is it? Well, he needn't be skeered of +me. I don't mix up with folks o' his sort. You see, people could only +expect to be insulted through their children by fellows of his birth--" + +"Hush, Mack!" whispered Tony Couch, whose sense of deportment advised +him that McStenger was treading forbidden ground. Pilling had not looked +up. He stood quietly at some distance from the others, intent upon his +glass of beer on the bar before him, perfectly still. + +But McStenger went on, more loudly than before: + +"By fellows, as I said, who came from orphans' homes, and never knew who +their parents was, and whose mothers may have been God knows what--" + +Pilling, without turning, had lifted his glass. With an easy motion +he had tossed its remaining contents of beer into the face of Tobit +McStenger. The latter drew back from the splash of the liquid as if +stung. Then, with a loud cry of rage, he leaped toward Pilling. The +teacher turned and faced him. + +McStenger clapped one huge hand against Pilling's neck, and in an +instant thereafter his long, bony fingers were pressing upon the +teacher's throat, in what had the looks of a fatal clutch. But Pilling, +with both his arms, violently forced McStenger from him. The teacher +took breath and McStenger reached for a whiskey decanter. The others in +the saloon looked on with eager interest, fearing to come between such +formidable combatants. Tony Couch ran out in search of the town's only +policeman. McStenger advanced toward the teacher. + +Pilling was farm bred. He had chopped down trees with his right +arm alone in his time. Pilling thrust forth his arm with unexpected +suddenness. Upon the floor, six feet behind his antagonist, was a +cuspidor with jagged edges. + +And Tobit McStenger slept with his fathers. + +The jury acquitted the teacher on the plea of self-defense. The loungers +in Couch's saloon judiciously said that it was a very bad break for +Tobit McStenger to have made. + + + + +XVI. -- THE SCARS + +My friend the tune-maker has often unintentionally amused his +acquaintances by the gravity with which he attributes significance to +the most trivial occurrences. + +He turns the most thoughtless speeches, uttered in jest, into +prophecies. + +"Very well," he used to say to us at a cafe table, "you may laugh. But +it's astonishing how things turn out sometimes." + +"As for instance?" some one would inquire. + +"Never mind. But I could give an instance if I wished to do so." + +One evening, over a third bottle, he grew unusually communicative. + +"Just to illustrate how things happen," he began, speaking so as to be +audible above the din of the cafe to the rest of us around the table, +"I'll tell you about a man I know. One February morning, about eight +years ago, he was hurrying to catch a train. There was ice on the +sidewalks and people had to walk cautiously or ride. As he was turning a +corner he saw by a clock that he had only five minutes in which to reach +the station, three blocks away. An instant later he saw a shapely figure +in soft furs suddenly describe a forward movement and drop in a heap to +the sidewalk, ten feet in front of him. A melodious light soprano scream +arose from the heap. A divinely turned ankle in a quite human black +stocking was momentarily visible. He was by the side of the mass of furs +and skirts in three steps. + +"He caught the pretty girl under the arms and elevated her to a standing +posture. She recovered her breath and her self-possession promptly and +glowed upon him with the brightest of smiles. He had never before seen +her. + +"'Oh, thank you,' she said; adding, with the unconscious exaggeration of +a schoolgirl, 'You've saved my life.' + +"Realizing the absurdity of this speech, she blushed. Whereupon her +rescuer, feeling that the situation warranted him in turning the matter +to jest, replied: + +"'That being the case, according to the rules of romance, I ought to +marry you, like all the men who rescue the heroines in stories.' + +"'Oh,' she answered, quickly, 'this isn't in a novel; it's real life.' + +"'Yes; besides which, I see by the clock over there I have only four +minutes in which to catch a train. Good morning.' + +"And he ran off without taking a second glance at her. He arrived at the +station in due time. + +"Three years after that he married the most charming woman in the world, +after an acquaintance of only six months. + +"This woman is as beautiful as she is amiable. Nature has not been +guilty of a single defect in her construction. A tiny scar upon her knee +is all the more noticeable because of its solitude. + +"It is a peculiarity of scars that each has a history. The history of +this one has thus far, for no adequate reason, remained a family secret. + +"Another noteworthy fact about scars is that they may be, and in many +cases they are, useful for purposes of identification. + +"Of course you anticipate the dramatic climax of my story, gentlemen. +Nevertheless, let me give it, for the sake of completeness, in the form +of a dialogue between the husband and the wife. + +"'How came the wound there?' + +"'Oh, I fell against the corner of a paving-stone one icy morning three +years ago.' + +"'And to think that I was not there to help you up!' + +"'True; but another young man served the purpose, and I'm afraid he +missed a train on my account.' + +"'What! It wasn't on the corner of ---- and ---- Streets?' + +"'It was just there. How did you know?' + +"So you see, as they completely proved by comparing recollections, the +little speech uttered in merriment had been prophetic, a fact that they +probably would never have learned had it not been for the identifying +service of the scar." + +"But if this has been kept a family secret, how do you happen to know +it, and by what right do you divulge it?" one of us asked. + +The ballad composer blushed and clouded his face with tobacco smoke; and +then it recurred to us all that "the most charming woman in the world" +is his wife. + + + + +XVII. -- "LA GITANA" + +This is not an attempt to palliate the foolishness of Billy Folsom. It +is not an essay in the emotional or the pathetic. You may pity him or +reproach him, if you like, but my purpose is not to evoke any feeling +toward or opinion of him. I do not seek to play upon your sympathies or +to put you into a mood, or to delineate a character. I simply tell the +story of how certain critical points in a man's life were accompanied +by music; how a destiny was affected by a tune. Anything aside from +mere narrative in this account will be incidental and accidental. The +manifestations of love, of wounded vanity, of recklessness; of even +the death itself, are here subsidiary in interest to the train of +circumstance. He who underwent them is not the hero of the recital; she +who caused them is not the heroine. The heroine is a melody, the waltz +tune of "La Gitana." + +Everybody remembers when the tune was regnant. Its notes leaped gaily +from the strings of every theatre orchestra; soubrettes in fluffy +raiment and silk stockings yelled it singly and in chorus; hand-organs +blared it forth; dancers kicked up their toes to it; it monopolized the +atmosphere for its dwelling-place; it was everywhere. + +Until one night, however, it did not touch the ear of Billy Folsom. He +had stayed late in the country, under the delusion that he was hunting. +It seems there are a few shootable things yet in certain parts of +Pennsylvania, and Folsom had the time and money to linger in search of +them. He came back to town in fine, exhilarating November weather, and +on one of these evenings when the joy of living is keenest, he and I +strolled with the crowd. Why I strolled with Folsom I do not know, +for he was not a man of ideas. He was even so bad as to be vain of his +personal appearance, especially upon having resumed the dress of the +city after months of outing. + +We passed one of these theatres whose stages are near the street. A +musical farce was current there. From an open window came the tune, +waylaying us as we walked. The orchestra was playing it fortissimo. You +could hear it above the footfalls, the laughter, and the conversation of +the promenaders. + +Folsom stopped. "Listen to that." + +"Yes, 'La Gitana.' It's all around. It's a catchy thing, and suits this +intoxicating weather." + +"It goes to the spot. Let's go inside. What's the play?" + +He turned at once toward the main entrance of the theatre. + +"A farce called 'Three Cheers and a Tiger,'--a Hoyt sort of a piece. The +little Tyrrell is doing her tambourine dance to the music." + +"Never heard of the lady," he said to me. And then to the youth on the +other side of the box-office window, "Have you any seats left in the +front row?" + +Folsom always asked for seats in the front row. This time it was fatal. +As we walked up the aisle, Folsom ahead, the little Tyrrell shot one +casual glance of her gray eyes at him, as almost any dancer would have +done at a front row newcomer entering while she was on the stage. In the +next instant her eyes were following her toe in its swift flight upward +to the centre of the tambourine that her hand brought downward to meet +it. But the one glance across the footlights had been productive. Folsom +sat staring over the heads of the musicians, his gaze fastened upon the +little Tyrrell, who was leaping about on the stage to the tune of "La +Gitana." His lips opened slightly and remained so. His eyes feasted +upon the flying dancer in the rippling blond wig, his ears drank in the +buoyant notes. + +It is well known that power lies in a saltatorial ensemble of white lace +skirts, pale blue hose, lustrous naked arms, undulating bodice, magnetic +eyes, flying hair, and an unchanging smile, to focus the perceptions of +a man, to absorb his consciousness, aided by a tune which seems to close +out from him all the rest of the world. + +And there, while this plump little girl danced and the frivolous, stupid +crowd looked eagerly on, from all parts of the overheated theatre, began +the tragedy of Billy Folsom. + +He gazed in rapture, and when she had finished and stood panting and +kissing her hands in response to applause, he heaved an eloquent sigh. + +"I'd like to meet that girl," he whispered to me, assuming a tone of +carelessness. + +Thereafter he kept his eye fixed upon the wings until she reappeared. +And the rest of the performance interested him only when she was in +view. + +I knew the symptoms, but I did not think the malady would become +chronic. + +He managed to have himself introduced to her a week later in New York +by Ted Clarke, the artist, who made newspaper sketches of her in some +of her dances. Folsom saw her going up the steps to an elevated railway +station. He ran after her, in order to be near her. He followed her into +a car, where Ted Clarke, recognizing her, rose to give her his seat. +She rewarded the artist by opening a conversation with him, and Folsom +availed himself of his acquaintance with Clarke to salute the latter +with surprising cordiality. She looked a few years older and less +girlish without her blond wig but she was still quite pretty in brown +hair. She treated Folsom with her wonted offhand amiability. He left the +train when she left it, and he walked a block with her. With pardonable +shrewdness she inspected his visage, attire, and manner, for indications +of his pecuniary and social standing, while he was indulging in silly +commonplaces. When they parted at the quiet hotel where she lived she +said lightly: + +"Come and see me sometime." + +To her surprise, perhaps, he came the next day, preceded by several +dozen roses and a few pounds of bonbons. + +Every night thereafter he was at the theatre where she was appearing, +watching her dance from the front row or from the lobby, agitated with +mingled pleasure and jealousy when she received loud applause, angry +at the audience when the plaudits were not enthusiastic. When their +acquaintance was two weeks old, she allowed him to wait for her at the +stage door, and at last he was permitted to take her to supper. + +There was a second supper, at which four composed the party. We had a +room to ourselves, with a piano in the corner. The event lasted long, +and near the end, while the other soubrette played the tune on the +piano, and Folsom kept time by clinking the champagne glass against the +bottle, the little Tyrrell, continually laughing, did her skirt dance, +"La Gitana." + +Thus with that waltz tune ever sounding in his ears, he fell in love +with her; strangely enough, really in love. She, having her own affairs +to mind, gave him no thought when he was not with her, and when they +were together she deemed him quite a good-natured, bearable fellow, as +long as he did not bore her. + +He made several declarations of love to her. She smiled at them, and +said, "You're like the rest; you'll get over it. Meanwhile, don't look +like that; be cheerful." At certain times, when circumstances were +auspicious, when there was night and electric light and a starry sky +with a moon in it, she was half-sentimental, but such moods were only +superficial and short-lived, and she invariably brought an end to them +with flippant laughter or some matter-of-fact speech that came with a +shock to Billy, although it did not cool his adoration. + +Billy became quite gloomy. He was the veritable sighing lover. Although +for a month he was admittedly the chief of her admirers and saw her +every day, he seemed to make no progress toward securing a hospitable +reception for and a response to his love. + +One day, as they were walking together on Broadway, she said: + +"You're always in the dumps nowadays. Really you must not be that way. +Doleful people make me tired." + +And thereafter Billy, possessed by a horrible fear that his mournful +demeanour might cause his banishment from her, kept making desperate +efforts to be lively, which were a dismal failure. It was ludicrous. The +gayer he affected to be, the more emphatic was his manifest depression. +So she wearied of his company. One day he called at her hotel, and, as +was his custom, went immediately to her sitting-room without sending +in his card. Before he knocked at the door, he heard the notes of her +piano; some one was playing the air of "La Gitana" with one finger. +After two or three bars, the instrument was silent. Then a man's voice +was heard. Billy knocked angrily. Miss Tyrrell opened the door, looked +annoyed when she saw him, and introduced him to the tenor of a comic +opera company of which she recently had been engaged as leading +soubrette. Billy's call was a short one. + +At eight o'clock that evening he sent this note to her from the cafe +where he was dining: + +"Will be at stage door with carriage at eleven, as before." + +He was there at eleven. So was the tenor. The little Tyrrell came out +and looked from one to the other. Billy pointed to his waiting carriage. +The dancer took the tenor's arm and said: + +"I'm sorry I can't accept your invitation, Mr. Folsom. Really I'm very +much obliged to you, but I have an engagement." + +She went off with the tenor, and Billy went off with the cab and made +himself drunker than he had ever been in his life. At dawn his feet +were seen protruding from the window of a coupe that was being driven up +Broadway, and he was bawling forth, as best he could, the tune which had +served indirectly to bring the little Tyrrell into his life. + +After that night, it was the old story, a woman ridding herself of a man +for whom she had never cared, and who indeed was not worth caring for. +But the operation was just as hard upon Folsom as if he had been. You +know the stages of the process. She began by being not at home or just +about to go out. He wrote pleading notes to her, in boyish phraseology, +and she laughed over these with the tenor. He made the breaking off the +more painful by going nightly to see her dance that fatal melody. He +watched her from afar upon the street, and almost invariably saw the +tenor by her side. He drank continually, and he begged Ted Clarke to +tell her, in a casual way, that he was going to the dogs on account of +her treatment of him. Whereupon she laughed and then looked scornful, +saying: "If he's fool enough to drink himself to death because a woman +didn't happen to fall in love with him, the sooner he finishes the work +the better. I have no use for such a man." + +No one has, and I told Billy so. But he kept up his pace toward the goal +of confirmed drunkenness. He ceased his attendance at the theatre where +she danced, only after he learned that the tenor had married her. But +that dance of hers had become a part of his life. Its accompanying tune +was now as necessary to his aural sensibilities as food to his stomach. +He therefore spent his evenings going to theatres and concert-halls +where "La Gitana" was likely to be sung or played. He rarely sought in +vain. The melody was to be found serving some purpose or other at almost +every theatre that winter. It was the "Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay" of its time. + +Some men who drink themselves to death require years and wit to complete +the task. Others save time by catching pneumonia through exposure due to +drink. Billy Folsom was one of the pneumonia class. He "slept off" the +effects of a long lark in an area-way belonging to a total stranger. A +policeman took him to his lodgings by way of the station house, and a +day later his landlord sent for a doctor. Five days after that I went +over to see him. He was in bed, and one of his friends, a man of his own +kind, but of stronger fibre, was keeping him company. Billy told us how +it had come about: + +"I wouldn't have gone on that racket if it hadn't been for one thing. +I'd made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, and I was walking along +full of plans for reformation. Suddenly I heard the sound of a banjo, +coming from an up-stairs window, playing a certain tune I've got +somewhat attached to. I saw the place was a kind of a dive and I went +in. I got the banjo-player to strum the piece over again, and I bought +drinks for the crowd. Then I made him play once more, and there were +other rounds of drinks, and the last I remember is that I was waltzing +around the place to that air. Two days after that the officer found +me trespassing on some one's property by sleeping on it. I dropped my +overcoat and hat somewhere, and it seemed there must have been a draft +around, for I caught this cold." + +I told Folsom to stop talking, as he was manifestly much weaker than he +or his friend supposed him to be. There ensued a few seconds of silence. +A loud noise broke upon the stillness with a shocking suddenness. It was +the clamour of a band-piano in the street beneath Folsom's window, and +of all the tunes in the world the tune that it shrieked out was "La +Gitana." I looked at Folsom. + +He rose in his bed and, clenching his teeth, he propelled through their +interstices the word: + +"Damn!" + +He remained sitting for a time, his hair tumbled about, his eyes wide +open but expressive of meditation as the notes continued to be thumped +upward by the turbulent instrument. Presently he said, in a husky voice: + +"How that thing pursues me! It's like a fiend. It has no let-up. It +follows me even into the next world." + +He sat for a moment more, intently listening. Then, with a quick, +peevish sigh, he fell back from weakness. We by his side did not know it +at the instant, but we discovered in a short time what had taken place +when his head had touched the pillow, for he remained so still. + +And that was the last of Billy Folsom, and up from the murmuring street +below came the notes of the band-piano playing "La Gitana." + + + + +XVIII. -- TRANSITION + +Three of us sat upon an upper deck, sailing to an island. The day was +sunlit, the wind was gentle, and the faintest ripple passed over the +sea. + +"Do you see the tremulous old man sitting over there by the pilot-house +absorbing the sunshine? He reminds me of another old man, one whom I +watched for six years, while he faded and died. He never knew me, but +he walked by my house daily and I walked by his. It was an interesting +study. The conclusion of the process was so inevitable. The time came +when he did not pass my house. Then he took the sunlight in a bow-window +on the second floor of his residence. So closely had I watched his +decadence during the six years that I was able to say to myself one +morning, 'There will be crape on his door before the day is out.' And so +there was." + +The bon-vivant laughed rather mechanically, but the other, he who makes +verses so dainty that the world does not heed them, smiled softly and +sympathetically to me and said: + +"You are right. Nothing is so fascinating as the study of a progress--a +development or a decline. The inevitability of the end makes it more +engrossing, for it relieves it of the undue eagerness of curiosity, the +feverishness of uncertainty." + +"Well, I am content rather to live than to contemplate life," said the +bon-vivant. "It's true I have given myself up to observing anxiously +such an advancement as you describe--a vulgar one you will say. When I +was a very young man I was a very thin man. I determined to amplify my +dimensions. I followed with careful interest my daily increase toward my +present--let us not say obesity, but call it portliness." + +"You are inclined to be easy upon yourself," I commented. + +"Indeed I am--in all matters." + +After a pause the verse-maker, throwing away his cigarette, took up +again the theme that I had introduced. + +"Yes, it is an engaging occupation to note any progression, even when +it is toward a fatal or a horrible culmination. But when it is to some +beautiful and happy outcome, this advancement is an ineffably charming +spectacle. Such it is when it is the unfolding of a flower or the +filling out of a poetic thought. + +"But no growth nor transformation in the material world is more +entrancing to observe than that by which a young girl becomes a lovely +woman. + +"This transition seems to be sudden. It is not so. It is rapid, perhaps, +as life goes, but each stage is distinctly marked. All men have not time +to watch the change, however, and so most men awaken to its occurrence +only when it is completed. Such was the case of the young and lowborn +lover of Consuelo in George Sand's romance. Do you remember that +incomparable scene in which he suddenly begins to notice that some +feature of Consuelo is handsome, and, with surprise, calls her attention +to its comeliness? She, equally astonished and delighted, joins him +in the visual examination of her charms, and the two pass from one +attraction to the other, finally completing the discovery that she is a +beautiful woman. + +"The Italian gamin was not the sort of man to have anticipated this +transfiguration and to have watched its stages. + +"You may argue that his delight at suddenly opening his eyes to +the finished work was greater than would have been his pleasure at +contemplating the alteration in process. Doubtless his was. As to +whether yours would be in such a case, depends upon your temperament. + +"I have experienced both of these pleasures. Perhaps it may be due to +certain special circumstances that I cherish the memory of the more +lasting delight, even though it was tempered by occasional doubts as to +the end, more tenderly than I do the more sudden and keen awakening. + +"There is a woman who first came under my observations when she was +thirteen years old. She was then agreeable enough to the eye, more +by reason of the gentleness of her expression than for any noteworthy +attractions of face and figure. Her face, indeed, was plain and +uninteresting; her figure unformed and too slim. Her hair, however, was +charming, being soft and extremely light in colour. She seemed awkward, +too, and timid, through fear of offending or making a bad impression. + +"For a reason I was particularly interested in her. I knew, young as I +then was, that plain girls, in many cases, develop into handsome women. + +"At fourteen her hair showed indications of changing its tint. +Its tendency was unmistakably toward brown. This was temporarily +unfavourable, but a brightening of the blue eyes and a newly acquired +poise of the head, with a step toward self-confidence in manner, were +compensating alterations. + +"At fifteen there came an emancipation of mind and speech from +schoolgirl habits. A defensive assumption of impertinent reserve, varied +by fits of superficial garrulity, gave way to real thoughtfulness, +to natural amiability. Then came, too, an emboldenment of the facial +outline, a constancy to the colour of the cheeks, a certainty of gait, +and the first perceptible roundness of contour beneath the neck. + +"At sixteen she had adorable hands, and she could wear short sleeves +with impunity. A rational, unforced, and coherent vivacity had now +revealed itself as a characteristic of her mode and conversation. Her +ankles had long before that grown too sightly to be exhibited. Such is +so-called civilization! Her hair seemed to darken before one's eyes. The +oval of her face attracted the attention of more than one of my artist +friends. + +"At seventeen she had learned what styles of attire, what arrangements +of her hair, were best suited to display effectively her comeliness. + +"This was one of the greatest steps of all. + +"The simplest draperies, she found, the least complicated headgear, were +most advantageous to her appearance. + +"A taste for reading the most ideal and artistic of books, as well as +her liking for poetry, the theatre, music, and pictures had implanted +that exalted something in her face which cannot be otherwise acquired. + +"When she was eighteen people on the street turned to look at her as she +passed. + +"At nineteen her figure was unsurpassable. Indeed, I think there cannot +be a more beautiful and charming woman in America. She is now twenty. + +"It was my privilege to view closely the bursting of this bud into +bloom." + +The fin de siecle versewright became silent and lighted a fresh +cigarette. + +"Will you permit me to ask," said I, "what were the especial facilities +that you had for observing this evolution?" + +"Yes," he answered, softly, a tender look coming into his eyes. "She is +my wife. She was thirteen when I married her. Suddenly placed without +means of subsistence, knowing nothing of the world, she came to me. I +could see no other way. We are very happy together." + +The pretty narrative of the rhymer put each of us in a delectable mood. +The notes of a harp and violins came from the lower deck in the form of +a seductive Italian melody. White sails dotted the far-reaching sea. + + + + +XIX. -- A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD + +Hearken to the tale of how fortune fell to the widow of Busted Blake. + +The outcome has shown that "Busted" was not radically bad. But he was +wretchedly weak of will to reject an opportunity of having another drink +with the boys--or with the girls--or with anybody or with nobody. + +In the days of his ascendancy, when he was a young and newly married +architect, he was a buyer of drinks for others. Waiters in cafes vied +with each other in showing readiness to take his orders. He was rated a +jolly good fellow then. No one would have supposed it destined that +some fine night a leering barroom wit should reply to his whispered +application for a small loan by pouring a half-glass of whiskey upon his +head and saying: + +"I hereby christen thee 'Busted.'" + +The title stuck. Blake, through continued impecuniosity, lost all shame +of it in time; lost, too, his self-respect and his wife. Mrs. Blake, a +gentle and pretty little brunette, had wedded him against the will of +her parents. She had trusted, for his safety, to the allurements of his +future, which everybody said was bright, and to his love for her. + +The years of tearful nights, the pleadings, the reproaches, the seesaw +of hope and despair, need not here be dwelt upon. They would make an old +story, and some of the details might be shocking to the young person. +They reached a culmination one day when she said to him: + +"You love drink better than you love me. I have done with you." + +She was a woman and took a woman's view of the case. + +When he came back to their rooms that night, she was not there. Then he +knew how much he loved her and how much he had underestimated his love. + +She did not go to her parents. There was a very musty proverb that she +knew would meet her on the threshold. "You made your bed, now lie on +it." Her father was a man of no originality, hence he would have put it +in that way. + +She got employment in a photograph gallery, where she made herself +useful by being ornamental, sitting behind a desk in the anteroom. + +I know not what duties devolve upon the woman who occupies that post +in the average photographer's service; whatever they are she performed +them. But within a very short time after she had left the "bed and +board" of Busted Blake, she had to ask for a vacation. She spent it in +a hospital and Busted became a father. She resumed her chair behind the +photographer's desk in due time, found a boarding-house where infants +were not tabooed, and managed to subsist, and to care for her child--a +girl. + +Somebody lived in that boarding-house who knew Busted Blake, and it was +through inquiries resulting from, this somebody's jocularly calling him +"papa" one night in a saloon that Busted was made aware of his accession +to the paternal relation. + +When the poor wretch heard the news, he made a prodigious effort to keep +his face composed. But the muscles would not be resisted. He burst out +crying, and he laid his head upon his arm upon a beer-flooded table and +wept copiously, causing a sudden hush to fall upon the crowd of +topers and a group to gather around his table and stare at him,--some +mystified, some grinning, none understanding. + +The next day he made a herculean effort to pull himself together. He +obtained a position as draughtsman from one who had known him in his +respectable period, and he went tremblingly and sheepishly to call upon +his wife and child. + +The consequence of his visit was a reunion, which endured for two whole +weeks. At the end of that time she cast him off in utter scorn. + +How he lived for the next two years can be only known to those who are +familiar through experience with the existence of people who ask other +people on the street for a few cents toward a night's lodging. By those +who knew him he was said to be "no good to himself or any one else." He +acquired the raggedness, the impudence, the phraseology of the vagabond +class. He would hang on the edge of a party of men drinking together +in front of a bar, on the slim chance of being "counted in" when the +question went round, "What'll you have?" He was perpetually being +impelled out of saloons at foot-race speed by the officials whose +function it is, in barrooms, to substitute an objectionable person's +room for his company. + +One winter Sunday morning he slept late on a bench in a public square. +Awakened by an officer, he arose to go. Hazy in head and stiff at +joints, he slightly staggered. He heard behind him the cooing laugh of +a child. He looked around. It was himself that had awakened the infant's +mirth--or that strange something which precedes the dawn of a sense of +humour in children. The smiling babe was in a child's carriage which a +plainly dressed woman was pushing. He looked at the woman. It was his +wife and the pretty child was his own. + +He walked rapidly from the place, and on the same day he decided to +leave the city. He had herded with vagrants of the touring class. The +methods of free transportation by means of freight-trains and free +living, by means of beggary and small thievery in country towns, were no +secret to him. He walked to the suburbs, and at nightfall he scrambled +up the side of a coal-car in a train slowly moving westward. + +What hunger he suffered, what cold he endured, what bread he begged, +what police station cells he passed nights in, what human scum he +associated with, what thirst he quenched, and with what incredibly bad +whiskey, are particulars not for this unobjectionable narrative, for do +they not belong to low life? And who nowadays can tolerate low life +in print unless it be redeemed by a rustic environment and a laboured +exposition of clodhopper English and primitive expletives? Low life +outside of a dialect story and a dreary village? Never! + +Mrs. Blake and the child lived in a fair degree of comfort upon the +mother's wages, but often the mother shuddered at thought of what might +happen should she ever lose her position at the photographer's. + +Consumption had its hold on Busted Blake when he arrived in the +mining-town called Get-there City, in Kansas, one evening. Get-there +City had not gotten there beyond a single straggling street of shanties. +But it had acquired a saloon, although liquor-selling had already been +forbidden in Kansas. + +Busted Blake, with ten cents in his clothes, entered the saloon and +asked in an asthmatic voice for as much whiskey as that sum was good +for. + +While awaiting a response, his eyes turned toward the only other +persons in the saloon,--three burly, bearded miners of the conventional +big-hatted, big-booted, and big-voiced type. Above their heads and +against the wall was this sign, lettered roughly with charcoal, under a +crudely drawn death's head: + +"Five thousand dollars will be paid by the undersigned to the widow of +the sneaking hound that informs on this saloon. This is no meer bluf. P. +GIBBS." + +Blake, after a brief coughing fit, looked up at the man behind the +bar,--a great thick-necked fellow with a mien of authority, and yet with +a certain bluff honesty expressed about his eyes and lips. This man, +whose air of proprietorship convinced Blake that he could be none other +than P. Gibbs, had first looked sneeringly at the ten cents, but had +shown some small sign of pity on hearing the ominous cough of the +attenuated vagrant. He set forth a bottle and glass. + +"Help yerself," said P. Gibbs. While Blake was doing so, Mr. Gibbs went +on: + +"Bad cough o' yourn. Y' mightn't guess it, but that same cough runs in +my fam'ly. It took off a brother, but it skipped me." + +Here was a bond of sympathy between the big, law-defying saloon-keeper +and the frail toper from the East. Busted Blake drained his glass and +presently coughed again. P. Gibbs again set forth the bottle, and this +time he drank with Blake. Before long, by dint of repeated fits of +coughing on the part of Blake, the sympathy of P. Gibbs was so worked +upon that he invited the three miners in the saloon to join him and the +stranger. + +Blake slept in a corner of the saloon that night. He left the next +morning, a curious expression of resolution on his face. + +During the next three weeks he was now and then alluded to in P. Gibbs's +saloon as the "coughing stranger." + +In the middle of the third week, at nine o'clock in the evening, when +the lamps in P. Gibbs's saloon were exerting their smallest degree of +dimness and the bar was doing a good business, the door opened and in +staggered Busted Blake. His staggering on this occasion was manifestly +not due to drink. His face had the hideous concavities of a starved man +and the uncertainty of his gait was the token of a mortal feebleness. +His emaciation was painful to behold. His eyes glowed like huge gems. + +The crowd of miners looked at him with surprise as he entered. + +"The coughing stranger!" cried one. + +"The coffin stranger, you mean," said another. + +Busted Blake lurched over to the bar. His eyes met those of P. Gibbs on +the other side, and the latter reached for a whiskey-bottle. + +Blake fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a piece of soiled paper, +which he laid on the bar under the glance of P. Gibbs. + +"Keep that!" said Blake, in a husky voice, whose service he compelled +with much effort. "And keep your word, too! That's where you'll find +her." + +P. Gibbs picked up the paper. + +"What do you mean?" he asked. + +"That woman's name there. It's the name of my widow; the address, too, +of a photograph man who will tell you where she is. Get the money to her +quick, before the governor and the troops comes down on you to close you +up. And don't let her know how it comes about. Pick a man to take it to +her,--let him pay his expenses out of it,--a man you can trust, and make +him tell her I made it somehow, mining or something, so she'll take it. +You know." + +P. Gibbs, who had listened with increasing amazement, opened wide his +eyes and drew his revolver. He spoke in a strangely low, repressed +voice: + +"Stranger, do you mean to say--" + +"Yes, that's it," shrieked Busted Blake, turning toward the crowd of +intensely interested onlookers. "And I call on all you here to witness +and to hold him to his word. That's no mere bluff he says in his notice +there, and I'm the sneaking hound that informed. My widow is entitled to +$5,000. I did it in Topeka, and for proof, see this newspaper." + +P. Gibbs fired a shot from his revolver through the newspaper that Blake +pulled from his shirt. Then the saloon-keeper brought his weapon on a +level with Blake's face. + +"It's good your boots is on!" said P. Gibbs, ironically. + +But he did not fire. Blake stood perfectly still, awaiting the shot, and +feebly laughing. + +So the two remained for some moments, until Blake suddenly sank to the +floor, quite exhausted. He died within a half-hour on the saloon floor, +his head resting in the palm of P. Gibbs, who knelt by his side and +tried to revive him. + +At the next dawn, a man whom they called Big Andy started East, and the +piece of paper that Blake handed to P. Gibbs was not all that he took +with him. The United States marshal arrived and duly closed Gibbs's +saloon, which reopened very shortly afterward, minus the $5,000 offer. + +And Big Andy found the widow of Busted Blake, to whom he told a bit of +fiction in accounting for the legacy conveyed by him to her that would +have imposed upon the most incredulous legatee. When she had recovered +from the surprise of finding herself and her child provided with the +means of surviving the possible loss of her situation, she forgave the +late Busted, and there was a flow of tears unusual to a boarding-house +parlour and unnerving to Big Andy. + +Presently she asked Andy whether he knew what her husband's last words +had been. + +"Yep," said Andy. "I heard'm plain and clear. Pete Gibbs,--the other +executor of the will, you know,--Pete says, 'It's all right, pardner, +me and Andy'll see to it,' and then your husband says, 'Thank Gawd I've +been some good to her and the child at last.'" + +Which account was entirely correct. When Big Andy had returned to +Get-there City, and related how he had performed his mission, he added: + +"I'd been such a lovely liar all through, it's a shame I had to go an' +spoil the story by puttin' in some truth at the finish." + +They put up a wooden grave-mark where Blake was buried, and after his +name they cut in the wood this testimonial: + +"A tenderfoot that was some good to his folks at last." + + + + +XX. -- MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO + +Near the uneven road among the hills a small field of stony ground lay +between woods and cultivated land. Nothing grew upon it and no house +could be seen from it. The sun beat upon it and crows flew over it to +and from the woods. + +Along the road trudged a thin old negro with stooping back and gray +wool. His knees were bent and his cumbrously shod feet pointed far +outward from his line of progress. He wore an aged frock coat and +a battered stiff hat, although the month was June. His small face, +beginning with a smoothly curved forehead and ending with a cleanly +cut chin, was mild and conciliating, shiny, and of the colour of light +chocolate. He carried a tin bucket full of cherries. Pop Thornberry was +returning to the town. + +Pop, whose proper name was Moses, and who was a deacon in the African +Methodist Church, made his living this way and that way. He did odd jobs +for people, and he fished and hunted when fishing and hunting were in +season. + +On this June day he had risen early and walked three miles to pick +cherries "on shares." He had picked ten quarts and left four of them +with the farmer whose trees had produced them. At six cents a quart he +would profit thirty-six cents by his walk of six miles and his work of a +half-day. + +The sun was scorching and Pop was tired. He decided to rest in the +barren field, at its very edge in shade of the woods. He climbed +the zigzag fence with some labour and at the expense of a few of his +cherries. He sat down upon a little knob of earth, took off his hat, +drew a red handkerchief from the inside thereof, and slowly wiped his +perspiring brow. + +He looked up at the sky, which was so brightly blue that it made his +eyes blink. He sought optical relief in the dark green of the woods. +Then, in steadying his pail of cherries between his legs, he turned his +glance to the ground in front of him. + +His attention was caught by a lump of earth that sparkled at points In +the sun's rays, a mere clod composed of clay and mica, lying In the +dry bed of a bygone streamlet. Because it glittered he picked it up and +examined it. After a time he bethought him that he was yet two and a +half miles from town and very hungry. He arose, somewhat stiff, and put +the shining clod in his coat-tail pocket. On his way back to the road +he noticed other little earth lumps that shone. He resumed his walk +townward, his knees shaking regularly at every step, as was their wont. + +At three o'clock in the afternoon he had reached home, sold his +cherries, and dined on dried beef and bread in his little unpainted +wooden house on the edge of the creek at the back of the town. + +He owned his house and a small lot upon which it stood. Near it was a +flour-mill, whose owner held a mortgage upon Pop's house and lot. The +old negro had been compelled to borrow $200 to pay bills incurred during +the illness and subsequent funeral of the late Mrs. Thornberry, and thus +to avoid a sheriff's sale. Hence came the mortgage. It would expire +on the 10th of September. Pop was almost ready to meet that date. He +already had $192 hidden in his cellar, unknown to any one. + +He had heard rumours of the mill-owner's desire to build an addition +to his mill. To do this would necessitate the acquisition of contiguous +property. But Pop had not suspected any ulterior motive when the miller +had offered to lend him the money. + +"I kin soon lay by 'nuff t' pay off d' mohgage, w'en I ain't got no one +but m'se'f t' puvvide foh no moah," he had said, after the loan had been +made. + +And, having dined on this June day, he took twenty cents from the amount +received for cherries and placed it in a cigar-box to be added to the +$192. He kept that sixteen cents with which to purchase provisions +for to-morrow, and then he walked down the quiet street to the railway +station. He often made a dime by carrying some one's satchel from the +station to the hotel. + +The railroad division superintendent, a well-fed and easy-going man, +came down from his office on the second floor of the station building +and saw Pop sitting on a baggage-truck. The old negro, forgetful of the +clod in his coat-tail pocket, had felt it when he sat down. He had taken +it out of his pocket and was now casually looking at it as he held it in +his hand. + +"Hello, Pop!" said the division superintendent, upon whose hand time was +hanging heavily. "What have you there?" + +"Doan' know, Mistah Monroe. Doan' know, sah. Looks like jes' a chunk o' +mud." + +He held out the clod to Mr. Monroe. + +The spectacle of the division superintendent talking to the old negro +attracted a group of lazy fellows,--the driver of an express wagon, +the man who hauls the mail to the post-office, a boy who sold fruit to +passengers on the train, two porters, with tin signs upon their hats, +who solicited patronage from the hotels. + +"Why, Pop," said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, "this +lump looks as though it contained gold." + +"Yes," put in the expressman, "that's how gold comes in a mine. I've +often handled it. That's the stuff, sure." + +The fruit-selling boy and the mail-man grinned. Pop Thornberry opened +wide his mouth and eyes and softly repeated the word: + +"Goal!" + +"I'd be careful of it," advised Mr. Monroe, handing the clod back to the +negro. + +Pop took it with a trembling hand and looked at it. Presently he asked: + +"W'at'll you give me foh dat air goal, Mistah Monroe." + +"Oh, a piece like that would be no use to me. It has to be washed and it +wouldn't be worth while putting just one piece through the whole process +of cleaning. Now. If you have a lot of it, we might go into partnership +in the gold business." + +Before the old man could answer to this pleasantry a whistle was heard +up the track, and Pop was forgotten in the excitement attending the +arrival of the train. + +Dislodged from the baggage-truck, the old man looked around for Mr. +Monroe, but the superintendent had disappeared. Pop did not seek to +carry any satchels that day. His mind was full of other matters. He went +behind the station and sat down beside the river. + +"Goal!" That meant proper tombstones for the graves of his wife and +children, a new pulpit for the African Methodist Church, equal to that +of the African Baptist Church, future ease for his somewhat weary legs +and arms and back. + +The next afternoon the division superintendent found himself awaited at +his office door by Pop Thornberry, who was very dusty and who carried +a basket heavy with clods of clay and mica. He had been out to the arid +field that morning. + +"H-sh!" whispered Pop. "Doan' say a word, Mistah Monroe! Hyah's a lot o' +dem air goal lumps, and I know weah dey's bushels moah,--plenty 'nuff to +go into pahtnehship on." + +The superintendent, looked bewildered, then amused, then ashamed. +Embarrassed for a reply, he finally said: + +"I haven't time to talk to you now, Pop. Besides, I've made up my mind +not to go into the gold business. You see, I'm rich enough already. Good +day." + +Thereafter Pop lay in wait for Mr. Monroe daily, but the superintendent +always avoided him. Pop neglected to earn his living and spent his +time going about town with his basket of clods in search of the +superintendent. Finally being openly ignored by Mr. Monroe when the two +met face to face, Pop became angry and took his secret to a jeweller +on Main Street. The jeweller laughed and told Pop that the gold in the +basket must be worth at least a thousand dollars, but he was not in a +position to buy crude gold. Then the jeweller made known to many that +Pop Thornberry was crazy over some lumps of mud and mica that he mistook +for gold. + +After that, people would stop Pop on the street and say: + +"Let's see a piece of the gold in your basket." + +Pop, astonished that his secret was out, but somewhat proud at being +thought the possessor of a treasure, would hesitate and then comply. +The small boys soon recognized in Pop's delusion a new means of fun. +Observing the solicitude with which he watched his clod while out of his +own hands, they would innocently ask for a glimpse into his basket. This +granted, they would grasp a piece of his treasure and run away, greatly +annoying the old man, who was in a state of keen distress until he +recovered the abstracted clod. These affairs between Pop and the +boys were of hourly recurrence. They diverted barroom loungers and +passers-by. + +Pop called on one local capitalist after another, seeking one who would +buy his gold or aid into preparing it for the market. All laughed at +his delusion, deeming it harmless, and all gave him good reason for not +accepting his offer of business partnership. So he went from the bank +president to the baker, from the member of congress for whom he had +voted to the barber, from the hotel proprietor to the bartender. The +negroes of the town, feeling that their race was humiliated in Pop, +began to hold aloof from him. No serious-minded person who learned of +his delusion gave it a second thought. + +"Say Pop, where do you get this gold, anyhow?" asked a tobacco-chewing +gamin at the railroad station one day. + +"Dat's my business," replied Thornberry, with some dignity. + +"Oh," said his questioner, "I know. Tobe McStenger followed you out the +other day and saw where you got it. He'd a brung some in hisself, but it +wasn't on his property." + +"Yes, Pop, you better look out," put in a telegraph operator, "or you'll +be taken up for trespassing. 'Tisn't your land, you know, where you find +your gold." + +There was no truth in the assertion of the gamin. No one had taken the +trouble to follow Pop in his semiweekly excursions to the barren field. +But the old man knew that the field was not his. A ludicrous expression +of overwhelming fright came over his face. + +Three days afterward, the farmer who owned the worthless field was +astonished when Pop offered to buy it. + +"But what on earth do you want that land fer?" asked the farmer, sitting +on his barnyard fence. + +Pop made a guilty attempt to appear guileless, and told the farmer that +he wished to build a shanty and raise potatoes. He was tired of living +in town and sought the quietude of the hills. + +"Bein' as dat ere fiel' ain't good foh much, I thought you might be +willin' to paht with it," explained Pop. + +The farmer eventually agreed to build a shanty on the field and sell +it to Pop for $180. Pop desired immediate occupancy. There was a legal +hitch, owing to the badness of the land and the questionable condition +of Pop's mind. But the transfer of the property was finally recorded. + +Pop no longer had to fear arrest for trespass. His gold field was now +legally his. But he was still kept uneasy by his inability to make his +gold marketable. His uneasiness increased as September approached. He +had applied to the purchase of the field the sum saved to cancel the +mortgage upon his house at the rear end of the town. + +The three days before the foreclosure of the mortgage were days of +exquisite anguish to Pop. When the foreclosure came and he and his +goods were turned out on the banks of the creek to make room for the +mill-owner's improvements, his mental turmoil ended. He took the crisis +calmly. + +"Jes' wait," he said to a neighbour who had stopped at sight of the +moving-out. "Wait till I get dat ere goal on de mahket. I'll bull' a +mill dat'll drive dis yer mill out o' d' business. Den I'll done buy +back dis yer ol' home." + +But the next day, when the unexpected happened,--when builders began to +tear down his house,--the enormity of his deed dawned upon him. After a +day of moaning and staring, as he sat amidst his household goods on +the bank of the creek, he became animated by a deep rage against the +mill-owner. Now more than ever had he a special purpose for enriching +himself by means of his treasure across the hill. + +The coming of two circuses in succession had taken the interest of the +boys away from Pop during August and part of September. Now they turned +again to him for amusement. First they besieged the abandoned stable to +which he had conveyed his goods, and in which he slept,--for he had not +found will to betake himself from the town he had so long inhabited, and +his shanty in the field remained unoccupied. His purchase of the land +had betrayed to general knowledge the location of his treasure, of which +he continued to bring in new specimens. + +One October day he had just come from vainly attempting to induce the +postmaster to join him in the enterprise of exploiting his gold-field. +In front of the post-office, he was met by some boys coming noisily from +school. They surrounded him and demanded to see the gold in his basket. +As the town policeman was sauntering up the street, Pop felt safe in +refusing. The boys, also observing the officer of the law, contented +themselves with retaliating in words only, + +"Say, Pop," cried one of them, "you'd better keep an eye on your +gold-field. Nick Hennessey knows where it is, and he's gittin' up a +diggin' party to take a wagon out some night and bring away all your +gold." + +The boys, laughing at this quickly invented announcement, ran off after +a hand-organ. The old man stood perfectly still, or as nearly so as the +feebleness of his legs would permit. + +That evening Pop was missing from the town. And when Abraham Wesley, who +had often lent his shotgun to the old man, went to look for that weapon, +intending to shoot glass balls in the fairgrounds across the river, the +fowling-piece too was missing. + +Pop had gone out to protect his possession. Three nights passed and +three days. The few country folk and others who travelled that way +during this time saw the old man walking about in his field or sitting +in front of his shanty, his shotgun on his shoulders, his eyes fixed +suspiciously on all who might become intruders. Night and day he +patrolled his little domain. + +At dusk of the third day a lively party was returning to the town in +a wagon from a search for nuts. The full moon was rising and the +merrymakers were singing. One of the girls was thirsty. When she saw the +shanty in the rugged field, she asked a young man to get her a glass of +water at the hut. The wagon stopped and the youth climbed astride the +rail fence. Suddenly an unnaturally shrill and excited voice was heard: + +"Hyah, you, doan' come no farder! Dese yer's my premises!" + +From behind the empty shanty appeared the thin old negro, bareheaded, +his shotgun at his shoulder, a striking figure against the rising moon. + +The young man descended from the fence into the field. There came a +flash and a crack from Pop Thornberry's gun. The youth felt the sting of +a piece of birdshot in his leg. Howling and limping, he turned quickly +over the fence into the wagon, which made a hasty flight. + +The next morning some idlers went out from the town to the scene of the +adventure. They found the old man lying hatless in the middle of +the field, face downwards, upon the shotgun. He had died of sheer +exhaustion, on guard--and on his own land, as befit an honest citizen +who had never intruded upon the peace of other men. + + + + +XXI. -- AT THE STAGE DOOR + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_.Copyright, 1892, by J. B. +Lippincott Company.] + +First let me explain how I came to be sitting in so unsavoury a place as +Gorson's "fifteen cent oyster and chop house" that night. Most newspaper +men--the rank and file--receive remuneration by the week. Those not +given over to domesticity, those who enjoy that alluring regularity +identical with liberty, fare sumptuously, as a rule, on "pay-day." +Thereafter the quantity and quality of the good things of life that they +enjoy diminish daily until the next pay-day. + +Pay-day with us was Friday. This was Thursday night. I having gone to +unusual lengths of good cheer in the early part of that week, had +now fallen low, and was duly thankful for what I could get--even at +Gorson's. + +As my glance wandered over my table, over the beer-bottles and the +oysters, beyond the crowd of ravenous and vulgar eaters and hurrying +waiters, to the street door, some one opened that door from the outside +and entered. An odd looking personage this some one. + +A person very tall and conspicuously thin. These peculiarities were +accentuated by the dilapidated frock coat that reached to his knees, and +thus concealed the greater portion of his gray summer trousers, which +"bagged" exceedingly and were picturesquely frayed at the bottom edges, +as I could see when he came nearer to me. He wore a faded straw hat, +which looked forlorn, as the month was January. His face, despite +its angularity of outline and its wanness, had that expression of +complacency which often relieves from pathos the countenances of +harmlessly demented people. His hair was gray, but his somewhat +formidable looking moustache was still dark. He carried an unadorned +walking-stick and under his left arm was what a journalistic eye +immediately recognized as manuscript. From the man's aspect of extreme +poverty, I deduced that his manuscripts were never accepted. + +As he passed the cashier's desk, he stopped, lowered his body, not by +stooping in the usual way, but by bending his knees, and with a quick +sweep of his eyes by way of informing himself whether or not he was +observed, he picked up a cigar stump that some one had dropped there. + +Then he walked with a rather shambling but self-important gait to the +table next mine, carefully placed his manuscript upon a chair, and +sat down upon it. He was soon lost in a prolonged contemplation of the +limited bill of fare posted on the wall, a study which resulted in +his ordering, through a hustling, pugnacious-looking waiter, a bowl of +oatmeal. + +A bowl of oatmeal is the least expensive item on the bill of fare at +Gorson's. When I hear a man ordering oatmeal in a cheap eating-house, my +heart aches for him. I had just the money and the intention to procure +another bottle of beer and another box of cigarettes. The sum required +to obtain these necessaries of life is exactly the price of a bowl of +oatmeal and a steak at Gorson's. So I hastily arose to go, and on my +way out I had a brief conversation with the bellicose-appearing waiter, +which resulted in my unknown friend's being overwhelmed with amazement +later when the waiter brought him a warm steak with his oatmeal and said +that some one else had already paid his bill. I did not wait to witness +this result, for the man looked one of the sort to put forth a show of +indignation at being made an object of charity. + +An hour later I saw him walking with an air of consequence up Broadway, +smoking what was probably the bit of cigar he had picked up in the +restaurant. He still carried his manuscript, which was wrapped in a +soiled blue paper. As I was hurrying up-town on an assignment for the +newspaper, I could not observe his movements further than to see that +when he reached Fourteenth Street he made for one of the benches in +Union Square. + +It was by the size, shape, and blue cover that I recognized that +manuscript two days later upon the desk of the editor of the Sunday +supplementary pages of the paper, as I was submitting to that personage +a "special" I had written upon the fertile theme, "Producing a +Burlesque." + +"May I ask what that stuff is wrapped in blue?" + +"Certainly. A crank in the last stages of alcoholism and mental +depression brought it in yesterday. It's an idiotic jumble about +Beautiful Women of History, part in prose and part in doggerel." + +"Of course you'll reject it?" + +"Naturally. I'll ease his mind by telling him the subject lacks +contemporaneousness. Have a cigarette? By the way, have you any special +interest in the rubbish?" + +"No; I only think I've seen it before somewhere. What's the writer's +name and address?" + +"It's to be called for. He didn't leave any address. From that fact and +his appearance, I infer that he doesn't have any permanent abode. Here's +his name,--Ernest Ruddle. Not half as much individuality in the name as +in the man. I remember him because he had a straw hat on." + +The burlesque production which had served as material for my Sunday +article saw the light for the first time on the following Monday night. +There being no other theatrical novelty in New York that night, the +town--represented by the critics and the sporting and self-styled +Bohemian elements--was there. The performance was to have a popular +comedian as the central figure, and was to serve, also, to reintroduce +a once favourite comic-opera prima donna, who had been abroad for some +years. This stage queen had once beheld the town at her feet. She +had abdicated her throne in the height of her glory, having made the +greatest success of her career on a certain Monday night, and having +disappeared from New York on Tuesday, shortly afterward materializing in +Paris. + +There was abundant curiosity awaiting the appearance of Louise Moran, as +the playbills called her. It was whispered, to be sure, by some who had +seen her in burlesque in London, after her flight from America, that she +had grown a bit passee; but this was refuted by the interviewers who had +met her on her return and had duly chronicled that she looked "as rosy +and youthful as ever." Brokers, gilded youth, all that curious lot +of masculinity classified under the general head of "men about town," +crowded into the theatre that night, and when, after being heralded at +length by the chorus, the returned prima donna appeared, in shining drab +tights, she had a long and noisy reception. + +My friendly acquaintance with the leading comedian and the stage manager +had served to obtain for me an unusual privilege,--that of witnessing +the first night's performance from the wings. As I looked out across +the stage and the footlights, and saw the sea of faces in the yellowish +haze, a familiar visage held my eye. It was in the front row of the top +gallery, and was projected far over the railing, putting its owner in +some risk of decapitation. An intent look on the pale countenance at +once distinguished it from the terrace of uninteresting, monotonous +faces that rose back of it. The face was that of my man of the +restaurant and of the blue-covered manuscript. + +I stood, somewhat in the way of the light man, where my eye could +command most of the stage, and a brief section of the auditorium, from +parquet to roof. The star of the evening, having rattled off, with much +sang-froid and a London intonation, a few lines of thinly humourous +dialogue, came toward the footlights to sing. While the conductor of +the orchestra poised his baton and cast an apprehensive look at her, she +began: + + "I'm one of the swells + Whose accent tells + That we've done the Contenong." + +When she had sung only to this point, people in the audience were +exchanging significant smiles. There was no doubt of it; Louise Moran's +voice had lost its beauty. The years and joys of life abroad had done +their work. We now knew why she had given up comic opera and had gone +into burlesque. The house was so taken by surprise that at the end of +her second stanza, where applause should have come, none came. There was +no occasion for her to draw upon her supply of "encore verses." + +Unprepared for the chilling silence that followed her song, she bestowed +upon the audience a look of mingled astonishment, pain, and resentment. +But she recovered self-possession promptly and delivered the few spoken +lines preceding her exit gaily enough. Her face clouded as soon as she +was off the stage. She abused her maid in her dressing-room and sent the +comedian's "dresser" out for some troches. The state of her mind was +not improved by the sound of a hail-storm-like sound that came from +the direction of the stage shortly after,--the applause at the leading +comedian's entrance. + +As the newspapers said the next day, the only honours of that +performance were with the comedian. The star of Louise Moran had set. +Not only was her singing-voice a ruin, but the actress had grown coarse +in visage. The once willowy outlines of her figure had rounded vulgarly. +On the face, audacity had taken place of piquancy. Even the dark gray +eyes, which somehow seemed black across the footlights, had lost some +lustre. + +Why had the once lovely creature come back from Europe to disturb the +memories of her other radiant self, and to turn those dainty photographs +of her earlier person into lies? + +Every man in the house was thinking this question at the end of the +first act. + +She had another solo to sing in the second act. It was while she was +attempting this that my glance strayed to the man in the gallery. His +face this time surprised me. + +It wore a look of ineffable sympathy and sorrow. Surely tears were +falling from the sad eyes. + +This pity touched me. It was so solitary. The feeling of the rest of the +audience was plainly one of resentful derision at being disappointed. + +After the performance I waited for the comedian. He was called before +the curtain and a speech was extorted from him. There were but a few +faint cries for the actress, to which she did not respond. She had +summoned the manager to her dressing-room. While she hastily assumed +her wraps for the street, she was excitedly complaining of the musical +director "for not knowing his business," the comedian for "interfering" +in her scenes, the composer for writing the music too high, and the +librettist for supplying such "beastly rubbish" in the way of dialogue. + +"Very well; I'll call a rehearsal to-morrow at ten," the conciliatory +manager replied. "You talk to Myers" (the musical director) "yourself +about it. And you can introduce those two songs you speak of. Myers will +fix the other music to suit your voice." + +"And you start Elliott to write over the libretto at once," she +commanded, "and see that that song and dance clown" (the comedian) +"never comes on the stage when I'm on, if it can be helped, or I won't +go on at all. That's settled!" + +The comedian and I left the stage door together. The actress's cab was +waiting at the opposite side of the dark alley-like street upon which +the stage door opened. This street or court, stretching its gloomy way +from a main street, is a place of tall warehouses, rear walls, and bad +paving. The electric light at its point of junction with the main street +does not penetrate half-way to the stage entrance, and the blackness +thereabout is diluted with the rays of the lonely, indifferent gas-lamp +that projects above the old wooden door. Farther on, an old-fashioned +street-lamp marks the place where the alley turns to wind about until it +eventually reaches another main street. + +This dark region, the feeble lamp above the stage door, the shadows +opposite, have a peculiar charm, especially at night. One would not +think that within that door is a short corridor leading to the mystic +realm which the people "in front" idealize into a wonderful inaccessible +country, the playworld. Back here, especially on a rainy night and +before the playworld's inhabitants begin to sally forth to partake of +terrestrial beer and sandwiches, one seems millions of miles away from +the crowds of men and women in the theatre and from the illumined street +in front. + +The ordinary world, when passing this strange place, peers in curiously +from the main street. Sometimes folks wait at the corner of the street +to see the stage people come out. If the piece is a burlesque or a comic +opera, much life moves in the darkness back here. Light comes from the +up-stairs windows of the theatre, the dressing rooms of the subordinate +players being up there. Snatches of song from feminine throats, mere +trills sometimes, isolated fragments of melody, break into the silence. +These are always numerous during the half-hour after the performance and +before the actors have left the theatre. Chorus girls in ulsters emerge +in troops, usually by twos, from the door beneath the light, and it is +constantly opening and shutting. In the gloom opposite the door hover a +few bold youths, suddenly become timid, smoking cigarettes and trying +to look like men of the world. As the comedian and I came forth, one of +these young men struck a match to light a cigarette. The momentary flash +attracted my eye, and I saw in the farthest shadow, with his gaze upon +the stage door, my man of the restaurant, and the manuscript, and the +gallery. If possible, he looked more haggard than before, and, as it was +cold, he shivered perceptibly. + +"Whom can he be waiting for, I wonder?" I said, aloud. + +The comedian, thinking that I alluded to the cabman, half-asleep upon +his seat, replied, as he turned up the collar of his overcoat: + +"Oh, he's waiting for Miss Moran. She didn't always go home from the +theatre in a cab. She acquired the habit abroad, I suppose. How she's +changed. I knew her in other days." + +"Really? I didn't know that. Tell me about her." + +"It's a common story. She's the result of a mercenary mother's schemes. +She's not as old as people think, you know. Her career has been +eventful, which makes it seem long. But I was in the cast, playing a +small part in the first play she ever appeared in, and that was only +twelve years ago. She was about twenty-one then. She waited on customers +in her mother's little stationery store, until one day she eloped with a +poor young fellow whom she loved, in order to escape a rich old man whom +her mother had selected for a son-in-law. She could have endured +poverty well enough, if the mother hadn't done the +'I--forgive--and--Heaven--bless--you--my--children' act, after which she +succeeded in making the girl quarrel with her husband continually. She +was a schemer, that mother. A theatrical manager, whom she knew, was +introduced to the girl, who was more beautiful then than ever afterward. +The mother managed to have the girl's husband discharged from the bank +where he was employed on the same day that the manager made the girl an +offer to go on the stage. The boy naturally wanted to keep his wife with +him, but the mother told him he was a fool. + +"'I'll travel with her,' she said, 'and you stay here and get another +situation.' The wife, intoxicated at the prospects of stage triumphs, +urged, and the boy gave in. + +"A year or so after that, the girl had drifted completely out of the +husband's life, as they say in society plays, the mother managed to +bring about the estrangement so promptly. + +"The husband stayed at home and got work in a railroad office or +somewhere, so as to earn money with which to drink himself to death--I +say, let's go in here and eat. If we go to the club, I'll be bored to +death with congratulations." + +We turned into a lighted vestibule and mounted the stairs to a modest +little cafe over a Broadway saloon. There, over the cigars and Pilsner +presently the comedian continued the story: + +"When the husband learned that to his charming mother-in-law's +machinations he owed the loss of his position and his wife, he bided his +time, like a sensible fellow, and one day he called upon the old lady at +her flat. Without a word, he proceeded to pull out much of her hair and +otherwise to disfigure her permanently, which, as she was a vain woman, +made her miserable the rest of her days. Then he disappeared, and has +not been heard of since. It seems strange the thing never got into the +newspapers. By the way, you won't print this story, my boy, until she or +I leave the profession." + +"Why not? Are you the only man who knows it?" + +"No; it was general gossip in the profession at that time." + +"How did you get it so straight?" + +"She told me. I knew her well in those days. Oh, use the story if you +like, only don't credit it to me. She's very mad because I made a hit +to-night and she didn't." + +"But what was the name of her husband?" + +"Poor devil!--his name was--what was it, anyhow? By Jove, I can't think +of it! It'll come back to me, though, and I'll let you know later. He +had literary aspirations, by the way. She used to laugh at the poetry he +had written about her. Poor boy!" + +The next night, radical changes having been effected in the burlesque, +the prima donna made a more creditable showing. I happened to be at the +stage door again when she came out with her maid after the performance, +as I had under my guidance one of the newspaper's artists, who had been +making some sketches of life behind the scenes. She was in a gayer mood +than that in which she had been on the previous night. + +As she was entering the cab, I heard a muffled exclamation, which came +from the shadow opposite the stage door. Dimly in that shadow could +be seen a form with arms outstretched toward the woman, as in an +involuntary gesture. The cab rolled away. The form emerged from the +darkness and wearily strode by. It was that of my manuscript man. He had +the same straw hat, stick, and frock coat. + +"That queer old chap must be really in love with her," I thought, +smiling. Such things often happen. I knew a gallery god--but that will +keep. Evidently here was an amusing case, not without its aspect of +pathos. + +Being in that vicinity on the following night, I strolled up to the +stage door, merely to see whether the straw hat would be there again. +There it was, patiently waiting, scourged by the most ferocious of +January winds. + +Doubtless the man came here every night to catch a glimpse of his +divinity. He was quite unobtrusive, and I was probably the only one who +noticed his constant attendance. I learned at the newspaper office that +he had called for the rejected manuscript bearing his name,--Ernest +Ruddle. Then for a time I neither saw nor thought of him. + +One night, in the last of January,--the coldest of that savage +winter,--I happened again to be in the corridor leading to the stage +door, having come from within the theatre in advance of my friend the +comedian, with whom I was to have supper at the Actors' Athletic Club. +The actress's cab was waiting. The dark little portion of the world back +there was deserted. + +Along the corridor, through which the sound of chorus girls' laughter +came, strolled the comedian, his cigar already lighted and behind it his +cheerful, hearty, smooth-shaven visage appearing ruddy from the recent +washing off of "make-up." + +"Hello!" he began, thrusting his hand into his overcoat pockets. "By +the way, while I think of it, I just passed Miss Moran coming from the +dressing-room, and suddenly that name came back to me, the name of her +husband. It was a peculiar name,--Ernest Ruddle." + +Ernest Ruddle! the name on the manuscript! The man of the restaurant and +the gallery, the tears, the waiting at the stage door, were explained +now. Ere we reached the stage door, the actress herself appeared in the +corridor, on the arm of her maid. She was laughing, rather coarsely. We +stepped aside to let her pass out into the night. + +"So the manager said he'd give me $50 more on the road," she was saying, +"and I said he would have to make it $75 more--gracious! what's this?" + +She had stumbled over something just outside the threshold of the stage +door. Her companion stooped, while the actress jumped aside and looked +down at the large black object with both fright and curiosity. + +"It's a man," said the maid; "drunk, or asleep, or dead. He looks +frozen. He's a tramp, I guess; hurry away! We'll tell the policeman on +the corner." + +The actress passed on, with a final look of half-aversion, half-pity, at +the prostrate body. The comedian and I were both by that body within two +seconds. + +"Frozen or starved, sure!" said the comedian. "Poor beggar! Look at his +straw hat. Observe his death-clutch on the cane." + +From down the alley came two sounds: one was a policeman's approaching +footsteps; the other, of a woman's laughter. What, to be sure, was the +dead or drunken body of an unknown vagabond to her? + +And it seems strange that I, who never exchanged speech with either the +woman or the man, was the only one in the world who might recognize in +the momentary contact of the living with the dead, a dramatic situation. + + + + +XXII. -- "POOR YORICK" + + +[Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_. Copyright, 1892, by J.B. +Lippincott Company.] + +The name by which he was indicated on the playbills was Overfield. His +real name was buried in the far past. By several members of the company +to which he belonged he was often called "Poor Yorick." + +I asked the leading juvenile of the company--young Bridges, who was +supposed to attract women to the theatre, and for whose glorification +"The Lady of Lyons" was sometimes revived at matinees--how the old man +had acquired the nickname. + +"I gave it to him myself last season," replied Bridges, loftily. "Can't +you guess why? You remember the graveyard scene in 'Hamlet.' The skull +of Yorick, you know, had lain in the earth three and twenty years. +Yorick had been dead that long. Well, the old man had been dead for +about the same length of time,--professionally dead, I mean. See?" + +It was true that, so far as being known by the world went, the old man +was as good, or as bad, as dead. He no longer played other than quite +unimportant parts. + +It was said by some one that he was the poorest actor and the noblest +man in the country; a statement commended by Jennison, an Englishman who +usually played villains, to this, that his were the worst art and best +heart in the profession. + +Poor Yorick was a thin man, with a smooth, gentle face, lamblike blue +eyes, and curling gray locks that receded gracefully from his forehead. +He had just an individualizing amount of the pomposity characteristic +of many old-time actors. He was not known to have any living kin. He +permitted himself one weakness, a liking for whiskey, an indulgence +which was never noticed to have brought appreciable harm upon him. + +Once I asked him when he had made his debut. He answered, "When Joe +Jefferson was still young and before Billie Crane was heard of." + +"In what role?" + +"As four soldiers," he replied. + +"How could that be?" + +He explained that he had first appeared as a super in a military drama, +marching as a soldier. The procession, in order to create an illusion +of length, had passed across the stage and back, the return being made +behind the scenes four times continuously in the same direction. + +The old man took uncomplainingly to the name applied to him by Bridges. +He must have known what it implied, for surely he could not have +mistaken himself for "a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent +fancy." His non-resentment was but an evidence of his good nature, for +he was aware that it was not a very general custom of actors to give +each other nicknames, and that his case was an exception. + +When he was playing the insignificant part of the old family servant of +a New York banker, in the most successful comedy of that season, he came +to know Bridges better than ever before. Poor Yorick had little more +to do in the play than to come on and turn up some light, arrange some +papers on a desk, go off, and afterward return and lower the light. +Bridges was doing the role of the bank clerk in love with the banker's +daughter. Yorick and Bridges, through some set of circumstances or +other, were sharers of the same dressing-room. + +Upon a certain Wednesday, and after a matinee, the two were in their +dressing-room, hastily washing up their faces and putting on their +street clothes. Said the old man: + +"Did you notice the pretty little girl in the upper box? She reminds me +of--" here his voice fell and took on suddenly a tone of sadness--"of +some one I knew once, long ago." + +Bridges, drying his face with a towel before the big mirror, did not +observe the old man's change of voice, nor did he heed the last part of +the sentence. + +"Notice her?" he answered, with a touch of triumphant vanity in his +manner of speech. "I should say I did. She was there on my account. +I'm going to make a date with her for supper after the performance +to-night." + +Old Overfield, sitting on a trunk, stared at Bridges in surprise. + +"Do you know her?" he asked. + +"No," replied the leading juvenile. "That is, I have never met her, but +she's been writing me mash notes lately, asking for a meeting. In the +last one she said she could get away from her house this evening, as her +father's out of town and her mother is going over to Philadelphia this +afternoon. So she invited me to have supper with her to-night, and was +good enough to say she'd occupy that box this afternoon, so I could see +what she was like. Didn't you observe her embarrassment when I came on +the stage? I paid no attention to her first letter. But, having seen +her, you bet I'll answer the last one right away. Don't you wish you +were me, old fellow?" + +The old fellow stood up and looked at Bridges severely. + +"Yes, I do wish I were you,--just long enough to see that you don't +answer that girl's letter. Surely you don't mean to!" + +"Hello! What have you got to do with it? Do you know the young woman?" + +"No, I don't. But I can easily guess all about her. She's some romantic +little girl, still pure and good, afflicted with one of those idiotic +infatuations for an actor, which is sure to bring trouble to her if +you don't behave like a white man. You want to show her the idiocy of +writing those letters, by ignoring them. You know that actors who care +to do themselves and the profession credit make it a rule never to +answer a letter from a girl like that, unless to give her a word of +advice. Come, my boy, don't disgrace yourself and profession. Don't +spoil the life of a pretty but foolish girl who, if you do the right +thing, will soon repent her silliness, and make some square young fellow +a good wife." + +Bridges had continued to dress himself during this long speech, assuming +a show of contemptuous indignation as it progressed. When Overfield, +astonished at his own eloquence, had subsided, the young man replied, in +a quiet but rather insolent tone: + +"Look here, old man, don't try to work the Polonius racket on me. I +don't like advice, and I'm going to meet that girl, see? She arranged +the whole thing herself; she's to be at a certain spot at eleven-thirty +P.M. with a cab. All I've got to do is to signify my assent in a single +line, which I'm going to write and send by messenger as soon as I get +out of here. Of course, if the girl was a friend of yours, it would be +different, but she isn't, and if you want to remain on good terms with +me, you won't put in your oar. Now that's all settled." + +"Is it? Well, young man, I don't want to remain on good terms with +anybody I can't respect. I can't respect a man who would take advantage +of a love-struck girl's ignorance of life. If you meet her, you will +simply be obtaining favours on false pretences, anyhow, for you know +you're not really half the fascinating, romantic, clever youth that you +seem when you're on the stage speaking another man's thoughts. That girl +is probably good, and she looks like some one I used to know. If I can +save her, I will, by thunder!" + +"Really, old man, you're quite worked up. If you could act half that +well on the stage, you'd be doing lead, instead of dusting furniture +while the audience gets settled in its seats." + +Old Yorick stood for a moment speechless, stung by the insult. Then he +took up his hat, excitedly, and left the dressing-room without a word. + +Some of the other members of the company wondered at the angry, flushed +look on his face when he hurried through the corridor to the stage door. +A few minutes later he was seen walking down the street, apparently much +heated in mind. When he reached a certain cafe he went in, sat down, and +called for whiskey. He remained alone in deep thought, mechanically +and unconsciously answering the salutations bestowed upon him by two or +three acquaintances who strolled in. Suddenly he nodded thrice, as if +denoting the acquiescence of his judgment in some plan of action +formed by his inventive faculty. He rose quickly, paid his bill at the +cashier's desk, and moved rapidly across the street to the ---- Hotel. +Passing in through a broad entrance, he turned aside to a writing-room, +where, without removing his soft hat, he sat down at a desk. + +He was soon immersed in the composition of a letter, which caused him +many contractions of the brow, many lapses during which he abstractedly +stared at vacancy, many fresh beginnings, and the whole of the two hours +allowed him before the evening's performance for dinner. + +When he had finished the letter, he carefully read it, and made a few +corrections. Then he folded it up, put it in an envelope, and placed +it unsealed in his inside coat pocket. He arose with an expression of +resolution about his eyes that was quite new there. + +Ascertaining by the clock in the thronged main corridor that the time +was ten minutes after seven, the old man rushed into the cafe, where he +devoured hastily a chicken croquette, and swallowed a cup of coffee +and a glass of whiskey before starting to the theatre. He was in his +dressing-room and in his shirt-sleeves, touching up his eyebrows, when +Bridges arrived. A cool greeting passed between the two. + +"You sent the note?" asked the old man. + +"What note?" gruffly queried Bridges, taking off his coat. + +"To that girl." + +"Most certainly." + +A curious look, unobserved by Bridges, shot from Poor Yorick's eyes. It +seemed to say, "Wait, things may happen that you're not looking for." + +At about the time when Bridges and Yorick were dressing for the +performance, a newspaper reporter, wishing to make a few notes of an +interview that had been accorded him by a politician staying in the +hotel at which the old man had written his long letter, went into the +writing-room and made use of the desk where the actor had sat earlier in +the evening. Several sheets of blank paper were scattered over it. One +of them contained almost a page of writing. Yorick had negligently left +it there. It was a beginning made by him before he had succeeded in +obtaining a satisfactory wording for his thoughts. This rejected opening +read: + +"My DEAR, FOOLISH YOUNG LADY:--Something has happened which prevents Mr. +Bridges from keeping the appointment with you, and you're much better +off on that account, for nothing but unhappiness can come to you if you +allow yourself to be carried out of your senses by your infatuation for +a man who has neither the brains nor the manliness which he seems to +have when playing parts that call for the mere simulation of these +gifts. Never make an appointment with a man you do not know, especially +a young and vain actor who has once got the worst of it in a divorce +suit. You'll be thankful some day for this advice, for I know what I +speak of. I was once, years ago, just such an actor. The woman got +into all sorts of trouble because she wrote me such letters as you have +written Bridges, and brought to an early end a life that might have been +very happy and youthful. Looked like you, and it is a memory of what she +lost and suffered that makes me wish to save you. My dear young ----" + +There were yet two lines to spare at the foot of the page. The newspaper +man, interested by the fragment, thrust it into his pocket. + +When Poor Yorick had finished his final scene in the comedy at the +----Theatre that night, he made haste to dress and to leave the +playhouse. But he loitered near the stage entrance, keeping in the +shadow on the other side of the alley, out of the range of the light +from the incandescent globe over the door. + +Bridges was slightly surprised, on returning to his dressing-room, to +find that Yorick had already gone. But he attributed this to the ill +feeling that had arisen on account of the intended meeting with the girl +of the letters and the box. + +The leading juvenile attired himself for the conquest carefully but +rapidly. When he was ready he surveyed his reflection complacently in +the long mirror, assuming the slightly languid look that he intended to +maintain during the first half-hour of the supper. He retained the dress +suit which he wore in the second and third act of the play, and which +he rarely displayed outside of the theatre. He flattered himself that +he was quite irresistible, and wondered whether she would take him to +Delmonico's or to some quiet little place. He indulged, too, in some +vague speculation as to what the supper might result in. The girl was +evidently of a rich family, but her people would doubtless never hear of +her making a match with him, that divorce affair being in recent memory. +A marriage was probably out of the question. However, the girl was a +beauty and this meeting was at least worth the trouble. So he donned his +coat and hat and swaggered out of the theatre. He had no sooner turned +from the alley upon which the stage door opened than Yorick, unnoticed +by him, darted out in pursuit. Ten minutes' walking brought the leading +juvenile near the spot where he was to be awaited by the girl in the +cab. Yorick, whose only means of ascertaining the place of meeting was +to follow Bridges, kept as near the young actor as was compatible +with safety from discovery by the latter. Bridges, strutting along +unconscious of Yorick's presence a few yards behind, had half-traversed +the deserted block of tall brown stone residences, when he saw a cab +standing at the corner ahead of him. He quickened his pace in such a +way as to warn the old man that the eventful moment was at hand. The cab +stood under an electric light before an ivy-grown church. + +Yorick, with noiseless steps, accelerated his gait. Bridges, as he +neared the cab, deflected his course toward the curbstone and threw his +head back impressively. This little action, interpreted rightly by the +pursuer, was the old man's cue. Yorick suddenly rushed forward with +surprising agility. + +Before Bridges could be seen by the occupant of the cab for which he was +making, he was dazed by a blow on the side of the head, just beneath +the ear, and knocked off his feet by a sound thump on the same spot. He +reeled, clutched at the air, and fell heavily upon the sidewalk. There +he lay stunned and silent. + +Yorick, not waiting to see what became of the man whom he had felled, +dashed forward to the cab. Opening the door, he caught a momentary +vision of a white, round face, with big, scared eyes, above a +palpitating mass of soft silk and fur, and against a black background. +He thrust toward her the letter, which he had quickly drawn from his +pocket, and whispered, huskily: + +"Mr. Bridges couldn't come. Here's a note." + +Then he slammed the cab door, and called out in a commanding tone: + +"Drive on there! Quick!" + +The cabman, who had evidently received directions in advance from the +girl, jerked his reins, and the cab moved forward, turned, and rattled +away, the horse at a brisk trot. + +Yorick speedily left the scene. At the next corner he met a policeman, +to whom he said: + +"There's a man lying on the sidewalk back there by the church. I don't +know whether he's drunk or not." + +He was off before the officer could detain him. + +Bridges spent the night in a station-house, recovering from the effects +of a fall, which the police attributed to drunkenness. Assuming that he +had received his blows from some masculine relative or admirer of the +girl, he gave a false account of the bruises when the next night he +asked the manager for a few nights of rest and enabled his understudy to +obtain a chance long coveted. + +The leading juvenile manifestly thought best not to attempt a renewal of +a flirtation with a young woman who had so formidable a protector; and +the girl herself, whatever became of her, addressed him no more epistles +of adoration, or of any sort whatever. + +Yorick got from the stage manager permission to change his +dressing-room. Thereafter he and Bridges maintained a mutual coolness, +until one day the leading juvenile, warmed by cocktails, melted, and +addressed the old man familiarly by his nickname. + +"Old fellow," said Bridges, over a cafe table, "when I come to play +Hamlet, I'll send for you to act Poor Yorick. You'd do it well. You're +always best, you know, in parts that don't require you to come on the +stage at all." + +The old man smiled grimly and then shrugged his shoulders at this +pleasantry. When he died the other day, he left a curious will, in +which, after naming several insignificant legacies, he bequeathed his +skull "to a so-called actor, one Charles Bridges, to be used by him in +the graveyard scene when he shall have become able to play Hamlet,--if +the skull be not disintegrated by that time." + + + + +XXIII. -- COINCIDENCE + +Max took us down into a German place into the bowels of the earth. It +was a bit of Berlin transplanted to Philadelphia and thriving beneath +a Teutonic eating-house. Imagine a great cellar, with stone floor, +ornamented ceiling, massive rectangular pillars of brown wood, +substantial tables, heavy mediaeval chairs, crossbeams bearing pictures +of peasant girls and lettered with sentiments of good cheer in German, +and walls covered with beer-mugs of every size and device. + +Scores of men sat talking at the tables, smoking, devouring sandwiches, +upturning their mugs of beer over the capacious receptacles provided by +nature. + +The mediaeval chairs appealed to the romanticism that lies beneath +Breffny's satirical exterior; and when Max called our attention to the +fact that the mugs of beer came through apertures from caves beneath the +street, we were content. + +For the hour, the problem of human happiness was solved for us three by +three foaming mugs, three sandwiches, and tobacco. + +Here communed we three, blown from various winds, to this local Bohemia: +Max, native of the free German City of Frankfort, operatic manager +in Rio Janeiro, musician in New York, Denver resident by adoption, +Philadelphia newspaperman by preference; Breffny, born in a Spanish +village, reared in Continental countries, professedly an Irishman, but +more than half-Latin in temperament and appearance, a cyclopedia for the +benefit of his friends, and myself. + +The talk ran to the imposture recently attempted by young Mr. Herdling, +who claimed that the dead body found at Tarrytown was that of his wife. + +"A very touching fake," said Max. + +"Yes; thanks to the skill of the reporters who wrote up his story," +cried Breffny. + +"We visited many morgues in search of her, Louise and I," said I, +quoting the most effective passage of the narrative. + +"I did know of one case of a husband starting off at random to find his +runaway wife," observed Breffny. + +"As there's yet an hour to midnight, we have time for one of your +stories." + +"I can tell this in five minutes. All I know of the story is the +beginning. No one ever heard of the end. It was like this: + +"When I lived in Glasgow, I knew a young fellow there who was timekeeper +in a shipyard. He was a very quiet, pleasant boy, so bashful that I used +to wonder how he had ever summoned the courage to propose to the pretty +Scotch girl who was his wife. As I got to know more of the pair, I +divined the secret. Although poor, he was of good Glasgow parentage, +while the wife had been a country girl so eager to get to the city that +she had courted him while he was on a visit to the village in which she +had lived. She had merely used him as a means for finding the life for +which she had longed. + +"How much he really loved her was never suspected until he came home one +evening and found that she had run away with the youngest son of one of +the proprietors of the shipyard. + +"He learned within a week that they had sailed for America. He packed a +valise, took the money that he had saved, and started out. + +"'But where are you going to look for them?' I asked him. + +"'To America,' he said, turning toward me, his face drawn and gaunt with +the grief that he had survived. + +"'But America is a vast country.' + +"'I will hunt till I find her.' + +"'And when you find her--you will not kill her, surely!' + +"'I will try to get her to come back to me.' + +"He took passage in the steerage, and I do not know what happened to him +after that." + +Each of us hid his emotions in his beer-mug. Then Max ordered fresh +mugs, and said that Breffny's story recalled a somewhat similar thing +that he had witnessed in Denver. + +"When I was a reporter out there, I was standing one evening in front +of a hotel. A crowd collected to see the body of a guest brought out and +placed upon an ambulance. + +"'Where are you taking him, and what is it?' I asked the driver. + +"'To the lazaretto. Smallpox.'" + +For a moment, while he was being lifted into the ambulance, the victim's +face was visible. A loud cry was heard in the crowd. It came from a +ragged, wild-looking man, whose unkempt beard made him look much older +than I afterward found him to be. As the ambulance hurried off, he ran +after it, shouting: + +"'I must see that man! Stop! I must ask him something!' + +"But he tripped upon a horse-car track, and when he had staggered to his +feet, the ambulance was out of sight. + +"I ran into the hotel and asked the clerk about the lazaretto patient. +He was a young European--an Englishman--they thought, who had +arrived from the East two days ago, and whose condition had just been +discovered. + +"Coming out, I went to the tramp who had cried out at the sight of the +ill man. I found him seated on the curbstone, weeping like a child. +I asked him why he wished to see the smallpox victim, and said that I +could get him admission to the lazaretto, if he would tell me what he +knew, and wouldn't let any other reporter have the story. + +"He jumped up eagerly. + +"'It's this,' he said. 'That man ran away with my wife, and I've hunted +them over sea and land. This is the first sight I've had of him.' + +"'Then,' I said, 'if you mean to harm him, I'm afraid I can't bring you +to him.' + +"'Him!' said the ragged man, disdainfully. 'I don't want to hurt him. +I only want to find out where she is. I swear I wouldn't harm either of +them.' + +"I accompanied him to the city physician, with whom he had a long talk. +That official finally promised to take him to the lazaretto. The doctor +led the man to the side of the iron bed where the smallpox patient lay. +The latter started like a frightened child at sight of his pursuer. + +"'Remember,' said the doctor to the sick man, 'you have scarcely a +chance for life. You would do well to tell the truth.' + +"'Only tell me where she is,' pleaded the husband, 'and I'll forgive you +all.' + +"The sick man gasped: + +"'I left her in Philadelphia--at the station. She had smallpox. It was +from her I got it. I was a coward--a cur. I left her to save myself. The +money I had brought from home was nearly all gone. Ask her to forgive +me.' + +"He was dead that evening. The husband was then upon an east-bound +freight-train. The newspaper telegraphed to Philadelphia, but nothing +could be found out about the woman. I've often wondered what became of +the man." + +The loud hubbub of conversation,--nearly all in German,--the shouts +of the waiters, the noise of their footfalls upon the stone floor, the +sound of mugs being placed upon tables and of Max draining his "stein" +of beer, bridged the hiatus between the ending of Max's narrative and +the beginning of my own: + +"Your story reminds me of one to which the city editor assigned me on +one of my 'late nights.' I took a cab and went to the station-house. The +case had been reported by a policeman at Ninth and Locust Streets, who +had called for a patrol-wagon. From him I got the story. He had seen the +thing happen. + +"He was walking down Locust at half-past twelve that night, and was +opposite the Midnight Mission, when his attention was attracted to +the only two persons who were at that moment on the other side of the +street. One was a man of the appearance of a vagabond, coming from Ninth +Street. The other was a woman, who had come from Tenth Street, and who +seemed to walk with great difficulty, as if ready to sink at every step +from weakness. + +"The woman dropped her head as she neared the man. The man peered into +her face, in the manner of one who had acquired the habit of examining +the countenances of passers-by. + +"The two met under the gas-lamp that is so conspicuous a night feature +of the north side of Locust Street, between Ninth and Tenth. + +"The woman gave no attention to the man. So exhausted was she that she +leaned helplessly against the fence. The man ran forward, shrieking like +a lunatic. + +"'Jeannie!' + +"The woman lifted her eyes in a dull kind of amazement and whispered: + +"'Donald!' + +"She fell back, but he caught her in his arms and kissed her lips +a dozen times, with a half-savage gladness, crying and laughing +hysterically, as women do. + +"When the policeman had reached the pair, the woman had seen the last of +this world. + +"Afterward we found that she had been discharged from the municipal +hospital, where she had been in the smallpox ward two weeks before; and +we surmised that she had virtually had nothing to eat since then. + +"At the station-house the man explained that the woman was his runaway +wife. He had started in search of her two years before, with no other +clue as to her whereabouts than the knowledge that she had sailed for +America with a man named Ferriss--" + +"What?" cried Max. "Was the name Archibald Ferriss? That was the name of +the man who died in the Denver lazaretto--" + +But Max was stopped by Breffny, who almost shouted in excitement: + +"And the name of the son of McKeown & Ferriss, of Glasgow, in whose +shipyard was employed as timekeeper the Donald Wilson--" + +"Donald Wilson was the name of the man who met his wife that night in +front of the Midnight Mission," said I, in further confirmation. + +It was remarkable. One of the three chapters of this tragic story had +entered into the experience of each of us three who sat there emptying +stone mugs. Now, for the first time, was the story complete to each of +us. + +"But what became of the man?" asked Breffny. + +"When the police lieutenant spoke of having her body interred in +Potter's Field, the husband spoke up indignantly. He brought forth two +gold pieces, saying: + +"'I have the money for her grave. I saved this through all my +wanderings, because I thought that when I should find her she might be +homeless and hungry and in need.' + +"So he had her buried respectably in the suburbs somewhere, and I was +too busy at that time to follow up his subsequent movements. It is +enough for the story that he found his wife." + + + + +XXIV. -- NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN + +It was not his real name or his stage name, but it was the one under +which he was best known by those who best knew him. It had been thrown +at him in a cafe one night by a newspaper man after the performance, +and had clung to him. Its significance lay in the fact that his +"gags"--supposedly comic things said by presumably comic men in nominal +opera or burlesque--invariably were old. The man who bestowed the title +upon him thought it a fine bit of irony. + +Newgag received it without expressed resentment, but without mirth, and +he bore its repetition patiently as seasons went by. He was accustomed +to enduring calmly the jests, the indignities that were elicited by +his peculiar appearance, his doleful expression, his slow and bungling +speech and movement, his diffident manner. + +He was one of the forbearing men, the many who are doomed to continual +suffering of a kind that their sensitiveness and timidity make it the +more difficult for them to bear. + +Undying ambition burned beneath his undemonstrative surface; dauntless +courage lay under his lack of ability. + +He was an extremely spare man, of extraordinary height, and the bend of +his shoulders gave to his small head a comical thrust forward. His black +hair was without curl, and it would tolerate no other arrangement than +being combed back straight. It was allowed to grow downward until +it scraped the back of Newgag's collar, a device for concealing the +meagreness of his neck. + +He had a smooth, pale face, slanting from ears to nose like a wedge, +and the dimness of the blue eyes added to its introspective cast. He +blushed, as a rule, when he met new acquaintances or was addressed +suddenly. He had a gloomy look and a hesitating way of speech. An +amusing spectacle was his mechanical-looking smile, which, when he +became conscious of it, passed through several stages expressive of +embarrassment until his normal mournful aspect was reached. + +As he usually appeared in a sack coat when off the stage, the length of +his legs was divertingly emphasized. After the fashion of great actors +of a bygone generation, he wore a soft black felt hat, dinged in the +crown from front to rear. + +He had entered "the profession" from the amateur stage, by way of the +comic opera chorus, and to that chance was due his being located in +the comic opera wing of the great histrionic edifice. He had originally +preferred tragedy, but the first consideration was the getting upon +the stage by any means. Having industriously worked his way out of the +chorus, he had been reconciled by habit to his environment, and had +come to aspire to eminence therein. He had reached the standing of a +secondary comedian,--that is to say, a man playing secondary comic roles +in the pieces for which he is cast. He was useful in such companies as +were directly or indirectly controlled by their leading comedians, +for there never could be any fears of his outshining those autocratic +personages. Only in his wildest hopes did he ever look upon the centre +of the stage as a spot possible for him to attain. + +His means of evoking laughter upon the stage were laborious on his part +and mystifying to the thoughtful observer. He took noticeable means to +change from his real self. It mattered not what was the nature of the +part he filled, he invariably assumed an unnatural, rasping voice; he +stretched his mouth to its utmost reach and lowered the extremities of +his lips; he turned his toes inward (naturally his feet described an +abnormal angle) and bowed his arms. Brought up in the school which +teaches that to make others laugh one must never smile one's self, +he wore a grotesquely lugubrious and changeless countenance. Such was +Newgag in his every impersonation. When he thought he was funniest, he +appeared to be in most pain and was most depressing. + +"My methods are legitimate," he would say, when he had enlisted one's +attention and apparent admiration across a table bearing beer-bottles +and sandwiches. "The people want horse-play nowadays. But when I've got +to descend to that sort of thing, I'll go to the variety stage or circus +ring at once--or quit." + +"That's a happy thought, old man," said a comedian of the younger +school, one night, when Newgag had uttered his wonted speech. "Why don't +you quit?" + +Such a speech sufficed to rob Newgag of his self-possession and to +reduce him to silence. He could not cope with easy, offhand, +impromptu jesters. In truth, no one tried more than Newgag to excel in +"horse-play," but his temperament or his training did not equip him for +excelling in it; he defended the monotony, emptiness, and toilsomeness +of his humour on the ground that it was "legitimate." + +One night Newgag drank two glasses of beer in rapid succession and +looked at me with a touching countenance. + +"Old boy," he said, in his homely drawl, "I'm discouraged! I begin to +think I'm not in it!" + +"Why, what's wrong?" + +"Well, I've dropped to the fact that, after all these years in the +business, I can't make them laugh." + +I was just about to say, "So you've just awakened to that?" but pity and +politeness deterred me. Every one else had known it, all these years. +Newgag, to be sure, should naturally have been, as he was, the last to +discover it. + +Newgag thus went one step further than any comedian I have ever known. +Having detected his inability to amuse audiences, he confessed it. + +People who know actors and read this will already have said that it is +a fiction, and that Newgag's admission is false to life. Not so; I am +writing not about comedians in general, but about Newgag. + +That he had come to so exceptional a concession marked the depth of his +despair. I tried to cheer him. + +"Nonsense, my boy! They give you bad parts. Go out of comic opera. Try +tragedy." + +I had spoken innocently and sincerely, but Newgag thought I was jesting. +Instead of his usual attempt at lofty callousness, however, he smiled +that dismal, marionette-like smile of his. That gave me an idea, of +which I said nothing at the time. + +Several months afterward, a manager, who is a friend of mine, was +suddenly plunged in distress because of the serious illness of an actor +who was to fill a part in a new American comedy that the manager was to +produce on the next night. + +"What on earth shall I do?" he asked. + +"Play the part yourself, as Hoyt does in such an emergency--or get +Newgag." + +"Who's Newgag?" + +"He's a friend of mine, out of a position. I met him to-day very much +frayed." + +"Bring him to me." + +Newgag was overwhelmed when I told him of the opportunity. + +"I never acted in straight comedy," he said. "I can't do it. I might as +well try to play Juliet." + +"He wants you only to speak the lines, that's all. You're a quick study, +you know. Come on!" + +I had almost to drag the man to the manager. He allowed himself, in a +semistupefied condition, to be engaged. He took the part, sat up all +night in his boarding-house and learned it, went to rehearsal almost +letter-perfect in the morning, and nervously prepared to face the ordeal +of the evening. + +At six o'clock, he wished to go to the manager and give up the part. + +"I can never do it," he wailed to me. "I haven't had time to form +a conception of it and to get up byplay. You see, it's an eccentric +character part,--a man from the country whom everybody takes for a fool, +but who shows up strong at the last. I can't--" + +"Oh, don't act it. You're only engaged in the emergency, you know. +Simply go on and say your lines and come off." + +"That's all I can do," he said, with a dubious shake of the head. "If +only I'd had time to study it!" + +American plays had taken foothold, and this premier of a new one by an +author of two previous successes drew a "typical first night audience." +Newgag, having abandoned all idea of making a hit, or of acting the part +any further than the mere delivery of the speeches went, was no longer +inordinately nervous. When he first entered he was a trifle frightened, +and his unavoidable lack of prepared stage business made him awkward and +embarrassed for a time. The awkwardness remained, but the embarrassment +eventually passed away. He spoke in his natural voice and retained +his actual manner. When the action required him to laugh, he did so, +exhibiting his characteristic perfunctory smile. + +He received a special call before the curtain after the third act. He +had no thought that it was meant for him until the stage manager pushed +him out from the wings. He came back looking distressed. + +"Are they guying me?" he asked the stage manager. + +The papers agreed the next day that one of the hits of the performance +was made by Newgag "in an odd part which he had conceived in a +strikingly original way, and impersonated with wonderful finish and +subtle drollery." + +"What does it mean?" he gasped. + +I enlightened him. + +"My boy, you simply played yourself. Did it never occur to you that +in your own person you're unconsciously one of the drollest men I ever +saw?" + +"But I didn't act!" + +"You didn't. And take my advice--don't!" + +And he doesn't. Upon the reputation of his success in that comedy he +arranged with another manager to appear in a play especially written for +him. He is a prosperous star now. Whatever his play or part he always +presents the same personality on the stage and he has made that +personality dear to many theatre-goers. He does not appear too +frequently or too long in any one place; hence he is warmly welcomed +wherever and whenever he returns. He is classed among leading actors, +and the ordinary person does not stop sufficiently long to observe that +he is no actor at all. + +"This isn't exactly art," he said to me, the other night, with a tinge +of self-rebuke. "But it's success." + +And the history of Newgag is the history of many. + + + + +XXV. -- AN OPERATIC EVENING + +I + +_A Desperate Youth_ + +The second act of "William Tell" had ended at the Grand Opera House. +The incandescent lights of ceiling and proscenium flashed up, showering +radiance upon the vast surface of summer costumes and gay faces in the +auditorium. The audience, relieved of the stress of attention, became +audible in a great composite of chatter. A host streamed along the +aisles into the wide lobbies, and thence its larger part jostled through +the front doors to the brilliantly illuminated vestibule. Many passed +on into the wide sidewalk, where the electric light poured its rays upon +countless promenaders whose footfalls incessantly beat upon the aural +sense. Scores of bicyclists of both sexes sped over the asphalt up and +down, some now and then deviating to make way for a lumbering yellow +'bus or a hurrying carriage. + +Men and women, young people composing the majority, strolled to and fro +in the roomy lobby that environs the auditorium on all sides save that +of the stage. A group of enthusiasts stood between the rear door of the +box-office and the wide entrance to the long middle aisle. + +"How magnificently Guille held that last note!" + +"What good taste and artistic sense Madame Kronold has!" + +"Del Puente hasn't been in better voice in years." + +"But you know, Mademoiselle Islar is decidedly a lyric soprano." + +These were some of the scraps of the conversation of that group. A +lithe, athletic-looking man of thirty stood mechanically listening +to them, as he stroked his black moustache. He was in summer attire, +evidently disdaining conventionalities, preferring comfort. + +Suddenly losing interest in the conversation in his vicinity, he started +toward the Montgomery Avenue side of the lobby, with the apparent +intention of breathing some outside air at one of the wide-barred exits, +where children stood looking in from the sidewalk, and catching what +glimpses they could of the audience through the doorways in the glass +partition bounding the auditorium. + +He by chance cast his glance up the unused staircase leading to the +balcony from the northern part of the lobby. He saw upon the third step +a young woman in a dark flannel outing-dress, her face concealed by a +veil. She seemed to be watching some one among those who stood or moved +near the Montgomery Avenue exits, which had wire barriers. + +"By Jove!" he said, within himself, "surely I know that figure! But I +thought she had gone to the Catskills, and I never supposed her capable +of wearing negligee clothes at the theatre. There can be no mistaking +that wrist, though, or that turn of the shoulders." + +He stepped softly to her side and lightly touched one of the admired +shoulders. + +She turned quickly and suppressed an exclamation ere it was +half-uttered. + +"Why, Harry--Doctor Haslam, I mean! How did you know it was I?" + +"Why, Amy--that is to say, Miss Winnett! What on earth are you doing +here? Pardon the question, but I thought you were on the mountains. I'm +all the more glad to see you." + +While he pressed her hand she looked searchingly into his eyes, a fact +of which he was conscious despite her veil. + +"I'm not here--as far as my people may know. I'm at the Catskills with +my cousins--except to my cousins themselves. To them I've come back home +for a week's conference with my dressmaker. Our house isn't entirely +closed up, you know. Aunt Rachel likes the hot weather of Philadelphia +all summer through, and she's still here. When I arrived here this +morning, I told her the dressmaker story. She retires at eight and she +thinks I'm in bed too. But I'm here, and nobody suspects it but you and +Mary, the servant at home, who knows where I've come, and who's to stay +up for me till I return to-night. That's all of it, and now, as you're a +friend of mine, you mustn't tell any one, will you?" + +"But I know nothing to tell," said the bewildered doctor. "What does all +this subterfuge, this mystery mean?" + +Amy Winnett considered silently for a moment, while Doctor Haslam +mentally admired the slim, well-rounded figure, the graceful poise of +the little head with its mass of brown hair beneath a sailor hat of the +style that "came in" with this summer. + +"I may as well tell you all," she answered, presently. "I may need your +assistance, too. I can rely upon you?" + +"Through fire and water." + +"I've come to Philadelphia to prevent a suicide." + +"Good gracious!" + +"Yes. You see, I've broken the engagement between me and Tom Appleton." + +"What! You don't mean it?" + +There was a striking note of jubilation in the doctor's interruption. +Miss Winnett made no comment thereupon, but continued: + +"I finally decided that I didn't care as much for Tom as I'd thought I +did, and then I had a suspicion--but I won't mention that--" + +"No, you needn't. Your fortune--pardon me, I simply took the privilege +of an old friend who had himself been rejected by you. Go on." + +"Don't interrupt again. As I said, I concluded that I couldn't be Tom's +wife, and I told him so. He went to the Catskills when we went, you +know, as he thought he could keep up his law studies as well there as +here. You can't imagine how he took it. I'd never before known how much +he--he really wished to marry me. But I was unflinching, and at last he +left me, vowing that he would return to Philadelphia and commit suicide. +He swore a terrible oath that my next message from him would be found +in his hands after his death. And he set to-night as the time for the +deed." + +"But why couldn't he have done it there and then?" + +"How hard-hearted you are! Probably because he wanted to put his affairs +in order before putting an end to his life." + +She spoke in all seriousness. Doctor Haslam succeeded with difficulty in +restraining a smile. + +"You don't imagine for a moment," he said, "that the young man intended +keeping his oath." + +"Don't I? You should have seen the look on his face when he spoke it." + +"Well?" + +"Well, I couldn't sleep with the thought that a man was going to kill +himself on my account. It makes me shudder. I'd see his face in my +dreams every night of my life. Then if a note were really found in +his hands, addressed to me, the whole thing would come out in the +newspapers, and wouldn't that be horrible? Of course I couldn't tell +my cousins anything about his threat, so I invented my excuse quickly, +packed a small handbag, disguised myself with Cousin Laura's hat and +veil, and took the same train that Tom took. I've kept my eye on him +ever since, and he has no idea I'm on his track. The only time I lost +was in hurrying home with my handbag to see my aunt, but I didn't even +do that until I'd followed him on Chestnut Street to the down-town +box-office of this theatre and seen him buy a seat, which I later found +out from the ticket-seller was for to-night. So here I am, and there he +is." + +"Where?" + +"Standing over there by that wire thing like a fence next the street." + +The doctor looked over as she motioned. He soon recognized the slender +figure, the indolent attitude of Tom Appleton, the blase young man whom +he was so accustomed to meeting at billiard-tables, in clubs, or hotels. +A tolerant, amiable expression saved the youth's smooth, handsome face +from vacuity. He was dressed with careful nicety. + +"But," said Haslam, "a man about to take leave of this life doesn't +ordinarily waste time going to the opera." + +"Why not? He probably came here to think. One can do that well at the +opera." + +"Tom Appleton think?--I beg pardon again. But see, he's talking to a +girl now, Miss Estabrook, of North Broad Street. His smile to her is not +the kind of a smile that commonly lights up a man's face on his way to +death." + +"You don't suppose he would conceal his intentions from people by +putting on his usual gaiety, do you?" she replied, ironically; adding, +rather stiffly, "He has at least sufficiently good manners to do that, +if not sufficient duplicity." + +"I didn't mean to offend you. My motive was to comfort you with the +probability that he has changed his mind about shuffling off his mortal +coil." + +"You're not very complimentary, Doctor Haslam. Perhaps you don't think +that being jilted by me is sufficient to make a man commit suicide." + +"Frankly I don't. If I had thought so three years ago, I'd be dust or +ashes at this present moment. It can't be that you would feel hurt if +Tom Appleton there should fail to keep his oath and should continue to +live in spite of your renunciation of him?" + +"How dare you think me so vain and cruel, when I've taken all this +trouble and come all this distance simply to prevent him from keeping +his oath?" + +"But how in the world would you prevent him if he were honestly bent on +getting rid of himself?" + +"By watching him until the moment he makes the attempt, and then rushing +up and telling him that I'd renew our engagement. That would stop him, +and gain time for me to manage so that he'd fall in love with some other +girl and release me of his own accord." + +"But think a moment. You can watch him until the opera is out and +perhaps for some time later. But if he means to die he certainly has a +sufficient share of good manners to induce him to die quietly in his own +home. So he'll eventually go home. When his door is locked, how are you +going to keep your eye on him, and how can you rush to him at the proper +moment?" + +"I never thought of that." + +"No, you're a woman." + +She proceeded to do some thinking there upon the stairs. + +"Oh," she said, finally, "I know what to do. I'll follow him until he +does go home, to make sure he doesn't attempt anything before that time, +and then I'll tell the police. They'll watch him." + +"You'll probably get Mr. Tom Appleton into some very embarrassing +complications by so doing." + +"What if I do," she said, heroically, "if I save his life? Now, will you +assist me to watch him? I'll need an escort in the street, of course." + +"I put myself at your command from now henceforth, if only for the joy +of the time that I am thus privileged to pass with you." + +She smiled pleasantly, and with pleasure, trusting to her veil to hide +the facial indication of her feelings. But Haslam's trained gray eye +noted the smile, and also what kind of smile it was, and the discovery +had a potent effect upon him. It deprived him momentarily of the power +of speech, and he looked vacantly at her while colour came and went in +his face. + +Then he regained control of himself and he sighed audibly, while she +dropped her eyes. + +They were still standing upon the stairs, heedless of the confusion of +vocal sounds that arose from the lobby strollers, from the boys selling +librettos, from the people returning from the vestibule in a thick +stream, from the musicians afar in the orchestra, tuning their +instruments, from the many sources that provide the delightful hubbub of +the entr'acte. + +"Hush!" said Amy to Haslam. "Stand in front of me, so that Tom won't see +me if he looks up here as he passes. He's coming this way." + +Young Appleton, chaffing with the persons whom he had met at the exit, +was sharing in the general movement from the byways of the lobby to the +middle entrance of the parquet. The electric bell in the vestibule had +sounded the signal that the third act was to begin. Mr. Hinrichs had +returned to the director's stand in the orchestra and was raising his +baton. + +Arrived at the middle entrance, Appleton raised his hat to those with +whom he had been talking, as if not intending to go in just then. + +Mr. Hinrichs's baton tapped upon the stand, the music began, and the +curtain rose. + +"Why doesn't he go in?" whispered Amy, alluding to Appleton. + +But the young man yawned, looked at his watch, and departed from the +lobby--not to the auditorium, but out to the vestibule. + +"He's going to leave the theatre," said Miss Winnett, excitedly. "We +must follow." + +And she tripped hastily down the stairs, Haslam after her. + + +II + +_A Triangular Chase_ + +Tom Appleton sauntered out through the great vestibule, turning his eyes +casually from the marble floor up to the balconies that look down from +aloft upon this outer lobby. He was whistling an air from "Apollo" which +he had heard a few weeks before at the New York Casino. + +He hastened his steps when he saw a 'bus passing down Broad Street. A +leap down the Grand Opera House steps and a lively run enabled him to +catch the 'bus before it reached Columbia Avenue. He clambered up to +the top and was soon being well shaken as he enjoyed the breeze and the +changing view of the handsome residences on North Broad Street. + +Haslam's sharp eyes took note of Appleton's action. + +"He's on that 'bus," said the doctor to Amy as she took his arm on the +sidewalk. "Shall we take the next one?" + +"No; for then we can't see where he gets off. Can't we find a cab?" + +"There's none in sight. We can have one called here, but we'll have to +wait for it at least ten minutes." + +"That will never do. To think he could elude us so easily, without even +knowing that we're after him!" + +Vexation was stamped upon the dainty face, with its soft brown eyes, as +she raised her veil. + +"Ah! I have it," said Haslam, who would have gone to great lengths to +drive that vexation away. + +"A bicycle! This section teems with bicycle shops. We can hire a tandem. +It's a good thing we're both expert bicyclists." + +"And that I'm suitably dressed for this kind of a race," replied Amy, as +the two hurried down the block. + +She stood outside the bicycle store and kept her gaze upon the 'bus, +which was growing less and less distinct to the eye as it rolled down +the street, while Haslam hastily engaged a two-seated machine. + +The 'bus had not yet disappeared in the darkness when the pursuers, +Amy upon the front seat, glided out from the sidewalk and down over +the asphalt. The passage became rough below Columbia Avenue, where the +asphalt gives away to Belgian block paving. Haslam's athletic training +and the acquaintance of both with the bicycle served to minimize this +disadvantage. + +The frequent stoppages of the 'bus made it less difficult for them to +keep in close sight of it. Conversation was not easy between them. +Both kept silence, therefore, their eyes fixed upon the 'bus ahead, and +carefully watching its every stop. + +"You're sure he hasn't gotten off yet?" she asked, at Girard Avenue. + +"Certain." + +"He's probably going to his rooms down-town." + +"Or to his club." + +So they pressed southward. Before them stretched the lone vista of +electric lights away down Broad Street to the City Hall invisible in the +night. + +The difficulty of talking made thinking more involuntary. Haslam's mind +turned back three years. Was it, as he had dared sometimes to fancy, a +juvenile capriciousness that had impelled this girl in front of him +to reject him when she was seventeen, after having manifested an +unmistakable tenderness for him? And now that she was twenty, and had in +the meantime rejected several others, and broken one engagement, was it +too late to attempt to revive the old spark? + +His meditations were suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the +girl herself. + +"Look! He's left the 'bus. He's going into the Park Theatre." + +So he was. His slim person was easily distinguishable in the wealth +of electric light that flooded the street upon which looked the broad +doorways and the allegorical facades of the Park. + +The second act of "La Belle Helene" was not yet over when Appleton +entered and stood at the rear of the parquet circle. He indifferently +watched the finale, made some mental comments upon the white flowing +gown of Pauline Hall, the make-up of Fred Solomon, and the grotesqueness +of the five Hellenic kings. Then he scanned the audience. + +Haslam and Amy dismounted near the theatre and entrusted the bicycle to +a small boy's care. When they had bought admission tickets and reached +the lobby, the gay finale of the second act was being given. The curtain +fell, was called up three times, and then people began to pour forth +from the entrance to drink, smoke, or enjoy the air in the entr'acte. + +Appleton was involved in the movement of those who resorted to the +little garden with flowers and fountain and asphalt paving, accessible +through the northern exits. He paused for a time by the fountain, +not sufficiently curious to join the crowd that stood gaping at +the apertures through which the members of the chorus could be seen +ascending the stairs to the upper dressing-rooms, many of them carolling +scraps of song from the opera as they went. + +Appleton soon reentered the lobby and again surveyed the audience +closely. Haslam caught sight of him just in time to avoid him. Amy had +resumed the concealment of her veil. + +To the surprise of his watchers, Appleton left the theatre before the +third act opened. Again he jumped upon a 'bus, but this time it was upon +one moving northward. + +"It looks as if he were going back to the Grand Opera House," suggested +Amy, as she and her companion started to repossess the bicycle. + +"His movements are a trifle unaccountable," said Haslam, thoughtfully. + +"Ah! Now you admit he is acting queerly. Perhaps you'll see I was quite +right." + +Again mounted upon the bicycle, the doctor and the young woman returned +to the chase. They were soon brought to a second stop by Appleton's +departure from the 'bus at Girard Avenue. + +"Where can he be going to now?" queried Amy. + +"He's going to take that east-bound Girard Avenue car." + +"So he is. What can he mean to do in that part of town?" + +They turned down Girard Avenue. The car was half a block in advance of +them. + +"You're energetic enough in this pursuit," Amy shouted back to the +doctor as the machine fled over the stones, "even if you don't believe +in it." + +"Energetic in your service, now and always." + +She made no answer. + +This time her reflections were abruptly checked--as his had been on +Broad Street--by the cry of the other. + +"See! He's getting off at the Girard Avenue Theatre." + +Again they found a custodian for their bicycle and followed Appleton +into a theatre. + +The young man stopped at the box-office in the long vestibule, bought +a ticket, and had a call made for a coupe. Then he passed through the +luxurious little foyer, beautiful with flowers and soft colours, and +stood behind the parquet circle railing. + +Adelaide Randall's embodiment of "The Grand Duchess" held his attention +for a time. Haslam and Miss Winnett, to avoid the risk of being +discovered by him, sought the seclusion of the balcony stairs. + +"We had a few bars of Offenbach at the Park, and here we have Offenbach +again," commented the doctor. + +"And again, only a few bars, for there goes our man." + +Appleton, having given as much attention to the few spectators as to the +players, left the theatre and got into the cab that had been ordered for +him. + +Haslam, behind the pillar at the entrance to the theatre, overheard +Appleton's direction to the driver. It was: + +"To the Grand Opera House. Hurry! The opera will soon be over." + +The cab rumbled away. + +"It's well we heard his order," observed Haslam to Amy. "We couldn't +have hoped to keep up with a cab. He'll probably wait at the Grand Opera +House till we get there." + +"But we mustn't lose any time, for, as he said, the performance will +soon be over." + +"Oh, 'Tell' is a long opera and Guille will have an encore for the aria +in the last act. That will give us a few minutes more." + + +III + +_A Telegraphic Revelation_ + +A boy walking down Girard Avenue, as Appleton got into the cab, had been +whistling the tune of "They're After Me,"--a thing that was new to the +variety stage last fall, but is dead this summer. The air, whistled by +the boy, clung to Appleton's sense, and he unconsciously hummed it to +himself as his cab went on its grinding way over the stones. + +The cabman was considerate of his horse, and he coolly ignored +Appleton's occasional shouts of, "Get along there, won't you?" + +It was, therefore, not impossible for the bicyclists to keep in sight of +the coupe. + +"All this concern about a man you say you don't care for," said Haslam +to Amy, as the bicycle turned up Broad Street. "It's unprecedented." + +"It's only humanity." + +"You didn't bother about following me around like this when you threw me +over." + +"You didn't threaten to kill yourself." + +"No; if I had, I'd have carried out my threat. But for months I endured +a living death--or worse." + +"Really? Did you, though?" + +Eager inquiry and sudden elation were expressed in this speech. + +"Of course I did. Why do you ask in that way?" + +"Oh--you took me by surprise. Why did you never tell me it affected you +so? I thought--I thought--" + +"What did you think?" + +"That if you really cared for me you would have--tried again." + +"What? Then I was fatally ignorant! I thought that when you said a +thing, you meant it." + +"I didn't know what I meant until it was too late." + +"But is it too late--ah! see, he's getting out of the cab at the Grand +Opera House." + +They quickly switched the bicycle from the street to the sidewalk, and +both dismounted. + +They were checked at the entrance to the theatre by the appearance of +Appleton. He was coming from within the building, and with him were two +women, one elderly and unattractive, the other a plump young person +with bright blue eyes in a saucy face that had more claim to piquant +effrontery than to beauty. She was simply dressed and was all smiles to +Appleton. + +Amy and Haslam quickly turned their backs, thus avoiding recognition, +and while they seemed to be looking through the glass front into +the vestibule, they overheard the following conversation between the +blue-eyed girl and Appleton. + +"I'm glad you found us at last, Tom. Three acts of grand opera are about +enough for me, thanks, and we'd have left sooner if your telegram that +you'd be in town to-night hadn't made me expect to see you." + +"Well, I've been hunting for you in every open theatre in town where +there's grand opera. In your answer to my telegram from the Catskills, +you said merely you were going to the opera this evening. You didn't say +what opera, but I supposed it was this one, so I bought a ticket as soon +as I arrived in town at the down-town office. I got here after the first +act, and spent all the second act looking around for you." + +"It's strange you didn't see us. We were in the middle of row K, right." + +"Well, I missed you, that's all, and I kept a watch on the lobby after +the act, thinking you'd perhaps come out between the acts. Then I went +to the Park Theatre, and then to the Girard Avenue." + +Amy and Haslam went into the vestibule. Amy was crimson with anger. +Haslam quietly said: + +"Do you wish to continue the pursuit?" + +Before she found time to answer, another matter distracted her +attention. + +"Look! There's Mary, the housemaid, who was to stay up for me till I got +home. She has come here for me." + +The servant stood by the door leading into the lobby, in a position +enabling her to scan the faces of people coming out from the auditorium. + +"Oh, Miss Amy, are you here? I was waiting for you to come out. Here's +a telegram that came about a half-hour ago. I thought it might be +important." + +Amy tore open the envelope. + +"Why," she said to Haslam, "this was sent to-day from Philadelphia to +me at the Catskills, and my cousins have had it repeated back to me. And +look--it's signed by you." + +"I surely didn't send it." + +But there was the name beyond doubt, "Henry Haslam, M.D." + +"This is a mystery to me, I assure you," reiterated the doctor. + +"But not to me," cried Amy. "Read the message and you'll understand." + +He read these words: + +"Mr. Appleton is very ill. His life depends upon his will-power. He +tells me that you alone can say the word that will save him. Henry +Haslam, M.D." + +Haslam smiled. + +"A clever invention to make you think he tried to execute his threat. +Now you know what he was doing while you were taking your handbag home. +He probably concocted the scheme on his journey. But why did he sign my +name, I wonder?" + +She dropped her eyes and answered in a low tone: + +"Because he knew that I would believe anything said by you." + +"Would you believe that I love you still more than I did three years +ago?" + +"Yes; if it came from your own lips--not by telegraph." + +She lifted her eyes now, and her lips, too; Mary the housemaid sensibly +looked another way. + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From Bohemia, by Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + +***** This file should be named 8869.txt or 8869.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/6/8869/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales From Bohemia + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8869] +This file was first posted on August 17, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + + + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TALES FROM BOHEMIA + </h1> + <h2> + By Robert Neilson Stephens + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS—A MEMORY + </h2> + <p> + One crisp evening early in March, 1887, I climbed the three flights of + rickety stairs to the fourth floor of the old “Press” building to begin + work on the “news desk.” Important as the telegraph department was in + making the newspaper, the desk was a crude piece of carpentry. My + companions of the blue pencil irreverently termed it “the shelf.” This was + my second night in the novel dignity of editorship. Though my rank was the + humblest, I appreciated the importance of a first step from “the street.” + An older man, the senior on the news desk, had preceded me. He was engaged + in a bantering conversation with a youth who lolled at such ease as a + well-worn, cane-bottomed screw-chair afforded. The older man made an + informal introduction, and I learned that the youth with pale face and + serene smile was “Mr. Stephens, private secretary to the managing editor.” + That information scarcely impressed me any more than it would now after + more than twenty years' experience of managing editors and their private + secretaries. + </p> + <p> + The bantering continued, and I learned that the youth cherished literary + aspirations, and that he performed certain work in connection with the + dramatic department for the managing editor, who kept theatrical news and + criticisms within his personal control. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a chance remark broke the ice for a friendship between the young + man and me which was to last unbroken until his untimely death. Stephens + wrote the Isaac Pitman phonography! Here had I been for more than three + years wondering to find the shorthand writers of wide-awake and + progressive America floundering in what I conceived to be the Serbonian + bog of an archaic system of stenography. Unexpectedly a most superior + young man came within my ken who was a disciple of Isaac Pitman. + Furthermore, like myself, he was entirely self taught. No old shorthand + writer who can look back a quarter of a century on his own youthful + enthusiasm for the art can fail to appreciate what a bond of sympathy this + discovery constituted. From that night forward we were chosen friends, + confiding our ambitions to each other, discussing the grave issues of life + and death, settling the problems of literature. Notwithstanding his more + youthful appearance, my seniority in age was but slight. Gradually “Bob,” + as all his friends called him with affectionate informality, was given + opportunities to advance himself, under the kindly yet firm guidance of + the managing editor, Mr. Bradford Merrill. That gentleman appreciated the + distinct gifts of his young protégé, journalistic and literary, and he + fostered them wisely and well. I remember perfectly the first criticism of + an important play which “Bob” was permitted to write unaided. It was + Richard Mansfield's initial appearance in Philadelphia as “Dr. Jekyl and + Mr. Hyde,” at the Chestnut Street Theatre on Monday, October 3, 1887. + </p> + <p> + After the paper had gone to press, and while Mr. Merrill and a few of the + telegraph editors were partaking of a light lunch, the night editor, the + late R.E.A. Dorr, asked Mr. Merrill “how Stephens had made out.” + </p> + <p> + “He has written a very clever and very interesting criticism,” Mr. Merrill + replied. “I had to edit it somewhat, because he was inclined to be + Hugoesque and melodramatic in describing the action with very short + sentences. But I am very much pleased, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + That was the beginning of Bob's career as a dramatic critic, a career in + which he gained authority and in which his literary faculties, his + felicity of expression and soundness of judgment found adequate scope. + </p> + <p> + In the following two or three years the cultivation of the field of + dramatic criticism occupied his time to the temporary exclusion of his + ambition for creative work. He and I read independently; but our tastes + had much in common, though his preference was for imaginative literature. + Meanwhile I was writing short stories with plenty of plot, some of which + found their way into various magazines; but his taste lay more in the line + of the French short story writers who made an incident the medium for + portraying a character. Historical romance had fascinations for me, but + Alphonse Daudet attracted both of us to the artistic possibilities that + lay in selecting the romance of real life for treatment in fiction as + against the crude and repellent naturalism of Zola and his school. This + fact is not a little significant in view of the turn toward historical + romance which exercised all the activities of Robert Neilson Stephens + after the production of his play, “An Enemy to the King,” by E.H. Sothern. + </p> + <p> + Still our intimacy had prepared me for the change. Through many a long + night after working hours we had wandered through the moonlit streets + until daybreak exchanging views freely and sturdily on historical + characters on the philosophy of history, on the character of Henry of + Navarre and his followers, and on the worthies of Elizabethan England, in + the literature of which we had immersed ourselves. Kipling had recently + burst meteor-like on the world, and Barrie raised his head with a + whimsical smile closely chasing a tear. Thomas Hardy was in the saddle + writing “Tess,” and in France Daudet was yet active though his prime was + past. Guy de Maupassant continued the production of his marvellous short + stories. These were the contemporary prose writers who engaged our + attention. A little later we hailed the appearance of Stanley J. Weyman + with “A Gentleman of France,” and the Conan Doyle of “The White Company” + and “Micah Clarke” rather than the creator of “Sherlock Holmes” commended + our admiration. We were by no means in accord on the younger authors. + Diversity of opinion stimulates critical discussion, however. I had not + yet become reconciled to Kipling, who provoked my resentment by certain + coarse flings at the Irish, but “Bob” hailed him with whole-hearted + enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + We were not the only members of the staff with literary aspirations. + Others, like the late Andrew E. Watrous, had achievements of no mean order + in prose and verse. Still others were sustaining the traditions of “The + Press” as a newspaper office which throughout its history had been a + stepping stone to magazine work and other forms of literary employment. + Richard Harding Davis was on the paper and “Bob” Stephens was one of the + two men most intimately in his confidence regarding his ambitions. + </p> + <p> + Finally Bob told me that “Dick” had taken him to his house and read to him + “A bully short story,” adding, “It's a corker.” + </p> + <p> + I inquired the nature of the story. + </p> + <p> + “Just about the 'Press' office,” Bob replied, + </p> + <p> + Among other particulars I asked the title. + </p> + <p> + “'Gallegher,'” said Bob. + </p> + <p> + Three years elapsed after our first acquaintance before Bob Stephens began + writing stories and sketches. The “Tales from Bohemia” collected in this + volume represent his early creative work. We were in the better sense a + small band of Bohemians, the few friends and companions who will be found + figuring in the tales under one guise or another. Many a merry prank and + many a jest is recalled by these pages. Of criticism I have no word to + say. Let the reader understand how they came into being and they will + explain themselves. “Bob” Stephens took his own environment, the anecdotes + he heard, the persons whom he met and the friends whom he knew, and he + treated them as the writers of short stories in France twenty years ago + treated their own Parisian environment. He made an incident the means of + illustrating a portrayal of character. Later he was to construct elaborate + plots for dramas and historical novels. + </p> + <p> + “Bohemianism” was but a brief episode in the life of “R. N. S.” It ceased + after his marriage. But his natural gaiety remained. Seldom was his joyous + disposition overcast, or his winning smile eclipsed. For six months I was + privileged to live in the house with his mother. If he had inherited his + literary predilections from his father,—a highly respected educator + of Huntington, Pa. from whose academy many eminent professional men were + graduated,—his gentleness, his cheerfulness, his winning smile and + the ingratiating qualities to which it was the key, as surely came from + his mother. + </p> + <p> + I remember a time when he was inordinately grave for several days and + pursued a tireless course of special reading through the office + encyclopaedias and some books he had borrowed. At last he drew aside the + veil of reserve which concealed his family affairs from even his closest + friends and inquired if I could direct him to any recent authority on + cancer. I divined the sad truth that his tenderly beloved mother was + suffering from the dread disease. That was the day before serums, and + nothing that he found to read in books or periodicals gave him a faint + hope that his dear one could be cured. Thenceforward, mother and son + awaited the inevitable end with uncomplaining patience which was + characteristic of both. His cheerful smile returned, and while the blow of + bereavement was impending practically all these “Tales from Bohemia” were + written. + </p> + <p> + To follow the career of “R.N.S.” and trace his development after he gave + up newspaper work in the fall of 1893 is not required in this place. + “Tales from Bohemia” will be found interesting in themselves, apart from + the fact that they illustrate another phase of the literary gift of a + young writer who contributed so materially to the entertainment of + playgoers and novel readers for a period of ten years after the work in + this book was all done. + </p> + <p> + J.O.G.D. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS—A MEMORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>TALES FROM BOHEMIA</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> I. — THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> II. — A BIT OF MELODY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> III. — ON THE BRIDGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> IV. — THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> V. — OUT OF HIS PAST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VI. — THE NEW SIDE PARTNER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VII. — THE NEEDY OUTSIDER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> VIII. — TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> IX. — HE BELIEVED THEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> X. — A VAGRANT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XI. — UNDER AN AWNING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XII. — SHANDY'S REVENGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XIII. — THE WHISTLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XIV. — WHISKERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XV. — THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVI. — THE SCARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XVII. — “LA GITANA” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XVIII. — TRANSITION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XIX. — A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XX. — MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXI. — AT THE STAGE DOOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXII. — “POOR YORICK” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXIII. — COINCIDENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXIV. — NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> XXV. — AN OPERATIC EVENING </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TALES FROM BOHEMIA + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. — THE ONLY GIRL HE EVER LOVED + </h2> + <p> + When Jack Morrow returned from the World's Fair, he found Philadelphia + thermometers registering 95. The next afternoon he boarded a Chestnut + Street car, got out at Front Street, hurried to the ferry station, and + caught a just departing boat for Camden, and on arriving at the other side + of the Delaware, made haste to find a seat in the well-filled express + train bound for Atlantic City. + </p> + <p> + While he was being whirled across the level surface of New Jersey, past + the cornfields and short stretches of green trees and restful cottage + towns, he thought of the pleasure in store for him—the meeting with + the young person whom he had gradually come to consider the loveliest girl + in the world. Having neglected to read the list of “arrivals” in the + newspapers, he knew not at what hotel she and her aunt were staying. But + he would soon make the rounds of the large beach hotels, at one of which + she was likely to be found. + </p> + <p> + She did not expect to see him. Therefore her first expression on beholding + him would betray her feelings toward him, whatever they were. Should the + indication be favourable, he would propose to her at the first + opportunity, on beach, boardwalk, hotel piazza, pavilion, yacht or in the + surf. Such were the meditations of Jack Morrow while the train roared + across New Jersey to the sea. + </p> + <p> + The first sign of the flat green meadows, the smooth waters of the + thoroughfare, the sails afar at the inlet and the long side of the + sea-city stretching out against the sky at the very end of the earth is + refreshing and exhilarating to any one. It gave a doubly keen enjoyment to + Jack Morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Within an hour, perhaps,” he mused, as the reviving odour of the salt + water touched his nostrils, “I shall see Edith.” + </p> + <p> + When with the crowd he had made his way out of the train, and traversed + the long platform at the Atlantic City station, ignoring the stentorian + solicitations of the 'bus drivers, he started walking toward the ocean + promenade, invited by the glimpse of sea at the far end of the avenue. + Thus he crossed that wide thoroughfare—Atlantic Avenue—with + its shops and trolley-cars; passed picturesque hotels and cottages; + crossed Pacific Avenue where carriages and dog-carts were being driven + rapidly between the rows of pretty summer edifices, and traversed the + famously long block that ends at the boardwalk and the strand. + </p> + <p> + He succeeded in getting a third-floor room on the ocean side of the first + hotel where he applied. He learned from the clerk that Edith was not at + this house. Sea air having revived his appetite, he decided to dine before + setting out in search of her. + </p> + <p> + When, after his meal, he reached the boardwalk, the electric lights had + already been turned on and the regular evening crowd of promenaders was + beginning to form. He strolled along now looking at the beach and the sea, + now at the boardwalk crowd where he might perhaps at any moment behold the + face of “the loveliest girl in the world.” He beheld instead, as he + approached the Tennessee pier, the face of his friend George Haddon. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, old boy!” exclaimed Morrow, grasping his friend's hand. “What are + you doing here? I thought your affairs would keep you in New York all + summer.” + </p> + <p> + “So they would,” replied Haddon, in a tone and with a look whose distress + he made little effort to conceal. “But something happened.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what on earth's the matter? You seem horribly downcast.” + </p> + <p> + Haddon was silent for a moment; then he said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you all about it. I have to tell somebody or it will split my + head. But come out on the pier, away from the noise of that merry-go-round + organ.” + </p> + <p> + Neither spoke as the two young men passed through the concert pavilion and + dancing hall out to a quieter part of the long pier. They sat near the + railing and looked out over the sea, on which, as evening fell, the + rippling band of moonlight grew more and more luminous. They could see, at + the right, the long line of brilliant lights on the boardwalk, and the + increasing army of promenaders. Detached from the furthest end of the line + of boardwalk lights, shone those of distant Longport. Above these, the sky + had turned from heliotrope to hues dark and indefinable, but indescribably + beautiful. Down on the beach were only a few people, strolling near the + tide line, a carriage, a man on horseback, and three frolicking dogs. + </p> + <p> + “It's simply this,” abruptly began Haddon. “Six weeks ago I was married to—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I never heard of it. Let me congrat—” + </p> + <p> + “No, don't, I was married to a comic opera singer, named Lulu Ray. I don't + suppose you've ever heard of her, for she was only recently promoted from + the chorus to fill small parts. We took a flat, and lived happily on the + whole, for a month, although with such small quarrels as might be + expected. Two weeks ago she went out and didn't come back. Since then I + haven't been able to find her in New York or at any of the resorts along + the Jersey coast. I suppose she was offended at something I said during a + quarrel that grew out of my insisting on our staying in New York all + summer. Knowing her liking for Atlantic City—she was a Philadelphia + girl before she went on the stage—I came here at once to hunt her up + and apologize and agree to her terms.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I haven't found her. She's not at any hotel in Atlantic City. I'm + going back to New York to-morrow to get some clue as to where she is.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you're very fond of her still?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that's the trouble. And then, of course, a man doesn't like to have + a woman who bears his name going around the country alone, her whereabouts + unknown.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow was on the point of saying: “Or perhaps with some other man,” but + he checked himself. He was sufficiently mundane to refrain from attempting + to reason Haddon out of his affection for the fugitive, or to advise him + as to what to do. He knew that in merely letting Haddon unburden on him + the cause of anxiety, he had done all that Haddon would expect from any + friend. + </p> + <p> + He limited himself, therefore, to reminding Haddon that all men have their + annoyances in this life; to treating the woman's offence as light and + commonplace, and to cheering him up by making him join in seeing the + sights of the boardwalk. + </p> + <p> + They looked on at the pier hop, while Professor Willard's musicians played + popular tunes; returned to the boardwalk and watched the pretty girls + leaning against the wooden beasts on the merry-go-round while the organ + screamed forth, “Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow Wow;” experienced that not + very illusive illusion known as “The Trip to Chicago;” were borne aloft on + an observation wheel; made the rapid transit of the toboggan slide, + visited the phonographs and heard a shrill reproduction of “Molly and I + and the Baby;” tried the slow and monotonous ride on the “Figure Eight,” + and the swift and varied one on the switchback. They bought saltwater + taffy and ate it as they passed down the boardwalk and looked at the + moonlight. Down on the Bowery-like part of the boardwalk they devoured hot + sausages, and in a long pavilion drank passable beer and saw a fair + variety show. Thence they left the boardwalk, walked to Atlantic Avenue + and mounted a car that bore them to Shauffler's, where among light-hearted + beer drinkers they heard the band play “Sousa's Cadet March” and “After + the Ball,” and so they arrived at midnight. + </p> + <p> + All this was beneficial to Haddon and pleasant enough in itself, but it + prevented Morrow that night from prosecuting his search for the loveliest + girl in the world. He postponed the search to the next day. And when that + time came, after Haddon had started for New York, occurred an event that + caused Morrow to postpone the search still further. + </p> + <p> + He had decided to go up the boardwalk on the chance of seeing Edith in a + pavilion or on the beach. If he should reach the vicinity of the + lighthouse without finding her, he would turn back and inquire at every + hotel near the beach until he should obtain news of her. + </p> + <p> + He had reached Pennsylvania Avenue when he was attracted by the white + tents that here dotted the wide beach. He went down the high flight of + steps from the boardwalk to rest awhile in the shade of one of the tents. + </p> + <p> + Although it was not yet 11 o'clock, several people in bathing suits were + making for the sea. A little goat wagon with children aboard was passing + the tents, and after it came the cart of the “hokey-pokey” peddler, drawn + by a donkey that wore without complaint a decorated straw bathing hat. + Morrow, looking at the feet of the donkey, saw in the sand something that + shone in the sunlight. He picked it up and found that it was a gold + bracelet studded with diamonds. + </p> + <p> + He questioned every near-by person without finding the owner. He therefore + put the bracelet in his pocket, intending to advertise it. Then he resumed + his stroll up the boardwalk. He went past the lighthouse and turned back. + </p> + <p> + He had reached the Tennessee Avenue pier without having found the + loveliest girl in the world. His eye caught a small card that had just + been tacked up at the pier entrance. Approaching it he read: + </p> + <p> + “Lost—On the beach between Virginia and South Carolina Avenues, a + gold bracelet with seven diamonds. A liberal reward will be paid for its + recovery at the —— Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + The hotel named was the one at which Morrow was staying. He hurried + thither. + </p> + <p> + “Who lost the diamond bracelet?” he asked the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “That young lady standing near the elevator. Miss Hunt, I think her name + is,” said the clerk consulting the register. “Yes, that's it, she only + arrived last night.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow saw standing near the elevator door, a lithe, well-rounded girl + with brown hair and great gray eyes that were fixed on him. She was in the + regulation summer-girl attire—blue Eton suit, pink shirtwaist, + sailor hat, and russet shoes. He hastened to her. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Hunt, I have the honour to return your bracelet.” + </p> + <p> + She opened her lips and eyes with pleasurable surprise and reached + somewhat eagerly for the piece of jewelry. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you ever so much. I took a walk on the beach just after breakfast + and dropped it somewhere. It's too large.” + </p> + <p> + “I picked it up near Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a curious coincidence that + it should be found by some one stopping at the same hotel. But, pardon me, + you're going away without mentioning the reward.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with some surprise, until she discovered that he was + jesting. Then she smiled a smile that gave Morrow quite a pleasant thrill, + and said, with some tenderness of tone: + </p> + <p> + “Let the reward be what you please.” + </p> + <p> + “And that will be to do what you shall please to have me do.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that's nice. Then I accept your services at once. I am quite alone + here; haven't any acquaintances in the hotel. I want to go bathing and I'm + rather timid about going alone, although I'd made up my mind to do so and + was just going up after my bathing suit.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I am to have the happiness of escorting you into the surf.” + </p> + <p> + They went bathing together not far from where he had found the bracelet. + He discovered that she could swim as well as he; also that in her dark + blue bathing costume, with sailor collar and narrow white braid, she was a + most shapely person. + </p> + <p> + She laughed frequently while they were breasting the breakers; and + afterwards, as in their street attire they were returning on the + boardwalk, she chatted brightly with him, revealing a certain cleverness + in off-hand persiflage. + </p> + <p> + He took her into the tent behind the observation wheel to see the Egyptian + exhibition, and she was good enough to laugh at his jokes about the + mummies, although the mummies did not seem to interest her. Further down + the boardwalk they stopped at the Japanese exhibition, and on the way out + he caught himself saying that if it were possible, he would take great + pleasure in hauling her in a jinrikisha. + </p> + <p> + “I'll remember that promise and make you push me in a wheel-chair,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + When they were back at the hotel, she turned suddenly and said: + </p> + <p> + “By the way, what's your name? Mine's Clara Hunt.” + </p> + <p> + He told her, and while she went up the elevator with her bathing suit, he + arranged with the head waiter to have himself seated at her table. + </p> + <p> + He learned from the clerk that she had arrived alone with a letter of + introduction from a former guest of the house, and intended to stay at + least a fortnight. + </p> + <p> + At luncheon he proposed that they should take a sail in the afternoon. She + said, with a smile: + </p> + <p> + “As it is you who invites me, I'll give up my nap and go.” + </p> + <p> + They rode in a 'bus to the Inlet, and after spending half an hour drinking + beer and listening to the band on the pavilion, they hired a skipper to + take them out in his catboat. Six miles out the boat pitched considerably + and Miss Hunt increased her hold on Morrow's admiration by not becoming + seasick. At his suggestion they cast out lines for bluefish. She borrowed + mittens from the captain and pulled in four fish in quick succession. + </p> + <p> + “What an athletic woman you are,” said Morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “In fact, everything that's charming,” he continued. + </p> + <p> + She replied softly: “Don't say that unless you mean it. It pleases me too + much, coming from you.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow mused: “Here's a girl who is frank enough to say so when she likes + a fellow. It makes her all the more fascinating, too. Some women would + make me very tired throwing themselves at me this way. But it is different + with her.” + </p> + <p> + They gave the fish to the captain and returned from the Inlet by the + Atlantic Avenue trolley, just in time for dinner. She did not lament her + lack of opportunity to change her clothes for dinner, nor did she complain + about the coat of sunburn she had acquired. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, they sat together for a time on the pier, took a turn + together at one of the waltzes, although neither cared much for dancing at + this time of year, walked up the boardwalk and compared the moon with the + high beacon light of the lighthouse. + </p> + <p> + He bought her marshmallows at a confectioner's booth, a fan at a Japanese + store, and a queer oriental paper cutter at a Turkish bazaar. They took + two switchback rides, during which he was compelled to put his arm around + her. Finally, reluctant to end the evening, they stood for some minutes + leaning against the boardwalk railing, listening to the moan of the sea + and watching the shaft of moonlight stretching from beach to horizon. + </p> + <p> + It was not until he was alone in his room that Morrow bethought of his + neglect of the loveliest girl in the world. And remorseful as he was, he + did not form any distinct intention of resuming his search for her the + next day. He rather congratulated himself on not having met her while he + was with this enchanting Clara Hunt. + </p> + <p> + And he passed next day also with the enchanting Clara Hunt. They sat on + the piazza together reading different parts of the same newspaper for an + hour after breakfast; went to the boardwalk and turned in at a + shuffle-board hall, where they spent another hour making the weights slide + along the sanded board and then took another ocean bath. + </p> + <p> + After luncheon they walked up the boardwalk to the iron pier. + </p> + <p> + Seeing the lifeboat there, rising and falling in the waves, Clara asked: + </p> + <p> + “Would the lifeguard take us in his boat for a while, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + Morrow went down to the beach and shouted to the lifeguard, who was none + other than the robust and stentorian Captain Clark. The captain brought + the boat ashore and as there were no bathers in the water at this point, + he agreed to row the young people out to the end of the pier. + </p> + <p> + “This is a great place for brides and grooms this summer,” remarked the + captain in his frank and jocular way. + </p> + <p> + Clara looked at Morrow with a blush and a laugh. Morrow was pleased at + seeing that she seemed not displeased. + </p> + <p> + “We're not married,” said Morrow to the captain. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, mebbe,” said the captain with one of his significant winks, and + then he gave vent to loud and long laughter. + </p> + <p> + That evening Morrow and Clara took the steamer trip from the Inlet to + Brigantine and the ride on the electric car along flat and sandy + Brigantine beach. On the return, they became very sentimental. They + decided to walk all the way from the Inlet down the boardwalk. He found + himself quite oblivious to the crowd of promenaders. The loveliest girl in + the world might have passed him a dozen times without attracting his + attention. He had eyes and ears for none but Clara Hunt. + </p> + <p> + And that night, far from reproaching himself for his conduct toward the + loveliest girl, etc., he hardly thought of her at all, more than to wonder + by what good fortune he had avoided meeting her. Some of the people at + their hotel made the same mistake regarding Morrow and Clara as Captain + Clark had made; the two were seen constantly together. Others thought they + were engaged. + </p> + <p> + Morrow spoke of this to her next morning as they were being whirled down + to Longport on a trolley car along miles of smooth beach and stunted + distorted pine trees. “I heard a woman on the piazza whisper that I was + your fiancé,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what if you were—I mean what if she did?” + </p> + <p> + At Longport they took the steamer for Ocean City. They rode through that + quiet place of trees and cottages on the electric car, returning to the + landing just in time to miss the 11.50 boat for Longport. They had to wait + an hour and a half and they were the only people there who were not bored + by the delay. They returned by way of Somers' Point. + </p> + <p> + While the boat was gliding through the sunlit waters of Great Egg Harbour + Inlet, Clara's hand happened to fall on Morrow's, which was resting on the + gunwale. She let her hand remain there. Morrow looked at it, and then at + her face. She smiled. When the Italian violin player on the boat came that + way, Morrow gave him a dollar. Alas for the loveliest girl in the world! + </p> + <p> + They passed most of that evening in a boardwalk pavilion, ostensibly + watching the sea and the crowd. They went up the thoroughfare in a catboat + the next morning, and, strange as it seemed to them, were the only people + out who caught no fish. The captain winked at his mate, who grinned. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon, while Morrow and Clara stood on the boardwalk looking + down at the Salvation Army tent, along came that innocent eccentric + “Professor” Walters in bathing costume and with his swimming machine. The + tall, lean whiskered, loquacious “Professor” had made Morrow's + acquaintance in a former summer and now greeted him politely. + </p> + <p> + “How d'ye do?” said the “Professor.” “Glad to see you here. You turn up + every year.” + </p> + <p> + “You're still given to rhyming,” commented Morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have a rhyme for every time, in pleasure or sorrow. Is this Mrs. + Morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be sorry she isn't,” remarked the “Professor,” taking his + departure. + </p> + <p> + Morrow and Clara walked on in silence. At last he said somewhat nervously: + </p> + <p> + “Everybody thinks we're married. Why shouldn't we be?” + </p> + <p> + She answered softly, with downcast eyes: + </p> + <p> + “I would be willing if I were sure of one thing.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” + </p> + <p> + “That you have never loved any other woman. Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “How can you ask? Believe me, you are the only girl I have ever loved.” + </p> + <p> + That evening, after dinner, Morrow and Clara, the newly affianced, about + starting from the hotel to the boardwalk, were at the top of the hotel + steps when a man appeared at the bottom. + </p> + <p> + Morrow uttered a cry of recognition. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Haddon, old boy, I'm glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my + wife that is to be.” + </p> + <p> + Haddon stood still and stared. Clara, too, remained motionless. After a + moment, Haddon said very quietly: + </p> + <p> + “You're mistaken. Let me introduce you to my wife that is.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow looked at Clara. She turned her gray eyes fearlessly on Haddon. + </p> + <p> + “You, too, are mistaken,” she said. “I had a husband before you married + me. He's my husband still. He's doing a song and dance act in a variety + theatre in Chicago. I'm sorry about all this, Mr. Morrow. I really like + you. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + She ran back into the hotel and arranged to make her departure on an early + train next morning. + </p> + <p> + Haddon turned toward the boardwalk, and Morrow, quite dazed, involuntarily + followed him. After a period of silence, Morrow said: + </p> + <p> + “This is astonishing. A bigamist, and a would-be trigamist. She came here + the night before you left. How did you find out she was here?” + </p> + <p> + “I read it in the Atlantic City letter of <i>The Philadelphia Press</i> + that one of the Comic Opera singers daily seen on the boardwalk is Miss + Clara Hunt, who is known to theatre-goers by her stage name, Lulu Ray. + These newspaper correspondents know some of the obscurest people. If I had + told you her real name, you would have known who she was in time to have + avoided being taken in by her.” + </p> + <p> + “Her having another husband lets you out.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I'm glad and sorry, for damn it, I was fond of the girl. Excuse me + awhile, old fellow. I want to go on the pier and think awhile.” + </p> + <p> + Haddon went out on the pier and looked down on the incoming waves and + thought awhile. He found it a disconsolate occupation, even with a cigar + to sweeten it. So he came back and mingled with the gay crowd on the + boardwalk and tried to forget her. + </p> + <p> + Morrow had no sooner left Haddon than he felt his arm touched. Looking + around, he saw the smiling face of the loveliest girl in the world. + </p> + <p> + “Well, by Jove, Edith,” he said. “At last I've found you!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I heard you were down here. You see, I've been up in town for the + last week. Gracious, but Philadelphia is hot! Here's Aunt Laura.” + </p> + <p> + Morrow spent the evening with Edith. One night a week later, he proposed + to her on the pier. + </p> + <p> + “I will say yes,” she replied, “if you can give me your assurance that + you've never been in love with any one else.” + </p> + <p> + “That's easily given. You know very well you're the only girl I've ever + loved.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. — A BIT OF MELODY + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker, and used by the courtesy of + the <i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i>.] + </p> + <p> + It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the lodging-house + for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians + coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They belonged + to the orchestra at the —— Theatre, and were returning from a + dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on + the following night. + </p> + <p> + Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded to + my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and passed + on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded face was + as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering gaslight. + </p> + <p> + The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in + disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he + stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the + danger of the icy pavements. “I'm t'ankful to be at last home,” he said, + showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler from his + neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an ample red + beard. “Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay warm in de + house and I play for you de music of de new opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks for your solicitude,” I said, “but I must have my walk. Play to + your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into geniality. + Good night.” + </p> + <p> + The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the + taciturnity of his countryman and confrère, with a gesture and a look of + reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he + disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs. + </p> + <p> + As I passed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my + footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas in + his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf. + </p> + <p> + My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of heart. + Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, while his + practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second violinist. + When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a smile: + </p> + <p> + “My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity + cofers a multitude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer.” + </p> + <p> + We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and + matinée duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, and + because those of us who could remember his long German surname could not + pronounce it. + </p> + <p> + One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his friend + Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival from + Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned that he + had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had departed + the day before. The professor took him home, clothed him and cared for him + until eventually another second violin was needed in the —— + Theatre orchestra. + </p> + <p> + Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, and he + picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and waltzes. + </p> + <p> + All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk in + that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to + collide with my friend the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat,” I said. “Won't you join me? I + know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where devilled + crabs are as good as the broiled oyster.” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure,” he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; “not for + your food, but for your society. But do you know what you did when you ran + against me at the corner? For a long time I've been trying to recall a + certain tune that I heard once. Three minutes ago, as I was walking along, + it came back to me, and I was whistling it when you came up. You knocked + it quite out of mind. I'm sorry, for interesting circumstances connected + with my first hearing of it make it desirable that I should remember it.” + </p> + <p> + “I can never express my regret,” I said. “But you may be able to catch it + again. Where were you when it came back to you three minutes ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Two blocks away, passing a church. I think it was the shining of the + electric light upon the stained glass window that brought it back to me, + for on the night of the day when I first heard it in Paris a strong light + was falling upon the stained glass windows of the church opposite the + house in which I had apartments.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, then,” I suggested, “the law of association may operate again if + you take the trouble to walk back and repass the church in the same manner + and the same state of mind, as nearly as you can resume them.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove,” said the doctor, who likes experiments of this kind, “I'll try + it. Wait for me here.” + </p> + <p> + I stood at the corner while the doctor briskly retraced his steps. His + firmly built, comfortable-looking form passed rapidly away. Within five + minutes he was back, a triumphant smile lighting his face. + </p> + <p> + “Success!” he said. “I have it, although whether from chance or as a + result of repeating my impression of light falling on a church window I + can't say. Certainly, after all these years, the tune is again mine. + Listen.” + </p> + <p> + As we proceeded up the street the doctor whistled a few measures composing + a rather peculiar melody, expressive, it seemed to me, of unrest. I never + forget a tune I have once heard, and this one was soon fixed in my memory. + </p> + <p> + “And the interesting circumstances under which you heard it?” I + interrogated. “Surely after the concern I've shown in the matter, you're + not going to deprive me of the story that goes with the tune?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no reason why I should. But I hope you will not circulate the + melody. It is the music that accompanies a tragedy.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? You have written one, then? It must be brief, as there isn't much + of the music.” + </p> + <p> + “I refer to a tragedy which actually occurred. Tragedies in real life are + not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this case + music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in Paris, + apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife. His name, + as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he came from + Breslau. The wife, a very young and pretty creature, showed herself, by + her attire and manners, to be frivolous and vain, and without having more + than the slightest acquaintance with the pair, I soon learned that she had + no knowledge of or taste for music. He had married her, I suppose, for her + beauty, and had too late discovered the incompatibility of their + temperaments. But he loved her passionately and jealously. One day I heard + loud words between them, from which I gathered unintentionally that + something had aroused his jealousy. She replied with laughter and taunts + to his threats. The quarrel ended with her abrupt departure from the room + and from the house. + </p> + <p> + “He did not follow her, but sat down at the piano and began to play in the + manner of one who improvises. Correcting the melody that first responded + to his touch, modifying it at several repetitions, he eventually gave out + the form that I have just whistled. + </p> + <p> + “Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that + strain over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my + lamp light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the way. + Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you dine?' I + heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech was plainly + distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; 'you were + with——.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I know + what she said in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only a + confused sound, which did not impress me at the time as indicating a + struggle, and which was followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or a + sullen truce had been restored in the household, and thought no more about + the affair. The next morning the wife was found dead, strangled. The + husband had disappeared, and has never, I believe, been heard of to this + day.” + </p> + <p> + We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the + account had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm café, with + appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me + again the husband's name. + </p> + <p> + “Heinrich Spellerberg.” + </p> + <p> + “And who had the woman been?” + </p> + <p> + “I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little + blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. + She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?” + </p> + <p> + “No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the exact date of the murder?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February 17, + 187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and on, ever + since—forgotten, most of the time; a few times recalled—as + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “And the man, what did he look like?” + </p> + <p> + “Slim and of medium height. Very light complexion and eyes. His face was + entirely smooth. His hair, a bit flaxen in colour, was curly and + plentiful, especially about the back of his neck.” + </p> + <p> + “In your evidence did you say anything about the strain of music, which + was manifestly of the murderer's own composition?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it did not recur to me until later.” + </p> + <p> + “And nothing was said about it by anybody?” + </p> + <p> + “No one but myself knew anything about it—except the murderer; and + unless he afterward circulated it, he and you and I are the only men in + the world who have heard it.” + </p> + <p> + “But if he continued, wherever he went, to exercise his profession, he + doubtless made some use of that bit of melody. The tune is so odd—quite + too good for him to have wasted.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, neither of us has ever heard it, or anything like it. And if you + ever should come upon it, it would be interesting to trace the thing, + wouldn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather.” + </p> + <p> + I began to whistle the air softly. Presently two handsome girls, with jimp + raiment and fearless demeanour, came in and took possession of an adjacent + table. + </p> + <p> + “What'll it be, Nell?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take a dozen panned. I'm hungry enough to eat all the oysters that + ever came out of the sea. A rehearsal like that gives one an appetite.” + </p> + <p> + “A dozen panned, and lobster salad for me, and two bottles of beer,” was + the order of the first speaker to the waiter. + </p> + <p> + I recognized the faces as pertaining to the chorus of the opera company at + the —— Theatre. I stopped whistling while I watched them. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, like a delayed and multiplied echo of my own whistling, came in + a soft hum from one of the girls the notes of the doctor's tragically + associated strain of music. + </p> + <p> + The doctor and I exchanged glances. The girl stopped humming. + </p> + <p> + “I think that's the prettiest thing in the piece, Maude,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Undoubtedly it was the comic opera to be produced at the —— + Theatre to which she alluded as “the piece.” + </p> + <p> + “Amazing,” I said to the doctor. “Millocker composed the piece she's + talking about. Millocker never killed a wife in Paris. Nor would he steal + bodily from another. Perhaps the thing has been interpolated by the local + producer. It doesn't sound quite like Millocker, anyhow. I must see about + this.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “To the Actors' Club, or a dozen other places, until I find Harry + Griffiths. He's one of the comedians in the company at the —— + Theatre, and he has a leading part in that piece to-morrow night. He'll + know where that tune came from.” + </p> + <p> + “As you please,” said the amiable doctor. “But I must go home. You can + tell me the result of your investigation to-morrow. It may lead to + nothing, but it will be interesting pastime.” + </p> + <p> + “And again,” I said, putting on my overcoat, “it may lead to something. + I'll see you to-morrow. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + I found Griffiths at the Actors' Club, telling stories over a mutton-chop + and a bottle of champagne. When the opportunity came I drew him aside. + </p> + <p> + “I have bet with a man about a certain air in the new piece. He says it's + in the original score, and I say it's introduced, because I don't think + Millocker did it. This is it,” and I whistled it. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, my boy. It's not in the original. Miss Elton's part was so + small that she refused to play until the manager agreed to let her fatten + it up. So Weinmann composed that and put—” + </p> + <p> + “This Weinmann,” I interrupted, abruptly, “what do you know about him? Who + is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He's Gustav Weinmann, the new musical director. I don't know anything + about him. He's not been long in the country. The manager found him in + some small place in Germany last summer.” + </p> + <p> + “How old is he? Where does he live?” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you want + to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?” + </p> + <p> + “Good idea, this. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German + town. I would go to him and bluntly say: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it + is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed. + </p> + <p> + All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I began + to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour + down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The + only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. The + latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We all were + used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy caprices, + the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent house. + </p> + <p> + I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room + but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains that + used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys took + touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the musical summonings of the player assumed a familiar aspect,—that + of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for the past hour. + </p> + <p> + Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in the + orchestra at the —— Theatre, would doubtless know more about + the antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able + to tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come + from Germany. + </p> + <p> + I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking through + the open door, beheld the professor at the piano. + </p> + <p> + The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept grandly + in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's head in + soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of the opposite + wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined Schaaf, who had + fallen asleep listening while the professor played. + </p> + <p> + The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain—so + often mutual companions—were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break + the spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, + however, I began quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Professor.” + </p> + <p> + The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to face + me, smiling pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the + moonshine that he might recognize me, “but I was attracted by the air you + were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was composed by + your new conductor at the ——” + </p> + <p> + The professor answered with a laugh: + </p> + <p> + “Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn't + matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, then it isn't his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Me.” + </p> + <p> + “You?” + </p> + <p> + “Ja. And I have many oder to gif sheap, too.” + </p> + <p> + “But where did you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “I make it.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “Long 'go. I forget. I have make so many. Dey go away from my mindt an' + come again back long time after.” + </p> + <p> + “Professor, what would you give me to tell you where and when you composed + that tune?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression. It was with an + effort that I continued, as I looked straight into his eyes: + </p> + <p> + “I will hazard a guess. Could it have been in Paris—one day twelve + years ago—” + </p> + <p> + “I neffer be in Paris,” he interrupted, with a start which shocked and + convinced me, slight evidence though it may seem. So I spoke on: + </p> + <p> + “What, never? Not even just that night—that 17th of February? Try to + recall it, Heinrich Spellerberg. You remember she came in late, and—who + would think that those soft white fingers had been strong enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, my friendt! I not touch her! She kill herself—she try to hang + and she shoke her neck. No, no, to you I vill not lie! You speak all true! + Mein Gott! Vat vill you do?” + </p> + <p> + The man was on his knees. I thought of the circumstances, the persons + concerned, the high-strung, sensitive lover of music, the coarse, + derisive, perhaps faithless woman, and I replied quickly: + </p> + <p> + “What will I do? Nothing to-night. It's none of my business, anyhow. I'll + sleep over it and tell you in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + I left him alone. + </p> + <p> + In the morning the professor's door stood ajar. I looked in. Man, clothes, + violin case, and valise had gone. Whither I have not tried to ascertain. + </p> + <p> + When the new opera was produced that evening the —— Theatre + orchestra was unexpectedly minus two of its second violins, for Schaaf, + half-distracted, was wandering the cold streets in search of his friend. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. — ON THE BRIDGE + </h2> + <p> + When I tell you, my only friend, to whom I so rarely write and whom I more + rarely see, that my lonely life has not been without love for woman, you + will perhaps laugh or doubt. + </p> + <p> + “What,” you will say, “that gaunt old spectre in his attic with his books, + his tobacco, and his three flower-pots! He would not know that there is + such a word as love, did he not encounter it now and then in his reading.” + </p> + <p> + True, I have divided my days between the books in a rich man's + counting-room and those in my attic. True, again, I have never been more + than merely passable to look at, even in my best days. + </p> + <p> + Yet I have loved a woman. + </p> + <p> + During the five years when my elder brother lay in a hospital across the + river, where he died, it was my custom to visit him every Sunday. I + enjoyed the afternoon walk to the suburbs, when the air has more of nature + in it, especially that portion of the walk which lay upon the bridge. More + life than was usual upon the bridge moved there on Sunday. Then the cars + were crowded with people seeking the parks. Many crossed on foot, stopping + to look idly down at the dark and sluggish water. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, as I stood thus leaning over the parapet, the sound of + woman's gentle laugh caused me to turn and ocularly inquire its source. + The woman and a man were approaching. At the side of the woman walked + soberly a handsome dog, a collie. There was that in their appearance and + manner which plainly told me that here were husband and wife, of the + middle class, intelligent but poor, out for a stroll. That they were quite + devoted to each other was easily discoverable. + </p> + <p> + The man looked about thirty years of age, was tall, slender, and was + neither strong nor handsome, but had an amiable face. He was doubtless a + clerk fit to be something better. The woman was perhaps twenty-four. She + was not quite beautiful, yet she was more than pretty. She was of good + size and figure, and the short plush coat that she wore, and the manner in + which she kept her hands thrust in the pockets thereof, gave to her a + dauntless air which the quiet and affectionate expression of her face + softened. + </p> + <p> + She was a brunette, her eyes being large and distinctly dark brown, her + face having a peculiar complexion which is most quickly affected by any + change in health. + </p> + <p> + The colour of her cheek, the dark rim under her eyes, and the other + indefinable signs, indicated some radical ailment. In the quick glance + that I had of that pair, while the woman was smiling, a feeling of pity + came over me. I have never detected the exact cause of that emotion. + Perhaps in the woman's face I read the trace of past bodily and mental + suffering; perhaps a subtle mark that death had already set there. + </p> + <p> + Neither the woman nor her husband noticed me as they passed. The dog + regarded me cautiously with the corner of his eye. I probably would never + have thought of the three again had I not seen them upon the bridge, under + exactly the same circumstances, on the next Sunday. + </p> + <p> + So these young and then happy people walked here every Sunday, I thought. + This, perhaps, was an event looked forward to throughout the week. The + husband, doubtless, was kept a prisoner and slave at his desk from Monday + morning until Saturday night, with respite only for eating and sleeping. + Such cases are common, even with people who can think and have some taste + for luxury, and who are not devoid of love for the beautiful. + </p> + <p> + The sight of happiness which exists despite the cruelty of fate and man, + and which is temporarily unconscious of its own liabilities to + interruption and extinction, invariably fills me with sadness, and the + sadness which arose at the contemplation of these two beings begat in me a + strange sympathy for an interest in them. + </p> + <p> + On Sundays thereafter I would go early to the bridge and wait until they + passed, for it proved that this was their habitual Sunday walk. Sometimes + they would pause and join those who gazed down at the black river. I + would, now and again, resume my journey toward the hospital while they + thus stood, and I would look back from a distance. The bridge would then + appear to me an abrupt ascent, rising to the dense city, and their figures + would stand out clearly against the background. + </p> + <p> + It became a matter of care to me to observe each Sunday whether the health + of either had varied during the previous week. The husband, always pale + and slight, showed little change and that infrequently. But the + fluctuations of the woman as indicated by complexion, gait, expression and + otherwise, were numerous and pronounced. Often she looked brighter and + more robust than on the preceding Sunday. Her face would be then rounded + out, and the dark crescents beneath her eyes would be less marked. Then I + found myself elated. + </p> + <p> + But on the next Sunday the cheeks had receded slightly, the healthy lustre + of the eyes had given way to an ominous glow, the warning of death had + returned. Then my heart would sink, and, sighing, I would murmur + inaudibly: + </p> + <p> + “This is one of the bad Sundays.” + </p> + <p> + There came a time when every Sunday was a bad one. + </p> + <p> + What made me love this woman? Simply the unmistakable completeness and + constancy of her devotion to her husband,—the absorption of the + woman in the wife. Had the strange ways of chance ever made known to her + my feelings, and had she swerved from that devotion even to render me back + love for love, then my own adoration for her would surely have departed. + </p> + <p> + Yes, I loved her,—if to fill one's life with thoughts of a woman, if + in fancy to see her face by day and night, if to have the will to die for + her or to bear pain for her, if those and many more things mean love. + </p> + <p> + My richest joy was to see her content with her husband, and the darkest + woe of my life was to anticipate the termination of their happiness. + </p> + <p> + So the Sundays passed. One afternoon I waited until almost dusk, yet the + couple did not appear. + </p> + <p> + For seven Sundays in succession I did not meet them upon their wonted + walk. + </p> + <p> + On the eighth Sunday I saw the dog first, then the man. The latter was + looking over the railing. The woman was not with him. Apprehensively I + sought with my eyes his face. Much grief and loneliness were depicted + there. + </p> + <p> + Was he or I the greater mourner? I wondered. + </p> + <p> + I suppose two years passed after that day ere I again beheld the widower—whose + name I did not and probably never shall know—upon the bridge. The + dog was not with him this time. It was a fine, sunny afternoon in May. + Grief was no longer in his face. By his side was a very pretty, animated, + rosy little woman whom I had never seen before. They walked close to each + other, and she looked with the utmost tenderness into his face. She + evidently was not yet entirely accustomed to the wedding-ring which I + observed on her finger. + </p> + <p> + I think that tears came to my eyes at this sight. Those great brown eyes, + the plush sack, the lovely face that had borne the impress of sorrow so + speedily, had felt death—those might never have existed, so soon had + they been forgotten by the one being in the world for whom that face had + worn the aspect of a perfect love. + </p> + <p> + Yet one upon whom those eyes never rested has remembered. And surely the + memory of her is mine to wed, since he, whose right was to cherish it, has + allowed himself to be divorced from it in so brief a time. + </p> + <p> + The memory of her is with me always, fills my soul, beautifies my life, + makes green and radiant this existence which all who know me think cold, + bleak, empty, repellent. + </p> + <p> + You will not laugh, then, my friend, when I tell you that love is not to + me a thing unknown. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So runs a part of the last letter to my father that the old bookkeeper + ever wrote. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. — THE TRIUMPH OF MOGLEY + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Courtesy of <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>.Copyright, 1892, by + J.B. Lippincott Company.] + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mogley was an actor of what he termed the “old school.” He railed + against the prevalence of travelling theatrical troupes, and when he + attitudinized in the barroom, his left elbow upon the brass rail, his + right hand encircling a glass of foaming beer, he often clamoured for a + return of the system of permanently located dramatic companies, and sighed + at the departure of the “palmy days.” + </p> + <p> + A picturesque figure, typical of an almost bygone race of such figures, + was Mogley at these moments, his form being long and attenuated, his + visage smooth and of angular contour, his facial mildness really enhanced + by the severity which he attempted to impart to his countenance when he + conversed with such of his fellow men as were not of “the profession.” + </p> + <p> + Like Mogley's style of acting, his coat was old. But, although neither he + nor any of his acquaintances suspected it, his heart was young. He still + waited and hoped. + </p> + <p> + For Mogley's long professional career had not once been brightened by a + distinct success. He had never made what the men and women of his + occupation designate a hit, or even what the dramatic critics wearily + describe as a “favourable impression.” This he ascribed to lack of + opportunity, as he was merely human. Mr. and Mrs. Mogley eagerly sent for + the newspapers on the morning after each opening night and sought the + notices of the performance. These records never contained a word of either + praise or censure for Mogley. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Mogley had first met Mogley when she was a soubrette and he a + “walking gentleman.” It was his Guildenstern (or it may have been his + Rosencrantz) that had won her. Shortly after their marriage there came to + her that life-ailment which made it impossible for her to continue acting. + She had swallowed her aspirations, shedding a few tears. She lived in the + hope of his triumph, and, as she had more time to think than he had, she + suffered more keenly the agony of yearning unsatisfied. + </p> + <p> + She was a little, fragile being, with large pale blue eyes, and a face + from which the roses had fled when she was twenty. But she was very much + to Mogley: she did his planning, his thinking, the greater part of his + aspiring. She always accompanied him upon tours, undergoing cheerfully the + hard life that a player at “one-night stands” must endure in the interest + of art. + </p> + <p> + This continued through the years until last season. Then when Mogley was + about to start “on the road” with the “Two Lives for One” Company, the + doctor said that Mrs. Mogley would have to stay in New York or die,—perhaps + die in any event. So Mogley went alone, playing the melodramatic father in + the first act, and later the secondary villain, who in the end drowns the + principal villain in the tank of real water, while his heart was with the + pain-racked little woman pining away in the small room at the top of the + dingy theatrical boarding-house on Eleventh Street. + </p> + <p> + The “Two Lives for One” Company “collapsed,” as the newspapers say, in + Ohio, three months after its departure from New York; this notwithstanding + the tank of real water. Mogley and the leading actress overtook the + manager at the railway station, as he was about to flee, and extorted + enough money from him to take them back to New York. + </p> + <p> + Mogley had not returned too soon to the small room at the top of the house + on Eleventh Street. He turned paler than his wife when he saw her lying on + the bed. She smiled through her tears,—a really heartrending smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Tom, I've changed much since you left, and not for the better. I + don't know whether I can live out the season.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't say that, Alice, for God's sake!” + </p> + <p> + “I would be resigned, Tom, if only—if only you would make a success + before I go.” + </p> + <p> + “If only I could get the chance, Alice!” + </p> + <p> + As the days went by, Mrs. Mogley rapidly grew worse. She seemed to fail + perceptibly. But Mogley had to seek an engagement. They could not live on + nothing. Mrs. Jones would wait with the daily increasing board-bill, but + medicine required cash. Each evening, when Mogley returned from his tour + of the theatrical agencies of Fourteenth Street and of Broadway, the ill + woman put the question, almost before he opened the door: + </p> + <p> + “Anything yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. You see this is the bad part of the season. Ah, the profession + is overcrowded!” + </p> + <p> + But one Monday afternoon he rushed up the stairs, his face aglow. In the + dark, narrow hallway on the top floor he met the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Mogley has had a sudden turn for the worse,” said the physician, + abruptly. “I'm afraid she won't live until midnight.” + </p> + <p> + Doctors need not give themselves the trouble to “break news gently” in + cases where they stand small chances of remuneration. + </p> + <p> + Mogley staggered. It was cruel that this should occur just when he had + such good news. But an idea occurred to him. Perhaps the good news would + reanimate her. + </p> + <p> + “Alice,” he cried, as he threw open the door, “you must get well! My + chance has come. The tide, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune, + is here.” + </p> + <p> + She sat up in bed, trembling. “What is it, Tom?” + </p> + <p> + “This. Young Hopkins asked me to have a drink at the Hoffman this + afternoon, and, while I was in there, Hexter, who managed the 'Silver + King' Company the season I played Coombe, came in all rattled. 'Why this + extravagant wrath?' Hopkins asked, in his picturesque way. Then Hexter + explained that his revival of Wilkins' old burlesque on 'Faust' couldn't + be put on to-night, because Renshaw, who was to be the Mephisto, was too + sick to walk. 'No one else knows the part,' Hexter said. Then I told him I + knew the part; how I'd played Valentine to Wilkins' Mephisto when the + piece was first produced before these Gaiety people brought their 'Faust + up-to-date' from London. You remember how, as Wilkins was given to late + dinners and too much ale, he made me understudy his Mephisto, and if the + piece had run more'n two weeks, I'd probably had a chance to play it. + Well, Hexter said, as everything was ready to put on the piece, if I + thought I was up in the part, he'd let me try it. So we went to Renshaw's + room and got the part and here it is.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Tom, burlesque isn't in your line.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it? Anything's in my line. 'Versatility is the touchstone of + power.' That's where we of the old stock days come in! Besides, burlesque + is the thing now. Look at Leslie, and Wilson, and Hopper, and Powers. + They're the men who draw the salaries nowadays. If I make a hit in this + part, my fortune is sure.” + </p> + <p> + “But Hexter's Theatre is on the Bowery.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn't matter. Hexter pays salaries.” + </p> + <p> + Objections like this last one had often been made, and as often overcome + in the same words. + </p> + <p> + “And then besides—why, Alice, what's the matter?” + </p> + <p> + She had fallen back on the bed with a feeble moan. He leaned over her. + Slowly she opened her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Tom, I'm afraid I'm dying.” + </p> + <p> + Then Mogley remembered the doctor's words. Alice dying! Life was hard + enough even when he had her to sustain his courage. What would it be + without her? + </p> + <p> + The typewritten part had fallen on the bed. He pushed it aside. + </p> + <p> + “Hexter and his Mephisto be d——d!” said Mogley. “I shall stay + at home with you to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Tom: your one chance, remember! If you should make a hit before I + die, I could go easier. It would brighten the next world for me until you + come to join me.” + </p> + <p> + Mogley's weaker will succumbed to hers. So, with his right hand around + Mrs. Mogley's wrist, turning his eyes now and then to the clock in the + steeple which was visible through the narrow window, that he might know + when to administer her medicine, he held his “part” in his left hand and + refreshed his recollection of the lines. + </p> + <p> + At seven o'clock, with a last pressure of her thin fingers, a kiss upon + her cheek where a tear lay, he left her. He had thought she was asleep, + but she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “May God help you to-night, Tom! My thoughts will be at the theatre with + you. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Jones's daughter had promised to look in at Mrs. Mogley now and then + during the evening, and to give her the medicine at the proper intervals. + </p> + <p> + Mogley reported to the stage manager, who showed him Renshaw's + dressing-room and gave him Renshaw's costume for the part. His mind ever + turning back to the little room at the top of the house and then to the + words and “business” of his part, he got into Renshaw's red tights and + crimson cape. Then he donned the scarlet cap and plume and pasted the + exaggerated eyebrows upon his forehead, while the stage manager stood by, + giving him hints as to new “business” invented by Renshaw. + </p> + <p> + “You have the stage to yourself, you know, at that time, for a specialty.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'll sing the song Wilkins did there. I see it's marked in the part + and the orchestra must be 'up' in it. In the second act I'll do some + imitations of actors.” + </p> + <p> + At eight he was ready to go on the stage. + </p> + <p> + “May God be with you!” reëchoed in his ear,—the echo of a weak voice + put forth with an effort. + </p> + <p> + He heard the stage manager in front of the curtain announcing that, “owing + to Mr. Renshaw's sudden illness, the talented comedian, Mr. Thomas Mogley, + had kindly consented to play Mephisto, at short notice, without a + rehearsal.” + </p> + <p> + He had never heard himself called a talented comedian before, and he + involuntarily held his head a trifle higher as the startling and delicious + words reached his ears. + </p> + <p> + The opening chorus, the witless dialogue of secondary personages, then an + almost empty stage, old Faust alone remaining, and the entrance of + Mephisto. + </p> + <p> + Some applause that came from people that had not heard the preliminary + announcement, and whose demonstration was intended for Renshaw, rather + disconcerted Mogley. Then, ere he had spoken a word, or his eyes had + ranged over the hazy lighted theatre on the other side of the footlights, + there sounded in the depths of his brain: + </p> + <p> + “My thoughts will be at the theatre with you!” + </p> + <p> + There were many vacant seats in the house. He singled out one of them on + the front row and imagined she was in it. He would play to that vacant + seat throughout the evening. + </p> + <p> + In all burlesques of “Faust” the rôle of Mephisto is the leading comic + figure. The actor who assumes it undertakes to make people laugh. + </p> + <p> + Mogley made people laugh that night, but it was not his intentional + humourous efforts that excited their hilarity. It was the man himself. + They began by jeering him quietly. Then the gallery grew bold. + </p> + <p> + “Ah there, Edwin Booth!” sarcastically yelled an urchin aloft. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a funny little man he is!” ironically quoted another from a song + in one of Mr. Hoyt's farces, alluding to Mogley's spare if elongated + frame. + </p> + <p> + “He t'inks dis is a tragedy,” suggested a Bowery youth. + </p> + <p> + But Mogley tried not to heed. + </p> + <p> + In the second act some one threw an apple at him. Mogley laboured + zealously. The ribald gallery had often been his foe. Wait until such and + such a scene! He would show them how a pupil of the old stock companies + could play burlesque! Song and dance men from the varieties had too long + enjoyed undisputed possession of that form of drama. + </p> + <p> + But, one by one, he passed his opportunities without capturing the house. + Nearer came the end of the piece. Slimmer grew his chance of making the + longed-for impression. The derision of the audience increased. Now the + gallery made comments upon his personal appearance. + </p> + <p> + “He could get between raindrops,” yelled one, applying a recent speech of + Edwin Stevens, the comic opera comedian. + </p> + <p> + And at home Mogley's wife was dying—holding to life by sheer power + of will, that she might rejoice with him over his triumph. Tears blinded + his eyes. Even the other members of the company were laughing at his + discomfiture. + </p> + <p> + Only a little brunette in pink tights who played Siebel, and whom he had + never met before, had a look of sympathy for him. + </p> + <p> + “It's a tough audience. Don't mind them,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Mogley has never seen or heard of the little brunette since. But he + anticipates eventually to behold her ranking first after Alice among the + angels of heaven. + </p> + <p> + The curtain fell and Mogley, somewhat dazed in mind, mechanically removed + his apparel, washed off his “make-up,” donned his worn street attire and + his haughty demeanour, and started for home. + </p> + <p> + Home! Behind him failure and derision. Before him, Alice, dying, waiting + impatiently his return, the news of his triumph. + </p> + <p> + “We won't need you to-morrow night, Mr. Mogley,” said the stage manager as + he reached the stage door. “Mr. Hexter told me to pay you for to-night. + Here's your money now.” + </p> + <p> + Mogley took the envelope as in a dream, answered not a word, and hastened + homeward. He thought only: + </p> + <p> + “To tell her the truth will kill her at once.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Mogley was awake and in a fever of anticipation when Mogley entered + the little room. She was sitting up in bed, staring at him with shining + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how was it?” she asked, quickly. + </p> + <p> + Mogley's face wore a look of jubilant joy. + </p> + <p> + “Success!” he cried. “Tremendous hit! The house roared! Called before the + curtain four times and had to make a speech!” + </p> + <p> + Mogley's ecstasy was admirably simulated. It was a fine bit of acting. + Never before or since did Mogley rise to such a height of dramatic + illusion. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Tom, at last, at last! And, now, I must live till morning, to read + about it in the papers!” + </p> + <p> + Mogley's heart fell. If the papers would mention the performance at all, + they would dismiss it in three or four lines, bestowing perhaps a word of + ridicule upon him. She was sure to see one paper, the one that the + landlady's daughter lent her every day. + </p> + <p> + Mogley looked at the illuminated clock on the steeple across the way. A + quarter to twelve. + </p> + <p> + “My love,” he said, “I promised Hexter I would meet him to-night at the + Five A's Club, to arrange about salary and so forth. I'll be gone only an + hour. Can you do without me that long?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, go; and don't let him have you for less than fifty dollars a week.” + </p> + <p> + Shortly after midnight the dramatic editor of that newspaper Miss Jones + daily lent to Mrs. Mogley, having sent up the last page of his notice of + the new play at Palmer's, was confronted by the office-boy ushering to the + side of his desk a tall, spare, smooth-faced man with a sober countenance, + an ill-concealed manner of being somewhat over-awed by his surroundings, + and a coat frayed at the edges. + </p> + <p> + “I'm Mr. Thomas Mogley,” said this apparition. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Have a cigarette, Mr. Mogley?” replied the dramatic editor, absently, + lighting one himself. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir. I was this evening, but am not now, the leading comedian + of the company that played Wilkins's 'Faust' at the —— + Theatre. I played Mephisto.” (He had begun his speech in a dignified + manner, but now he spoke quickly and in a quivering voice.) “I was a + failure—a very great failure. My wife is extremely ill. If she knew + I was a failure, it would kill her, so I told her I made a success. I have + really never made a success in my life. She is sure to read your paper + to-morrow. Will you kindly not speak of my failure in your criticism of + the performance? She cannot live later than to-morrow morning, and I + should not like—you see—I have never deigned to solicit + favours from the press before, sir, and—” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, Mr. Mogley. It's very late, but I'll see what I can do.” + </p> + <p> + Mogley passed out, walking down the five flights of stairs to the street, + forgetful of the elevator. + </p> + <p> + The dramatic editor looked at his watch. “Half-past twelve,” he said; + then, to a man at another desk: + </p> + <p> + “Jack, I can't come just yet. I'll meet you at the club. Order devilled + crabs and a bottle of Bass for me.” + </p> + <p> + He ran up-stairs to the night editor. “Mr. Dorney, have you the theatre + proofs? I'd like to make a change in one of the theatre notices.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late for the first edition, my boy. Is it important?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, an exceptional case. I'll deem it a personal favour.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I'll get it in the city edition. Here are the proofs.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see,” mused the dramatic editor, looking over the wet proofs. “Who + covered the —— Theatre to-night? Some one in the city + department. I suppose he 'roasted' Gugley, or whatever his name is. Ah, + here it is.” + </p> + <p> + And he read on the proof: + </p> + <p> + “The revival of an ancient burlesque on 'Faust' at the —— + Theatre last night was without any noteworthy feature save the pitiful + performance of the part of Mephisto by a doleful gentleman named Thomas + Mogley, who showed not the faintest of humour and who was tremendously + guyed by a turbulent audience. Mr. Mogley was temporarily taking the place + of William Renshaw, a funmaker of more advanced methods, who will appear + in the rôle to-night. There are some pretty girls and agile dancers in the + company.” + </p> + <p> + Which the dramatic editor changed to read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “The revival of a familiar burlesque on 'Faust' at the —— + Theatre last night was distinguished by a decidedly novel and original + embodiment of Mephisto by Thomas Mogley, a trained and painstaking + comedian. His performance created an abundance of merriment, and it was + the manifest thought of the audience that a new type of burlesque comedian + had been discovered.” + </p> + <p> + All of which was literally true. And the dramatic editor laughed over it + later over his bottle of white label at the club. + </p> + <p> + By what power Mrs. Mogley managed to keep alive until morning I do not + know. The dull gray light was stealing into the little room through the + window as Mogley, leaning over the bed, held a fresh newspaper close to + her face. Her head was propped up by means of pillows. She laughed through + her tears. Her face was all gladness. + </p> + <p> + “A new—comedian—discovered,” she repeated. “Ah, Tom, at last! + That is what I lived for! I can die happy now. We've made a—great—hit—Tom—” + </p> + <p> + The voice ceased. There was a convulsion at her throat. Nothing stirred in + the room. From the street below came the sound of a passing car and a + boy's voice, “Morning papers.” Mogley was weeping. + </p> + <p> + The dead woman's hand clutched the paper. Her face wore a smile. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V. — OUT OF HIS PAST + </h2> + <p> + This is no fable; it is the hardest kind of fact. I met Craddock not more + than a week ago. His inebriety prevented his recognizing me. + </p> + <p> + What a joyous, hopeful man he was upon the day of his marriage! He looked + toward the future as upon a cloudless spring dawn one looks forward to the + day. + </p> + <p> + He had sown his wild oats and had already reaped a crop of knowledge. “I + have put the past behind me,” he said. And he thought it would stay there. + </p> + <p> + He married one of the sweetest and best of women. The match was an ideal + one—exceptionally so. His wife's mother objected to it and moved + away on account of it. “That's a detail,” said Craddock. + </p> + <p> + There are details and details. The importance of any one of them depends + on circumstances. + </p> + <p> + Craddock had all the qualities and attributes requisite to make him a + son-in-law to the liking of his mother-in-law—lack of money. + </p> + <p> + So she went to live in Boston, maintained a chilly correspondence with her + daughter, and bided her time. + </p> + <p> + Craddock had had his old loves, a fact that he did not attempt to conceal + from his wife. She insisted upon his telling her about them, although the + narration put her into manifest vexation of mind. Such is the way of young + wives. + </p> + <p> + There was one love about which Craddock said less than about any of the + others, because it had encroached more upon his life than any of them. It + had nearly approached being a serious affair. He had a delicacy concerning + the mention of it, too, for he flattered himself that the flame, although + entirely extinguished upon his own side, yet smouldered deep in the heart + of the woman. Therefore, he spoke of that episode in vague and general + terms. + </p> + <p> + Strange as it seemed to Craddock, clear as it is to any student of men and + women, it was this amour that excited the most curiosity in the mind of + his wife. + </p> + <p> + “What was her name?” asked the latter. + </p> + <p> + “Agnes Darrell.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think she has a pretty name, at all events.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that was only her stage name. I really don't remember what her real + name was.” + </p> + <p> + This was a judicious falsehood. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm sorry that you ever made love to actresses. I'm afraid I can't + think as much of you after knowing—” + </p> + <p> + “After knowing that the first sight of you drove the memory of all + actresses and other women in the world out of my head,” cried Craddock, + with a merry fervour that made his speech irresistible. + </p> + <p> + So they persisted in being extremely happy together for three years, to + the grinding chagrin of Craddock's mother-in-law in Boston. + </p> + <p> + One July Friday, Craddock's wife was at the seashore, while Craddock, who + ran down each Saturday to remain with her until Monday, was battling with + his work and the heat and the summer insects, in his office in the city. + Mrs. Craddock received her mail, two letters addressed to her at the + seaside, two forwarded from the city whither they had first come. + </p> + <p> + Of the latter one was a milliner's announcement of removal. The other was + in a large envelope, and the address was in a chirography unknown to her. + The large envelope contained a smaller one. + </p> + <p> + This second envelope was addressed to Miss Agnes Darrell, —— + Hotel, Chicago, in the handwriting of Craddock. + </p> + <p> + The feelings of Craddock's wife are imaginable. She took from this already + opened second envelope the letter that it contained. It also was in + Craddock's penmanship. She succeeded in a semistupefied condition in + reading it to the end. + </p> + <p> + “May 13. + </p> + <p> + “My Dearest Agnes:—I have just a moment in which to tell you the old + story that one heart, thousands of miles east of you, beats for you alone. + With what joy do I anticipate the early ending of the season, when, like + young Lochinvar, you will come out of the West. I shall contrive to be + with you as often as possible this summer. With renewed vows of my + unalterable devotion, I must hastily say good night. + </p> + <p> + “Yours always, + </p> + <p> + “Jack.” + </p> + <p> + Any who seek a new emotion would ask for nothing more than Craddock's wife + then experienced. It was not until the first shock had given away to a + calm, stupendous indignation that she began to comment upon the epistle in + detail. + </p> + <p> + “May 13th—at that very time Jack was sighing at the thought of my + being away from him during the hot weather and telling me how he would + miss me. All deception! His heart at that very time was beating for her + alone. And he would contrive to see her as often as possible this summer—during + my absence!” + </p> + <p> + It was then that Craddock's wife learned the great value of pride and + anger as a compound antidote to overwhelming grief in certain + circumstances. + </p> + <p> + When Craddock, quite unarmed, rushed to meet her at the seashore upon the + next evening, she was en route for Boston. + </p> + <p> + In several ensuing years, Craddock's wife's mother took care that every + communication from him, every demand for an explanation, every piteous + plea for enlightenment, for one interview, should be ignored. The mother + sent the girl to relatives in Europe; and after Craddock had spent three + years and all the money that he had saved toward the buying of a house for + his wife and himself, in trying to cross her path that he might have a + moment's hearing, he came back home and went to the dogs. + </p> + <p> + He would have killed himself had not hope remained—the hope that + some chance turn of events would bring him face to face with her, that he + might know wherefore his punishment. He would have proudly resolved to + forget her, and he would have striven day and night to make a name that + some day would reach her ears whereever she might go, had he not felt that + some terrible mistake had taken her from him; time would eventually + rectify matters. As hope bade him live and as his inability to forget her + made it impossible for him to put his thoughts upon work, he became a + drunkard. + </p> + <p> + He might not have done so had he been you or I; but he was only Craddock, + and whether or not you find his offence beyond the extent of palliation, + the fact is that he drank himself penniless and entirely beyond the power + of his own will to resume respectability. + </p> + <p> + Naturally his friends abandoned him. + </p> + <p> + “Craddock is making a beast of himself,” said one who had formerly sat at + his table. “To give him money merely accelerates the process.” + </p> + <p> + “When a man loses all self-respect, how can he expect to retain the + sympathy of other people?” queried a second. + </p> + <p> + “I never thought much of a man who would go to the gutter on account of a + woman. It shows a lack of stamina,” observed a third. + </p> + <p> + All of which was true. But particular cases have exceptionally aggravating + circumstances. Special combinations may produce results which, although + seemingly under human control, are almost, if not quite, inevitable. + </p> + <p> + One day Craddock's wife came back to him. In Paris she had made a + discovery. She had kept the letter from Jack to the actress in a box that + always accompanied her. Opening this box suddenly, her eye fell upon the + postmark, stamped upon the envelope. She had never noticed this before. + She knew that the date written above the letter itself was incomplete, the + year not being indicated. According to the postmark, the year was 1875. + </p> + <p> + That was four years before Jack married her; two years before he first saw + her. + </p> + <p> + She had always supposed the sending of the letter to her to be the act of + some jealous rival of Jack's for the actress's affection. Now she knew not + to what it might have been attributable. + </p> + <p> + When she arrived at the hospital where Craddock was recovering from the + effects of an unconscious attempt at suicide, she was ten years older, in + fact, than when she had left him; twenty years older in appearance. She + took him home and has been trying to make a man of him. She manifests + toward him limitless patience and tenderness, and she tolerates + uncomplainingly his bi-weekly carousals. But she can afford to, having + come into possession of a small fortune at her mother's recent death. + </p> + <p> + Craddock is amiably content with her. He cannot bring himself to regard + her as the beautiful young bride of his youth. So little remains of her + former charm, her former vivacity and girlishness, that it seems as if + Craddock's wife of other times had died. + </p> + <p> + A few days ago, I met at the Sheepshead Races a <i>passée</i> actress who + was telling about the conquests of her early career. + </p> + <p> + “There was one young fellow awfully infatuated with me,” she said, “who + used to write me the sweetest letters. I kept them long after he stopped + caring for me, until he was married; then I destroyed them. I found one + short one, though, in an old handbag some years after, and, just for a + joke I mailed it to his wife at his old address. I don't suppose it ever + reached her, though, or he would have acknowledged it, for the sake of old + times. I wonder whatever became of Jack Craddock. People used to say he + had a bright future—I say, tell that messenger-boy to come here! I'm + going to put five on Tenny for this next race. And you'll lend me the + five, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI. — THE NEW SIDE PARTNER + </h2> + <p> + A chance in life is like worldly greatness—to which, indeed, it is + commonly a requisite preliminary. Some are born with it, some achieve it, + and some have it thrust upon them. + </p> + <p> + There is a youth who has had it thrust upon him. What he will do with it + remains to be seen. Know the story, which is true in every detail save in + two proper names: + </p> + <p> + The midnight train from New York, which crawls out of the Jersey City + ferry station at 12:25, is usually doleful, especially in the ordinary + cars. One who cannot sleep easily therein has a weary two or three hours' + time to Philadelphia. Almost any equally wakeful companion is then a + source of joy. + </p> + <p> + A girl of medium size, wearing a veil, and being rather carelessly attired + in dark clothes which fitted a charming figure, walked jauntily up the + aisle, saw that no seat was entirely vacant, and therefore, after a hasty + glance at me, sat down beside me. + </p> + <p> + Had not the two very young men in the seat behind us drunk too much wine + that night in New York, the girl and I might never have exchanged a word. + But the conversation of the youths was such as to cause between us the + intercommunication of smiles, and eventually of speeches. + </p> + <p> + Then casual observations about the fulness of the car, the time of the + train, and our respective destinations,—mine being Philadelphia, + hers being Baltimore, led to the revelation that she was a constant + traveller, because she was an actress. She had been a soubrette in musical + farce, but lately she had belonged to a variety and burlesque company. She + had gone upon the stage when she was thirteen, and she was now twenty. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of an act do you do?” I asked, in the language of the variety + “profession.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can do almost anything,” she said, in a tone of a self-possessed, + careless, and vivacious woman. “I sing well enough, and I can dance + anything, a skirt dance, a clog, a Mexican fandango, a Carmencita kind of + step, anything at all. I don't know when I ever learned to dance. I didn't + learn, it just came to me; but the best thing I do is whistling. I'm not + afraid of any man in the business when it's a case of whistling. There's + no fake about my whistle; it's the real thing. I can whistle any sort of + music that goes.” + </p> + <p> + “Your company appears in Baltimore this week?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! I've left the company. You see, I've been off for six weeks on + account of illness, and now I'm going over to Baltimore to my father's + funeral. He is to be buried to-morrow. See, here's the telegram. I've been + having hard lines lately. I've not had any sleep for three days, and I + won't get to Baltimore till daylight. I want to start back to New York + to-morrow night, if I can raise the stuff. I had just enough money to get + a ticket to Baltimore, and now I'm dead broke.” + </p> + <p> + Then she laughed and got me to untie her veil. When it was removed, I saw + a frank young face with an abundance of soft brown hair. About the light + blue eyes were the marks of fatigue, and the colour of the cheeks further + confirmed her account of loss of sleep. + </p> + <p> + Her feet pattered softly upon the floor of the car. + </p> + <p> + “I'm doing a single shuffle,” she said, in explanation of the movement of + her feet. “If you could do one too, we might do a double.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you do your act alone on the stage?” I asked, “or are you one of a + team?” + </p> + <p> + “We're a team. My side partner's a man. It pays better that way. We get + $40 a week and transportation. I used to get only $12 except when I stood + around and posed, then I got $35 and had to pay my own railroad fare. You + can bet I have a good figure, when I get $35 for that alone! I handle the + money of the team and I divide it even between us. I don't believe in the + man getting nine-tenths of the stuff, do you? Besides, I'm older than my + partner is. I put him in the business.” + </p> + <p> + “How was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I picked him up on the street in New York. I saw that he had a good + voice and was a bright kid, so I took him for my partner.” + </p> + <p> + “But tell me how it came about.” + </p> + <p> + She was quite willing to do so. And the rumbling of the wheels, the rush + of the train over the night-swathed plains of New Jersey, accompanied her + voice. All the other passengers were sleeping. To the following effect was + her narrative: + </p> + <p> + At evening a crowd of boys had gathered at the corner of Broadway and a + down-town street. One of them—ragged, unkempt, but handsome—was + singing and dancing for the diversion of the others. That way came the + variety actress, then out of an engagement. She stopped, heard the boy + sing, and saw him dance. She pushed through the crowd to him. + </p> + <p> + “How did you learn to dance?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't ever learn,” he said, with impudent sullenness. + </p> + <p> + “Who taught you to sing?” + </p> + <p> + “None o' yer business.” + </p> + <p> + “But who did teach you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “What's your name?” + </p> + <p> + “None of your business.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come along with me into the restaurant over there?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + But presently he was induced to go, although he continued to answer her + questions in the savage, distrustful manner of his class. They went into a + cheap eating-house and saloon, through the “Ladies' Entrance,” and while + they sat at a table there, she learned by means of resolute and patient + questions that the boy earned his living by blacking shoes now and then, + and that he did not know who his parents were, as he had been “put” with a + family whose ill-usage he had fled from to live in the street. He began to + melt under her manifestations of interest in him, and with pretended + reluctance he gave his promise to wash his face and hands and to call upon + her that evening at the theatrical boarding-house on Twenty-seventh Street + where she was living. Then she left him. + </p> + <p> + When he called, she took him to her room and induced him to allow her to + comb his hair. A deal of persuasion was necessary to this. Then she took + him out and bought him a cheap suit of clothes on the Bowery. A half-hour + later he was standing with her in the wings at Miner's Variety Theatre. A + man and woman were doing a song and dance upon the stage. + </p> + <p> + “Watch that man,” the actress said to the boy of the streets. “I want you + to do that sort of an act with me one of these days.” + </p> + <p> + When he had thus received his first lesson, she led him back to the + theatrical boarding-house, and in her room he showed her what ability he + had picked up as a singer and dancer. She secured a room for him in the + house, and she had the precaution to lock him in lest he should take + fright at his novel change of surroundings and flee in the night. When she + released him on the next morning she found him docile and cheerful. + </p> + <p> + She escorted him into the big dining-room to breakfast. + </p> + <p> + “Who's your friend, Lil?” asked a certain actor whose name is known from + Portland to Portland. + </p> + <p> + “He's my new side partner,” she said, looking at the boy, who was not in + the least abashed at the bold gaze of the negligently dressed soubrettes + and the chaffing comedians who sat at the tables. + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. “What can he do?” was the general question. + </p> + <p> + “Get out there and show them, young one,” she said, pointing to the centre + of the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + The boy obeyed without timidity. When he had sung and danced, there was + hilarious applause. + </p> + <p> + “Good for the kid,” said the well-known actor. “What are you going to do + with him, Lil?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to try to get an engagement for us together in Rose St. Clair's + Burlesque Company.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll help you,” said the actor. “I know Rose. I'll go and see her right + away, and you come there with the kid about 11 o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + When the girl and her protégé arrived at the boarding-house of the fat + manageress they found that the actor had so far kept his promise as to + have inveigled her into a condition of alcoholic amiability. She asked + them what they could do. Each one sang and danced, and the girl, who also + whistled, outlined to the manageress her idea of an “act” in which the two + should appear. There was a hitch when the question of salary arose. The + girl fixed upon $40. Rose thought that amount was too large. Lil adhered + to her terms, and was about to leave without having made an agreement, + when the manageress called her back, and a contract for a three weeks' + engagement was signed at once. + </p> + <p> + The period between that day and the beginning of the engagement, which + subsequently opened at Miner's Theatre, was spent by the girl in coaching + her protégé. He was a year younger than she, a fact which tended to + increase the influence that she promptly obtained over him. His sullenness + having been overcome, he became a devoted and apt pupil. Having beheld + himself in neat clothes and acquired habits of cleanliness, he speedily + developed into a handsome youth of soft disposition and good behaviour. + </p> + <p> + The new song and dance “team” was successful. The boy quickly gained + applause, and especially did he easily win the liking of such women as he + met or appeared before. A new world was open to him. Naturally he enjoyed + the easy conquests that he made in the curious, careless circle into which + he had been brought. + </p> + <p> + He is still having his “fling.” But he has been from the first most + obedient and unquestioning to his benefactress. He goes nowhere, does + nothing, without previously obtaining permission from her. + </p> + <p> + She is proud of the advancement that he has accomplished already, and she + is determined to make him a conspicuous figure upon the stage. + </p> + <p> + What is it that actuates this girl in her endeavour to elevate this boy in + the world? What the mystery that brought to the gamin this guardian angel + in the form of a variety actress who mingles bright sayings with lack of + grammar, who tells Rabelaisian anecdotes in one minute and philosophizes + in slang about the issues of life the next? + </p> + <p> + “You're in love with him, aren't you?” I said, as the train plunged on + through the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know whether I am or not. He's just a kid, you know. I suppose + the proper end of such a romance is that we should marry. But then I + wouldn't be married to a man that I couldn't look up to.” + </p> + <p> + “But women don't invariably love that way. I'm sure you're in love with + the boy. Have you never thought as to whether you were or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Have I? I should smile! I thought of it even on the first night, after I + picked him up, when I locked him in his room. But I have always regarded + him in a sort of motherly way, although only a year older. It seems kind + of unnatural for me to love him as a woman loves a man. If he was only + older!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that wish is sure evidence that you love him!” + </p> + <p> + “One thing I do know is that, though he always obeys me, he doesn't care + as much for me as I do for him.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “He wouldn't think so much of other girls if he did. He doesn't look upon + me as a woman for him to fall in love with. He regards me as an older + sister. Why, he never even takes a girl to supper after the performance + without asking my permission.” + </p> + <p> + “And you give it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but he never knows how I feel when I do.” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you feel then?” + </p> + <p> + “The first time he asked me, it was like a knife going through me. I + haven't got used to it yet.” + </p> + <p> + She paused for a time before adding: + </p> + <p> + “But, anyhow, he's going to make a name for himself some day. He has it in + him. I'm not the only one that thinks so. I'm trying now to get him to go + to a school of acting, but he thinks variety is good enough for him. He'll + get over that, though.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke so tenderly and yet so proudly of him, that I could not without + a pang of pity meditate upon the probable outcome of this attachment, + which, according to the logic of realists, will be the boy's eventual + success in life, long after he will have forgotten the hand that lifted + him out of the depth in which he first opened his eyes. + </p> + <p> + He knows nothing of his parentage. His benefactress once sought, by means + of Inspector Byrnes's penetrating eye, to pierce the clouds surrounding + his origin, but the inspector smiled at the hopelessness of the attempt. + </p> + <p> + “Where is he now?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I left him in New York,” she said. “I suppose he'll blow in all his money + as soon as he can possibly manage to do so.” + </p> + <p> + And she laughed and did another “shuffle” with her feet upon the floor of + the car. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII. — THE NEEDY OUTSIDER + </h2> + <p> + There was animation at the Nocturnal Club at three o'clock in the morning. + The city reporters who had been dropping in since midnight were now + reinforced by telegraph editors, for the country editions of the big + dailies were already being rushed in light wagons over the sounding stones + to the railroad stations. + </p> + <p> + The cheery and urbane African—naturally called Delmonico by the + habitués of the Nocturnal Club—found his time crowded in serving + bottled beer, sandwiches, or boiled eggs to the groups around the tables. + </p> + <p> + To a large group in the back room Fetterson related how he had once missed + the last car at the distant extremity of West Philadelphia, and, failing + to find a cab west of Broad Street, had walked fifty blocks after midnight + and had still succeeded in getting his report in the second edition and + thus making a “beat on the town.” + </p> + <p> + Then spoke up a needy outsider whom Fetterson had brought in at one + o'clock. + </p> + <p> + I neglected to mention Fetterson's penchant for queer company. It is quite + right that reporters know policemen, are on chaffing terms with night + cabmen, and have large acquaintance with pugilists and even with “crooks.” + But Fetterson picks up the most remarkable and out-of-the-way—not to + speak of out-at-elbows—specimens of mankind, craft in distress on + the sea of humanity. The needy outsider was his latest acquisition. + </p> + <p> + It is enough to say of this destitute acquaintance of Fetterson's that he + was a ragged man needing a shave. In daylight, in the country, you would + have termed him a tramp. Hitherto he had sat in our group in silence. When + he opened his mouth to discourse, it was natural that he should have a + prompt and somewhat curious hearing. + </p> + <p> + “Speaking of walking,” he said, “I have walked a bit in my time. Mostly, + though, I've rode—on freight-cars. The longest straight tramp I ever + made was from Harrisburg to Philadelphia once when the trains weren't + running. The cold weather made walking unpleasant. But what do you think + of a woman—no tramp woman, either—starting from Pittsburg to + walk to Philadelphia?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there is a so-called actress who recently walked from San Francisco + to New York,” put in some one. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but she took her time, and had all the necessaries of life on the + way. She walked for an advertisement. The woman I speak of walked in order + to get there. She walked because she hadn't the money to pay her fare. Her + husband was with her, to be sure. He was a pal o' mine. You see, it was a + hard winter, years ago, and work was so scarce in Pittsburg that the + husband had to remain idle until the two had begun to starve. He had some + education, and had been an office clerk. At that time of his life he + couldn't have stood manual labour. Still he tried to get it, for he was + willing to do anything to keep a lining to his skin. If you've never been + in his predicament, you can't realize how it is and you won't believe it + possible. But I've known more than one man to starve because he couldn't + get work and wouldn't take public charity. Starvation was the prospect of + this young fellow and his wife. So they decided to leave Pittsburg and + come to Philadelphia, where they thought it would be easier for the + husband to get work. + </p> + <p> + “'But how can we get there?' the husband asked. + </p> + <p> + “She was a plucky girl and had known hardship, although she was frail to + look at. + </p> + <p> + “'Walk,' she replied. + </p> + <p> + “And two days later they started.” + </p> + <p> + The outsider paused and lighted a forbidding-looking pipe. + </p> + <p> + When he resumed his narrative he spoke in a lower tone. The recollections + that he called up seemed to stir him within, although he was calm enough + of exterior. + </p> + <p> + “I won't describe the experience of my pal on that trip. It was his first + tramp. He knew nothing of the art of vagabondage. Of course they had to + beg. That was tough, although he got used to it and to many tricks in the + trade. They slept in barns and they ate when and where they could. It cut + him to the heart to see his wife in such hunger and fatigue. But her + spirits kept up better than his—or at least they seemed to. Often he + repented of having started upon such a trip. But he kept that to himself. + </p> + <p> + “When the wife did at last give in to the cold, the hunger, and the + weariness, it was to collapse all at once. It happened in the mountain + country. In the evening of a cold, dull day they were trudging along on + the railroad ties, keeping on the west-bound track so they could face + approaching trains and get off the track in time to avoid being run down. + </p> + <p> + “'We'll stop in the town ahead,' the husband said. 'We can get warm in the + station, and you shall have supper if we have to knock at every door in + the town.' + </p> + <p> + “And the wife said: + </p> + <p> + “'Yes, we'll stop, for I feel, Harry, as if—as if I couldn't—go + any fur—Harry, where are you?' + </p> + <p> + “She fell forward on the track. When the man picked her up she was + unconscious. Clasping her in his arms, he set his teeth and fixed his eyes + on the lights of the town ahead and hurried forward. + </p> + <p> + “But before he reached the town, he found it was a dead body he was + carrying. + </p> + <p> + “You see she had kept up until the very last moment, in the hope of + reaching the town before dark. + </p> + <p> + “What the man did, how he felt when he discovered that her heart had + ceased to beat, there in the solitude upon the mountains, with the town in + sight at the foot of the slope in the gathering night, I can leave to the + vivid imaginations of you newspaper men. For four hours he mourned over + her body by the side of the track, and those in the train that passed + could not see him for the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Then my pal took the body in his arms and started up the mountain, for + the track at that point passed through what they call a cut, and the hills + rise steep on each side of it. He had his prejudices against pauper + burial, my pal had, and he shrunk from going to the town and begging a + grave for her. He didn't need a doctor's certificate to tell him that life + had gone for ever from her fragile body. He knew that she had died of cold + and exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “As he turned the base of the hill to begin to descend it, he saw in the + clouded moonlight a deserted railroad tool-house by the track. In front of + it lay a broken, rusty spade. He shouldered this and proceeded up the + mountain. It was a long walk, and he had to stop more than once to rest, + but he got to the top at last. There was a little clearing in the woods + here, where some one had camped. The ruins of a shanty still remained. + </p> + <p> + “My pal laid down the body of her who had been his wife, with the dead + face turned toward the sky, which was beginning to be cleared of its + clouds. Then he started to dig. + </p> + <p> + “It was a longer job than he had expected it to be, for my pal was tired + and numb. But the grave was made at last, upon the very summit of the + mountain. + </p> + <p> + “He lifted up the body of that brave girl, he kissed the cold lips, and he + took off his coat and wrapped it carefully about the head, so that the + face would be protected from the earth. He stooped and laid the body in + the shallow grave, and he knelt down there and prayed. + </p> + <p> + “He filled the grave up with earth with the broken spade that he had used + in digging it. All these things required a long time. He didn't observe + how the night was passing, nor that the sky became clear and the stars + shone and the moon crossed the zenith and began to descend in the west. He + didn't notice that the stars began to pale. But he worked on until he had + finished, and then he stopped and prayed again. + </p> + <p> + “When he arose, his face was toward the east, and over the distant + hilltops he saw the purple of the dawn.” + </p> + <p> + The outsider ceased to speak. + </p> + <p> + “What then?” + </p> + <p> + “That's all. My pal walked down the mountain, jumped upon the first + freight-train that passed, and has been a wanderer on the face of the + earth ever since.” + </p> + <p> + There were various opinions expressed of this narrative. I quietly asked + the needy outsider as we left the club at sunrise: + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell me who your pal was—the man who buried his wife on + the mountain-top?” + </p> + <p> + There was contemptuous pity in the outsider's look as it dwelt a moment + upon me before he replied: “The man was myself.” + </p> + <p> + And then he condescended to borrow a quarter from me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII. — TIME AND THE TOMBSTONE + </h2> + <p> + Tommy McGuffy was growing old. The skin of his attenuated face was so + shrunk and so stretched from wrinkle to wrinkle that it seemed narrowly to + escape breaking. About the pointed chin and the cheekbones it had the + colour of faded brick. + </p> + <p> + Old Tommy had become so thin that he dared not venture to the top of the + hill above his native village of Rearward on a windy day. + </p> + <p> + His knees bent comically when he walked. + </p> + <p> + For some years the villagers had been counting the nephews and nieces to + whom the savings of the old retired dealer in dry-goods would eventually + descend. + </p> + <p> + Ten thousand dollars and a house and lot constituted a heritage worth + anticipating in Rearward. + </p> + <p> + The innocent old man was not upon terms of intimacy with his prospective + heirs. Having remained unmarried, his only close associates were two who + had been his companions in that remote period which had been his boyhood. + One of these, Jerry Hurley, was a childless widower, a very estimable and + highly respected man who owned two farms. The other, like himself a + bachelor, was Billy Skidmore, the sexton of the church, and, therefore, + the regulator of the town clock upon the steeple. + </p> + <p> + There came a great shock to Tommy one day. As old Mrs. Sparks said, Jerry + Hurley, “all sudden-like, just took a notion and died.” + </p> + <p> + The wealth and standing of Jerry Hurley insured him an imposing funeral. + They laid his body beside that which had once been his wife in Rearward + cemetery. His heirs possessed his farm, and time went on—slowly as + it always does at Rearward. Tommy went frequently to Hurley's grave and + wondered when his heirs would erect a monument to his memory. It is + necessary that your grave be marked with a monument if you would stand + high in that still society that holds eternal assembly beneath the pines + and willows, where only the breezes speak, and they in subdued voices. + </p> + <p> + Years passed, and the grave of Tommy's old friend, Jerry, remained + unmarked. Jerry's relatives had postponed the duty so long that they had + grown callous to public opinion. Besides, they had other purposes to which + to apply Jerry's money. It was easy enough to avoid reproach; they had + only to refrain from visiting the graveyard. + </p> + <p> + “Jerry never deserved such treatment,” Tommy would say to Billy the + sexton, as the two met to talk it over every sunny afternoon. + </p> + <p> + “It's an outrage, that's what it is!” Billy would reply, for the hundredth + time. + </p> + <p> + It was, in their eyes, an omission almost equal to that of baptism or that + of the funeral service. + </p> + <p> + One day, as Tommy was aiding himself along the main street of Rearward by + means of a hickory stick, a frightful thought came to him. He turned cold. + </p> + <p> + What if his own heirs should neglect to mark his own grave? + </p> + <p> + “I'll hurry home at once, and put the money for it in a stocking foot,” + thought Tommy, and his knees bent more than usually as he accelerated his + pace. + </p> + <p> + But as he tied a knot in the stocking, came the fear that even this money + might be misapplied; even his will might be ignored, through repeated + postponement and the law's indifference. + </p> + <p> + Who, save old Billy Skidmore, would care whether old Tommy McGuffy's last + resting-place were designated or not? Once let the worms begin operations + upon this antique morsel, what would it matter to Rearward folks where the + banquet was taking place? + </p> + <p> + Tommy now underwent a second attack of horror, from which he came + victorious, a gleeful smile momentarily lifting the dimness from his + excessively lachrymal eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I'll fix 'em,” he said to himself. “I'll go to-day to Ricketts, the + marble-cutter, and order my own tombstone.” + </p> + <p> + Three months thereafter, Ricketts, the marble-cutter, untied the knot in + the stocking that had been Billy's and deposited the contents in the local + savings-bank. + </p> + <p> + In the cemetery stood a monument very lofty and elaborate. Around it was + an iron fence. Within the enclosure there was no grave as yet. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” said the monument, in deep-cut-letters, but bad English, “lies all + that remains of Thomas McGuffy, born in Rearward, November 11, 1820; died——. + Gone whither the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” + </p> + <p> + This supplementary information was framed in the words of Tommy's + favourite passage in his favourite hymn. His liking for this was mainly on + account of its tune. + </p> + <p> + He had left the date of his death to be inserted by the marble cutter + after its occurrence. + </p> + <p> + Rearward folks were amused at sight of the monument, and they ascribed the + placing of it there to the eccentricity of a taciturn old man. + </p> + <p> + Tommy seemed to derive much pleasure from visiting his tombstone on mild + days. He spent many hours contemplating it. He would enter the iron + enclosure, lock the gate after him, and sit upon the ground that was + intended some day to cover his body. + </p> + <p> + He was a familiar sight to people riding or walking past the graveyard,—this + thin old man leaning upon his cane, contentedly pondering over the + inscription on his own tombstone. + </p> + <p> + He undoubtedly found much innocent pleasure in it. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, as he was so engaged, he was assailed by a new + apprehension. + </p> + <p> + Suppose that Ricketts, the marble-cutter, should fail to inscribe the date + of his death in the space left vacant for it! + </p> + <p> + There was almost no likelihood of such an omission, but there was at least + a possibility of it. + </p> + <p> + He glanced across the cemetery to Jerry Hurley's unmarked mound, and + shuddered. + </p> + <p> + Then he thought laboriously. + </p> + <p> + When he left the cemetery in such time as to avoid a delay of his evening + meal and a consequent outburst of anger on the part of his old + housekeeper, he had taken a resolution. + </p> + <p> + “Threescore years and ten, says the Bible,” he muttered to himself as he + walked homeward. “The scriptural lifetime'll do for me.” + </p> + <p> + A week thereafter old Tommy gazed proudly upon the finished inscription. + </p> + <p> + “Died November 11, 1890,” was the newest bit of biography there engraved. + </p> + <p> + “But it's two years and more till November 11, 1890,” said a voice at his + side. + </p> + <p> + Tommy merely cast an indifferent look upon the speaker and walked off + without a word. + </p> + <p> + The whole village now thought that Tommy had become a monomaniac upon the + subject of his tombstone. Perhaps he had. No one has been able to learn + from his friend, Billy Skidmore, what thoughts he may have communicated to + the latter upon the matter. + </p> + <p> + Tommy now lived for no other apparent purpose than to visit his tombstone + daily. He no longer confined his walks thither to the pleasant days. He + went in weather most perilous to so old and frail a man. + </p> + <p> + One of his prospective heirs took sufficient interest in him to advise + more care of his health. + </p> + <p> + “I can easily keep alive till the time comes,” returned the antique; + “there's only a year left.” + </p> + <p> + Rapidly his hold upon life relaxed. A week before November 11, 1890, he + went to bed and stayed there. People began to speculate as to whether his + unique prediction—or I should say, his decree—would be + fulfilled to the very day. + </p> + <p> + Upon the fifth day of his illness Death threatened to come before the time + that had been set for receiving him. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't this the tenth?” the old man mumbled. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said his housekeeper, who with one of his nieces, the doctor, and + Billy Skidmore, attended the ill man, “it's only the 9th.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I must fight for two days more; the tombstone must not lie.” + </p> + <p> + And he rallied so well that it seemed as if the tombstone would lie, + nevertheless, for Tommy was still alive at eleven-thirty on the night of + November 11. Moreover he had been in his senses when last awake, and there + was every likelihood that he would look at the clock whenever his eyes + should next open. + </p> + <p> + “He can't live till morning, that's sure,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “But, good Lord! you don't mean to say that he'll hold out till after + twelve o'clock,” said Billy Skidmore, whose anxiety only had sustained him + in his grief at the approaching dissolution of his friend. + </p> + <p> + “Quite probably,” replied the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens! Tommy won't rest easy in his grave if he don't die on the + 11th. The monument will be wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that won't matter,” said the niece. + </p> + <p> + Billy looked at her in amazement. Was his old friend's sacred wish to + miscarry thus? + </p> + <p> + “Yes, 'twill matter,” he said, in a loud whisper. “And if time won't wait + for Tommy of its own accord, we'll make it. When did he last see the + clock?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-past nine,” said the housekeeper. + </p> + <p> + “Then we'll turn it back to ten,” said Skidmore, acting as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “But he may hear the town clock strike.” + </p> + <p> + Billy said never a word, but plunged into his overcoat, threw on his hat, + and hurried on into the cold night. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes to midnight,” he said, as he looked up at the town clock upon + the church steeple. “Can I skin up them ladders in time?” + </p> + <p> + Tommy awoke once before the last slumber. Billy was by his bedside, as + were the doctor, the housekeeper, and the niece. The old man's eyes sought + the clock. + </p> + <p> + “Eleven,” he murmured. Then he was silent, for the town clock had begun to + strike. He counted the strokes—eleven. Then he smiled and tried to + speak again. + </p> + <p> + “Almost—live out—birthday—seventy—tombstone—all + right.” + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes, and, inasmuch as the town clock furnishes the official + time for Rearward, the published report of Tommy McGuffy's going records + that he passed at twenty-five minutes after eleven P.M., November 11, + 1890. + </p> + <p> + Very few people know that time turned back one hour and a half in order + that the reputation of Tommy McGuffy's tombstone for veracity might be + spotless in the eyes of future generations. + </p> + <p> + Billy Skidmore, the sexton, arranged to have Rearward time ready for the + sun when it rose upon the following morning. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX. — HE BELIEVED THEM + </h2> + <p> + He was a bachelor, and he owned a little tobacco store in the suburbs. All + the labour, manual and mental, requisite to the continuance of the + establishment, however, was done by the ex-newsboy, to whom the old + soldier paid $4 per week and allowed free tobacco. + </p> + <p> + He had come into the neighbourhood from the interior of the state shortly + after the war, and for a time there were not ten houses within a block of + his shop. The shop is now the one architectural blemish in a long row of + handsome stores. Miles of streets have been built up around it. + </p> + <p> + The old soldier used to sit in an antique armchair in the rear of his + shop, smoking, from meal to meal. + </p> + <p> + “I l'arnt the habit in the army,” he would say. “I never teched tobacker + till I went to the war.” + </p> + <p> + People would look inquiringly at his empty sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “I got that at Gettysburg in the second day's fight,” he would explain, + complacently. + </p> + <p> + He was often asked whether he was a member of the Grand Army of the + Republic. + </p> + <p> + “No; 'tain't worth while. I done my fightin' in '63 and '64—them + times. I don't care about doin' it over again in talk. Talk's cheap.” + </p> + <p> + This made folks smile, for he was continually fighting his battles over + again in conversation. Every regular customer had been made acquainted + with the part that he had taken in each contest, where he had stood when + he received his wound, what regiment had the honour of possessing him, and + how promptly he had enlisted against the wishes of parents and sweetheart. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you get a pension,” many would observe. + </p> + <p> + He would shake his head and answer, in a mild tone of a man consciously + repressing a pardonable pride. + </p> + <p> + “I never 'plied, and as long as the retail tobacker trade keeps up like + this, I reckon I won't make no pull on the gover'ment treash'ry.” + </p> + <p> + And he would puff at his cigar vigorously, beam upon the group that + surrounded his chair, and start on one of his long trains of + reminiscences. + </p> + <p> + He was an amiable old fellow, with gray hair carefully combed back from + his curved forehead, a florid countenance, boyish blue eyes, puffed + cheeks, a smooth chin, and very military-looking gray moustache. He was + manifestly a man who ate ample dinners and amply digested them. He would + glance contentedly downward at his broad, round body, and smilingly + remark: + </p> + <p> + “I didn't have that girth in my fightin' days. I got it after the war was + over.” + </p> + <p> + All who knew him admired him. He would tell with simple frankness how, + after distinguishing himself at Antietam, he chose to remain a private + rather than take the lieutenancy that was placed within his reach. He + would frequently say: + </p> + <p> + “I ain't none o' them that thinks the country belongs to the soldiers + because they saved it. No, sir! If they want the country as a reward, + where's the credit in savin' it?” + </p> + <p> + How could one help exclaiming: “What a really noble old man!” + </p> + <p> + Finally some of the young men who received daily inspiration from his + autobiographical narratives arranged a surprise for the old soldier. They + presented him with a finely framed picture of the battle of Gettysburg, + under which was the inscription: + </p> + <p> + “To a True Patriot. Who Fought and Suffered Not for Self-Interest or + Glory, but for Love of His Country.” + </p> + <p> + This hung in his shop until the day of his death. Then his brother came + from his native village to attend to his burial. The brother stared at the + picture, inquired as to the meaning of the inscription, and then laughed + vociferously. + </p> + <p> + In the old soldier's trunk was found a faded newspaper that had been + published in his village in 1865. It contained an account of an accident + by which a grocer's clerk had lost his arm in a thrashing-machine. The + grocer's clerk and the old soldier were one person. + </p> + <p> + He had never seen a battle, but so often had he told his war stories that + in his last days he believed them. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X. — A VAGRANT + </h2> + <p> + On a July evening at dusk, two boys sat near the crest of a grass-grown + embankment by the railroad at the western side of a Pennsylvania town. + They talked in low tones of the sky's glow above where the sun had set + beyond the low hills across the river, and also of the stars, and of the + moon, which was over the housetop behind them. Then there was noise of + insects chirping in the grass and of steam escaping from the locomotive + boilers in the engine shed. + </p> + <p> + A rumble sounded as from the north, and in that direction a locomotive + headlight came into view. It neared as the rumble grew louder, and soon a + freight-train appeared. This rolled past at the foot of the embankment. + </p> + <p> + From between two grain cars leaped a man, and after him another. So + rapidly was the train moving that they seemed to be hurled from it. Both + alighted upon their feet. One tall and lithe, led the way up the + embankment, followed by the other, who was short and stocky. + </p> + <p> + “Bums,” whispered one of the boys at the top of the embankment. + </p> + <p> + The tramps stood still when they reached the top. Even in the half-light + it could be seen that their clothes were ill-fitting, frayed, and torn. + They wore cast-off hats. The tall man, whose face was clean-cut and made a + pretence of being smooth-shaven, had a pliable one; the other was capped + by a dented derby. + </p> + <p> + “Here's yer town at last! And it looks like a very jay place at that,” + said the short tramp to the tall one, casting his eyes toward the house + roofs eastward. + </p> + <p> + The boys sitting twenty feet away became silent and cautiously watched the + newcomers. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” replied the tall tramp, in a deep but serious and quiet voice, “and + right about here is the spot where I jumped on a freight-train fifteen + years ago, the night I ran away from home. That seems like yesterday, + though I've not been here since.” + </p> + <p> + “Skipped a good home because the old lady brought you a new dad! You + wouldn't catch me being run out by no stepfather. Billy, you was rash.” + </p> + <p> + “Mebby I was. But, on the dead, Pete, it was mostly jealousy. I thought my + mother couldn't care for me any more if she could take a second husband. + My sister thought so too, but she wasn't able to get away like me. Of + course I was strong. It was boyish pique that drove me away. I didn't + fancy having another man in my dead father's place, either. And I wanted + to get around and see the world a bit. After I'd gone I often wished I + hadn't. I'd never imagined how much I loved mother and sis. But I was + tougher and prouder in some ways than most kids. You can't understand that + sort of thing, Pete. And you can't guess how I feel, bein' back here for + the first time in fifteen years. Think of it, I was just fifteen when I + came away. Why, I spent half my life here, Petie!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I've read somewhere about that,—the way great men feel when + they visit their native town.” + </p> + <p> + The short tramp took a clay pipe from his coat pocket and stuffed into it + a cigar-end fished from another pocket. Then he inquired: + </p> + <p> + “And now you're here, Billy, what are you go'n to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Only ask around what's become o' my folks, then go away. It won't take me + long.” + </p> + <p> + “There'll be a through coal-train along in about an hour, 'cordin' to what + the flagmen told us at that last town. Will you be back in time to bounce + that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We needn't stay here. There's little to be picked up in a place like + this.” + </p> + <p> + “Then skin along and make your investigations. I'll sit here and smoke + till you come back. If you could pinch a bit of bread and meat, by the + way, it wouldn't hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll try,” answered the tall tramp. “I'm goin' to ask the kids yonder, + first, if any o' my people still live here.” + </p> + <p> + The tall tramp strode over to the two boys. His companion shambled down + the embankment to obtain, at the turntable near the locomotive shed across + the railroad, a red-hot cinder with which to light his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Do you youngsters know people here by the name of Kershaw?” began the + tall tramp, standing beside the two boys. + </p> + <p> + Both remained sitting on the grass. One shook his head. The other said, + “No.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp was silent for a moment. Then it occurred to him that his mother + had taken his stepfather's name and his sister might be married. Therefore + he asked: + </p> + <p> + “How about a family named Coates?” + </p> + <p> + “None here,” replied one of the boys. + </p> + <p> + But the other said, “Coates? That's the name of Tommy Hackett's + grandmother.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp drew and expelled a quick, audible breath. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” he said, “this Mrs. Coates must be the mother of Tommy's mother. + Do you know what Tommy's mother's first name is?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard Tom call her Alice once.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp's eyes glistened. + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Coates?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I never heard of him. I guess he died long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “And Tommy Hackett's father, who's he?” + </p> + <p> + “He's the boss down at the freight station. Agent, I think they call him.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does this Mrs. Coates live?” + </p> + <p> + “She lives with the Hacketts. Would you like to see the house? Me and Dick + has to go past it on the way home. We'll show you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I would like to see the house.” + </p> + <p> + The boys arose, one of them rather sleepily. They led the way across the + railway company's lot, then along a sparsely built up street, and around + the corner into a more populous but quiet highway. At the corner was a + grocery and dry-goods store; beyond that were neat and airy two-story + houses, fronted by a yard closed in by iron fences. One of these houses + had a little piazza, on which sat two children. From the open half-door + and from two windows came light. + </p> + <p> + “That's Hackett's house,” said one of the boys. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, very much,” replied the tramp, continuing to walk with them. + </p> + <p> + The boys looked surprised at his not stopping at the house, but they said + nothing. + </p> + <p> + At the next corner the tramp spoke up: + </p> + <p> + “I think I'll go back now. Good night, youngsters.” + </p> + <p> + The boys trudged on, and the tramp retraced his steps. When he reached the + Hacketts' house, he paused at the gate. The children, a boy of eight and a + girl of six, looked at him curiously from the piazza. + </p> + <p> + “Are you Mr. Hackett's little boy and girl?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The girl stepped back to the hall door and stood there. The boy looked up + at the tramp and answered, “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Is your mother in?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she's across the street at Mrs. Johnson's.” + </p> + <p> + “Grandmother's in, though,” continued the boy. “Would you like to see + her?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! Don't call her. I just wanted to see your mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know mamma?” inquired the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Well—no. I knew her brother, your uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “We haven't any uncle—except Uncle George, and he's papa's brother,” + said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “What! Not an uncle Will—Uncle Will Kershaw?” + </p> + <p> + “O—h, yes,” assented the boy. “Did you know him before he died? That + was a long time ago.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp made no other outward manifestation of his surprise than to be + silent and motionless for a time. Presently he said, in a trembling voice: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, before he died. Do you remember when he died?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. That was when mamma was a girl. She and grandmother often talk + about it, though. Uncle Will started West, you know, when he was fifteen + years old. He was standing on a bridge out near Pittsburg one day, and he + saw a little girl fall into the river. He jumped in to save her, but he + was drowned, 'cause his head hit a stone and that stunned him. They didn't + know it was Uncle Will or who it was, at first, but mamma read about it in + the papers and Grandpa Coates went out to see if it wasn't Uncle Will. + Grandpa 'dentified him and they brought him back here, but, what do you + think, the doctor wouldn't allow them to open his coffin, and so grandma + and mamma couldn't see him. He's buried up in the graveyard next Grandpa + Kershaw, and there's a little monument there that tells all about how he + died trying to save a little girl from drownin'. I can read it, but Mamie + can't. She's my little sister there.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp had seated himself on the piazza step. He was looking vacantly + before him. He remained so until the boy, frightened at his silence, moved + further from him, toward the door. Then the tramp arose suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, huskily, “I won't wait to see your mamma. You needn't + tell her about me bein' here. But, say—could I just get a look at—at + your grandma, without her knowing anythin about it?” + </p> + <p> + The boy took his sister's hand and withdrew into the doorway. Then he + said, “Why, of course. You can see her through the window.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp stood against the edge of the piazza upon his toes, and craned + his neck to see through one of the lighted windows. So he remained for + several seconds. Once during that time he closed his eyes, and the muscles + of his face contracted. Then he opened his eyes again. They were moist. + </p> + <p> + He could see a gentle old lady, with smooth gray hair, and an expression + of calm and not unhappy melancholy. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, + her hands resting on the arms, her look fixed unconsciously on the paper + on the wall. She was thinking, and evidently her thoughts, though sad, + perhaps, were not keenly painful. + </p> + <p> + The tramp read that much upon her face. Presently, without a word, he + turned quickly about and hurried away, closing the gate after him. + </p> + <p> + When the two children told about their visitor later, their mother said: + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't talk to strange men, Tommy. You and Mamie should have come + right in to grandma.” + </p> + <p> + Their father said: “He was probably looking for a chance to steal + something. I'll let the dog out in the yard to-night.” + </p> + <p> + And their grandmother: “I suppose he was only a man who likes to hear + children talk, and perhaps, poor fellow, he has no little ones of his + own.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp knew the way to the cemetery. But first he found the house where + he had lived as a boy. It looked painfully rickety and surprisingly small. + So he hastened from before it and went up by a back street across the town + creek and up a hill, where at last he stood before the cemetery gate. It + was locked; so he climbed over the wall. He went still further up the + hill, past tombstones that looked very white, and trees that looked very + green in the moonlight. At the top of the hill he found his father's + grave. Beside it was another mound, and at the head of this, a plain + little pillar. The moon was high now and the tramp was used to seeing in + the night. Word by word he could slowly read upon the marble this + inscription: + </p> + <p> + “William Albert, beloved son of the late Thomas Kershaw and his wife + Rachel; born in Brickville, August 2, 1862; drowned in the Allegheny River + near Pittsburg, July 27, 1877, while heroically endeavouring to save the + life of a child.” + </p> + <p> + The tramp laughed, and then uttered a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” he said, aloud, “what poor bloke it is that's doin' duty for + me under the ground here.” + </p> + <p> + And at the thought that he owed an excellent posthumous reputation to the + unknown who had happened to resemble him fifteen years before, he laughed + louder. Having no one near to share his mirth, he looked up at the amiable + moon, and nodded knowingly thereat, as if to say: + </p> + <p> + “This is a fine joke we're enjoying between ourselves, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + And by and by he remembered that he was being waited for, and he strode + from the grave and from the cemetery. + </p> + <p> + By the railroad the short tramp, having smoked all the refuse tobacco in + his possession, was growing impatient. Already the expected coal-train had + heralded its advent by whistle and puff and roar when his associate had + joined him. + </p> + <p> + “Found out all you wanted to know?” queried the stout little vagabond, + starting down the embankment to mount the train. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” answered the tall vagrant, contentedly. + </p> + <p> + The small man grasped the iron rod attached to the side of one of the + moving coal-cars and swung his foot into the iron stirrup beneath. His + companion mounted the next car in the same way. + </p> + <p> + “Are you all right, Kersh?” shouted back the small tramp, standing safe + above the “bumpers.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” replied the tall tramp, climbing upon the end of a car. “But + don't ever call me Kersh any more. After this I'm always Bill the Bum. + Bill Kershaw's dead—” and he added to himself, “and decently buried + on the hill over there under the moon.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI. — UNDER AN AWNING + </h2> + <p> + For ten minutes we had been standing under the awning, driven there at two + o'clock at night by a shower that had arisen suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “A pocket umbrella is one of the unsupplied necessities of the age,” said + my companion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and the peculiarity of the age is that while such luxuries as the + phonograph and the kinetograph multiply day by day, important necessities + remain unsupplied.” + </p> + <p> + My friend mused for a time, while he watched the reflection of the + electric light in the little street pools that were agitated by the + falling fine drops of rain. + </p> + <p> + He looked from the reflection to the light itself, and thus his eyes + turned upward. + </p> + <p> + An expression of surprise changed to mirth, and then dropping his glance + until it met mine, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Have you noticed anything peculiar about this awning?” + </p> + <p> + “No, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Simply that there is no awning. Look up and see. Here are the posts and + there is the framework, but only the sky is above, and we've been getting + rained upon for the past ten minutes in blissful ignorance.” + </p> + <p> + It was as he said, so we ran to the next awning, which was a fact, not a + figment of fancy. + </p> + <p> + “That reminds me,” resumed my friend, “of Simpkins. He was a young man who + used to catch cold at the slightest dampness. His being out in the rain + without an umbrella never failed to result in his remaining in the house + for two or three subsequent days. + </p> + <p> + “One night, Simpkins, surprised by an unexpected shower, took refuge + beneath the framework of an awning, which framework lacked the awning + itself. He waited for an hour, until the shower had passed, and then + joyously took up again his homeward way, without having observed his + mistake. He told me on the next day of his narrow escape from the rain. I + happened to know that the awning to which he alluded had been removed a + few weeks before. But I did not tell him so until there no longer seemed + to exist any likelihood of his catching cold from that wetting. You see, + his imagination had saved him.” + </p> + <p> + “That tale is singularly reminiscent of those dear old stories about the + man who took cold through sitting at a window that was composed of one + solid sheet of glass, so clean that he thought it was no glass at all; and + the men who, awaking in the night, stifling for want of fresh air, broke + open the door of a bookcase which they took to be a window, and + immediately noticed a pleasant draught of pure outside air.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a likeness, which simply goes toward proving the truth of all + three accounts. But the remarkable thing about Simpkins' case is that when + he once learned that there had been nothing over his head during that + rain, he immediately caught cold, although two weeks had passed since the + night of the shower. Wonderful, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Astonishing, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + Silence ensued and we meditated for awhile. Evidently the same thought + came simultaneously into the minds of both of us, for while I was mentally + commenting upon the deserted and lonely condition of the city streets at + two o'clock on a rainy night, my friend spoke: + </p> + <p> + “A man is alone with his conscience, the electric lights, the shadows of + the houses, and the sound of the rain at a time and place like this, isn't + he? Standing as we stand now, under an awning, during a persistent + rainfall, at this hour, with no other human being in sight, a man is for + the time upon a desert island. Which reminds me: + </p> + <p> + “One night, at a later hour than this, when the rain was heavier than + this, I was alone under an awning that was smaller than this. Being + without umbrella and overcoat, I saw at least a quarter of an hour waiting + for me. The thought was dismal. + </p> + <p> + “Happy idea! I would smoke. I had a cigar in my mouth in an instant. + </p> + <p> + “Horrors! I had no matches. + </p> + <p> + “The desire to smoke instantly increased tenfold. I puffed despairingly at + my unlit cigar. No miracle occurred to ignite it. I looked longingly at + the electric lights and the gas-lamps in the distance. + </p> + <p> + “Like a sailor cast upon an island and straining his eyes on the lookout + for a ship, I stood there scanning the prospect in search of a man with a + light. I was Enoch Arden; the awning was my palm-tree. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes passed. No craft hove in sight. + </p> + <p> + “Suddenly uncertain footsteps were heard. I looked. Some one came that + way. It was a squalid-looking personage—a professional beggar, + half-drunk. He landed upon my island, beneath my awning. + </p> + <p> + “'For charity's sake, give me a match!' I cried. + </p> + <p> + “He looked at me—'sized me up,' in the technical terminology of his + trade. Intelligence began to illumine his countenance. He saw that the + opportunity of his life had come. He held out a match. + </p> + <p> + “'I'll sell it to you for fifty cents,' he said, with a grin. + </p> + <p> + “I had erred in revealing the depth of my want, the extent of my distress. + </p> + <p> + “I compromised by promising to give him a half-dollar if I should succeed + in lighting my cigar with his solitary match. We did succeed. He took the + fifty and started back for the saloon from whence he had come. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my boy, the irony of fate—that same old oft-quoted irony! + </p> + <p> + “I hadn't blown three mouthfuls of smoke from that cigar when a friend + came along with a lighted cigar, an umbrella, and a box full of matches. + </p> + <p> + “The whole effect of this story lies in the value that fifty cents + possessed for me at that time. It was my last fifty cents, and two days + stood between that night and salary day. + </p> + <p> + “I had another experience—” + </p> + <p> + But a night car came in view from around a corner, my friend ran for it, + and his third tale remains untold. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII. — SHANDY'S REVENGE + </h2> + <p> + He was old enough to know better, and a superficial observer might have + thought that he did. But a severe and haughty manner in repose is not any + indication of knowledge, nor is a well-kept beard, even when it is turning + gray. Melrose Welty, the possessor of these and other ways and features + symbolical of wisdom, had no higher occupation in life than to sit in + club-houses and cafés, telling of conquests won by him over women, chiefly + over soubrettes and chorus girls. + </p> + <p> + Of his means of livelihood, no one had certain knowledge. He always + dressed well, but he abode in a lodging-house, to which he never invited + any of his associates. He affected the society of newspaper men, some of + whom pronounced him a good fellow until they discovered that he was an + ass; and he never refused an invitation to have a drink. + </p> + <p> + When he had you at a table in a quiet corner of a café, or in front of a + bar, or in the lobby of a theatre between the acts, no matter how the + conversation began, he would invariably turn it into that realm to which + his thoughts were confined. + </p> + <p> + “I've got a supper on hand to-night after the performance,” he would + probably say, “with a blonde in the —— Company. A lovely girl, + too! It's curious, old man, how I happened to meet her. I've talked to her + only twice, but I made a hit with her in the first five minutes. I'll tell + you how it was—” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon, if you were polite, and did not know Welty sufficiently to flee + on a pretext, he would tell you how it was, inflicting upon you the + wearisome minute details of the most commonplace thing in the world, the + birth and growth of an acquaintance between a man about town and a silly + young woman, not fastidious as to who pays for her food and drink as long + as the food and drink are adequate. + </p> + <p> + If you were a newspaper man, Welty was apt to supplement his story with + something like this: + </p> + <p> + “By the way, old fellow, if you have any pull with your dramatic editor, + can't you give her a line or two? She hasn't much to do in the piece, but + she does it well, and she's clever. She may get a good part one of these + days. Have something nice said about her, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + And if you ever gave another thought to this plea, you determined to use + whatever influence you had with the dramatic editor to this effect, that + the young woman would have to exhibit very decided cleverness indeed ere + she should have “something nice” said about her in the paper. + </p> + <p> + Welty was not wont to retain one divinity on the altar of his conversation + longer than a week. But he did so once. He talked about the same girl + every day for a month. And thereby came his undoing. + </p> + <p> + She was a slender little girl who was singing badly a small rôle in a + certain comic opera at the time of these occurrences. She had a babyish + manner across the footlights, and she was thought to be a blonde, for she + was wearing a yellow wig over her own short black hair that season. Her + first name was Emily. + </p> + <p> + Welty managed to be introduced to her by thrusting himself upon a little + party of which she was a member, and in which was one acquaintance of his, + at a restaurant one night. He called upon her at her boarding house the + next day, where she received him with some surprise, and left most of the + conversation to him. When he visited there again, she caused him to be + told that she was out, and this took place a half dozen times. Their real + acquaintance never went any further, but an imaginary acquaintance between + them, growing from Welty's wish, made great progress in his fancy and in + the stories told by him at his club to groups of men, some of whom doubted + and looked bored, while others believed and grinned and envied. + </p> + <p> + It was at the point where Emily had quite forgotten Welty, and Welty's + stories portrayed her as recklessly adoring him and seeking him in cabs at + all hours, that Barry McGettigan, a despised young reporter, “doing + police,” heard one of Welty's accounts of an alleged interview with Emily; + and Barry, who had a way of knowing human nature and observing people, + suspected. + </p> + <p> + Now Barry cherished a deep-rooted grudge against Welty, all the more + dangerous because Welty was unaware of it. Its exact cause has never been + torn from Barry's breast. Some have ascribed it to Welty's having mimicked + Barry's brogue before a crowd in a saloon one night. Others have laid it + to the following passage of words, which is now a part of the ancient + history of the Nocturnal Club. + </p> + <p> + “Spakin' of ancestors,” Barry began, “I'd loike to bet—” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to bet,” broke in Welty, “that your own ancestry leads directly + to the Shandy family.” + </p> + <p> + There was a general laugh, which Barry, whose nose was as flat as any + Shandy's could have been but who had never read Sterne, did not + understand. + </p> + <p> + “What did he mane?” Barry asked a friend. The friend told him to read + “Tristram Shandy.” He spent two hours in a public library next day and + learned how his facial peculiarity had been used by Welty to create a + laugh and incidentally to insult him. + </p> + <p> + This he never forgave. And he bided his time. + </p> + <p> + Now, having heard Welty boast of being the object of this Emily's + infatuation, Barry McGettigan deflected his mind from the contemplation of + murders, infanticides, fires, and other matters of general interest, and + gave his best thoughts and skill to investigating this talked-of love + affair of Welty's. + </p> + <p> + He discovered the true situation within three days. He found that Emily + was engaged to be married to a college football player who came to the + city once a week to see her. + </p> + <p> + He borrowed money, made himself very agreeable to Welty, and also got + himself introduced to the football player. The latter was a tall, lithe, + heavy-shouldered, brown-faced, thick-knuckled youth, who practiced all + kinds of athletic diversions. + </p> + <p> + Barry McGettigan sounded the football man in one brief interview one + night, between the acts of the comic opera, at the saloon next door. He + found a means of fastening himself upon the football player's esteem. The + collegian expressed a mild desire to see something of police-station life. + Barry invited him to spend an evening with him on duty at Central Station. + The collegian accepted. Barry appointed a time and named a certain café as + a meeting place. + </p> + <p> + Then Barry invited Welty to dine with him at the same café on the same + evening at the same hour. By means of his borrowed money, he had lavished + costly drinks upon Welty of late, and Welty had reason to anticipate a + dinner worth the accepting. Barry told Welty nothing of the collegian and + he told the collegian nothing more of Welty. + </p> + <p> + When the evening came, Barry found Welty awaiting him at the café. The two + sat down at a table. The preliminary cocktail had only arrived when in + walked the collegian. Barry saluted him as if the meeting had only + occurred by chance. He made the collegian and Welty known to each other by + name only. And then he ordered dinner. + </p> + <p> + When a bottle had been drunk, Barry innocently turned the current of the + conversation to women. He spoke modestly of a mythical conquest he had + recently made. The football player listened without showing much interest. + Presently Barry paused. + </p> + <p> + Welty took a drink and began: + </p> + <p> + “No, my boy,” said he to Barry, “you're wrong there. It's like you + youngsters to think you know all about the sex, but the older you grow the + less you think you know about them, until you get to my age.” + </p> + <p> + Barry made no answer, but looked at Welty with becoming deference. + </p> + <p> + The football man's eyes were wandering about the café, showing him to be + indifferent to the theme of discussion. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” continued Welty, “that many more or less writers have said, as + you say, that women must be sought and pursued to be won. They deduce that + theory from the habits of lower animals and of barbarous nations, in which + the man obtains the woman by chase and force. But it's all a theory, and + simply shows that the learned writers study their books instead of their + fellow men and women.” + </p> + <p> + The collegian looked restless, as if the conversation had gotten beyond + his depth. + </p> + <p> + Barry remained silent, and with a flattering aspect of great interest in + Welty's observations. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” went on Welty, striking the table with the bottom of his glass, + “I've had a little experience of this sort of thing in my time, and I can + say that in nine cases out of ten, once you've attracted the attention of + your game, let it alone and it will chase you. That's how to win women.” + </p> + <p> + The collegian looked bored. + </p> + <p> + “Just to illustrate,” said Welty, “I'll tell of a little conquest of my + own. I use it because it is the first that comes to my mind, not that I'm + given to bragging about my success in these matters. I suppose you've seen + the opera at the —— Theatre?” + </p> + <p> + The collegian ceased looking bored. Barry McGettigan sat perfectly, + unnaturally still. + </p> + <p> + “And,” pursued Welty, “you've doubtless noticed the three girls who appear + as the queen's maids of honour?” + </p> + <p> + The collegian looked somewhat concerned. Barry stopped breathing. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” continued Welty, “you mayn't believe it, for we've kept it really + quiet, one of them girls is really dead gone on me.” + </p> + <p> + The collegian opened his mouth wide, and Barry began to nervously tap his + hand upon the table. + </p> + <p> + “It's the one,” said Welty, “who wears the big blond wig. Her name's Emi—” + </p> + <p> + There was the noise of upsetting plates, bottles, and glasses, of a man's + feet rapping up against the bottom of a table and his head thumping down + against the floor. There was the sight of an agile youth leaping across an + overturned table and alighting with one foot at each side of the prostrate + form of an astonished man, whose gray whiskers were spattered with blood. + There was the quick gathering of a crowd, an excited explanation on the + part of the collegian, a slow recovery on the part of the man on the + floor, and Barry McGettigan's vengeance was complete. + </p> + <p> + For, by one of those incredible coincidences that have the semblance of + fatality, the football player's fist had reduced Melrose Welty's nose to a + flatness which the nose of no imaginable Shandy ever has surpassed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII. — THE WHISTLE + </h2> + <p> + She was the wife of a railway locomotive engineer, and the two lived in + the newly built house to which he had taken her as a bride a year before. + </p> + <p> + Many other people in the country railroad town used to laugh at a thing + which she had once said to a gossiping neighbour: + </p> + <p> + “I can tell the sound of the whistle on Tom's engine from all other + whistles. Every afternoon when his train gets to the crossing at the + planing-mill, I hear that whistle, and then I know it's time to get Tom's + supper.” + </p> + <p> + The gossips found something humourous in the fact that the engineer's wife + recognized the whistle of her husband's engine and knew by it when to + begin to prepare his supper. So are the small manifestations of love and + devotion regarded by coarse minds. You frequently observe this in the + conduct of certain people at the theatre when tender sentiments are + uttered upon the stage. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the men were envious of the engineer. He had a prettier wife, they + said, when he was not present, than was deserved by a mere freight + engineer, very recently elevated from the post of fireman. Perhaps, also, + the petty malevolence of the women was due to the wife's superior + comeliness. Be that as it may, each afternoon at half-past four or + thereabouts, when Tom's whistle was blown at the crossing by the + planing-mill, loungers in the grocery store and wives in their kitchens + smiled knowingly and said: + </p> + <p> + “Time to begin to get Tom's supper, now.” + </p> + <p> + But the engineer was careless and his wife was disdainful of their + neighbours. She loved the sound of that whistle. In the earliest days of + their married life it even sent the crimson to her cheeks. The engineer + could make it as expressive as music. It began like a sudden glad cry; it + died away lingeringly, tenderly. Virtually it said to one pair of ears: + </p> + <p> + “My darling, I have come back to you.” + </p> + <p> + Whenever the engineer pulled the rope for that particular signal, he + pictured his wife arising from her work-basket in their little parlour + with a thrill of pleasure and affection, and passing out to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + She, likewise, at the signal, made a mental image of Tom, seated in the + engine cab, his one hand fixed upon the shining lever, his eyes fixed upon + the glistening tracks ahead. + </p> + <p> + At six o'clock, usually, supper was hot, and Tom arrived through the front + gateway, glancing at the flower-bed in the centre of the diminutive grass + plot, carrying his dinner-pail, having divested himself of his grimy, + greasy blouse and overalls at the great repair shops, where his engine had + already begun, with much panting, to spend the night. + </p> + <p> + In a small railroad town on the main line, one is continually hearing + locomotive whistles. All the inhabitants know that one long moan of the + steam is the signal of the train's swift approach; that two short shrieks + of the whistle direct the trainmen to tighten the brakes; that four, given + when the train is still, are intended for the flagman, who has gone away + to the rear to warn back the next train, and that they tell him to return + to his own train as it is about to start; that five whistles in succession + announce a wreck and command the immediate attendance of the wreck crew. + </p> + <p> + In the town many cheeks blanch when those five long, ominous wails of the + escaping steam cleave the air. A husband, a son, a father who has gone + forth blithely in the morning, with his dinner-pail full, may be brought + out of the wreck, mangled or dead. And until complete details are known + there is a tremor in the whole community. Some hearts beat faster, others + seem to stand still. People speak in hushed tones. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, the engineer's wife, observing the altitude of the sun, + looked at the clock and saw that the time was a few minutes before five. + </p> + <p> + Tom's whistle had not yet blown. + </p> + <p> + At five-fifteen came the sound of another whistle. It was prolonged and + then repeated. The engineer's wife stood still and counted. + </p> + <p> + Five! + </p> + <p> + The most docile and apparently cheerful patient in the —— + Asylum for the Insane is a widow, still young, who spends the greater time + of each day sewing and humming tunes softly to herself. Every afternoon at + about half-past four she assumes a listening attitude, suddenly hears an + inaudible whistle, smiles tenderly, starts up and places invisible dishes + and impalpable viands upon an imaginary table, and then loses herself in a + reverie which ends in slumber. + </p> + <p> + No striking clock is allowed within her hearing. It was long ago noticed + that the stroke of five or any series of five similar sounds would cause + her to moan piteously. + </p> + <p> + The people afar in the country town do not laugh now when they talk of Tom + and the whistle which was shrieking madly as he and his engine plunged + down the bank together on that day when the huge boulder rolled from the + hillside stone quarry and lay upon the tracks, just on this side of the + curve above the town. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV. — WHISKERS + </h2> + <p> + The facts about the man we called “Whiskers” linger in my mind, asking to + be recorded, and though they do not make much of a story, I am tempted to + unburden myself by putting them on paper. It was mentally noted as a sure + thing by everybody who saw him go into the managing editor's room, to ask + for a position on the staff of the paper, that if he should obtain a place + and become a fixture in the office, he would be generally known as + Whiskers within twenty-four hours after his instalment. + </p> + <p> + What tale he told the managing editor no one knew, but every one in the + editorial rooms deduced later that it must have been something a trifle + out of the common, for the managing editor, who had gone through the form + of taking the names of three previous applicants that afternoon and + telling them that he would let them know when a vacancy should occur on + the staff, told the man whom we eventually christened Whiskers that he + might come around the next day and write whatever he might choose to in + the way of Sunday “specials,” comic verses, or editorial paragraphs, on + the chance of their being accepted. + </p> + <p> + The next day the hairy-faced man took possession of a desk in the room + occupied by the exchange editor and one of the editorial writers, and + began to grind out “copy.” + </p> + <p> + He was a slim, figure, with what is commonly denominated a “slight stoop.” + His trousers were none too long for his thin legs, his tightly fitting + frock coat, threadbare, shiny, and unduly creased, was hardly of a fit for + his slender body and his long arms. It was his face, however, that mostly + individualized his appearance. + </p> + <p> + The face was pale, the outlines symmetrical, but rather feeble, and the + countenance would have seemed rather lamblike but for the fact that it was + framed with thick, long hair and a luxuriant beard, which caressed his + waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + These made him impressive at first sight. + </p> + <p> + On the first day of his presence, he said little to the men with whom he + shared his room in the office. On the second day he grew communicative and + talked rather pompously to the exchange editor. He prated of his past + achievements as a newspaper man in other cities. He had a cheerful way of + talking in a voice that was high but not loud. His undaunted manner of + uttering self-praise caused the exchange editor to wink at the editorial + writer. It engendered, too, a small degree of dislike on the part of these + worthies; and the exchange editor made it a point to watch for some of the + new man's work in the paper, that he might be certain whether the new + man's ability was equal to the new man's opinion of it. + </p> + <p> + The exchange editor found that it was not. The new man had been in the + office four days before any of his contributions had gone through the + process of creation, acceptance, and publication. Some verses and some + alleged jokes were his first matter printed. They were below mediocrity. + The exchange editor ceased to dislike the whiskered man and thereafter + regarded him as quite harmless and mildly amusing. + </p> + <p> + This view of him was eventually accepted by every one who came to know + him, and he was made the object of a good deal of gentle chaffing. + </p> + <p> + He earned probably $15 or $20 at space rates, a lamentably small amount + for so intellectual looking a man, but a very large amount considering the + quality of work turned out by him. + </p> + <p> + Doubtless he would not have made nearly so much had not the managing + editor whispered something in the ears of the assistant editor-in-chief, + whose duty it was to judge of the acceptability of editorial matter + offered, the editor of the Sunday's supplement, and other members of the + staff who might have occasion to “turn down” the new man's contributions, + or to wink at the deficiencies in his work. + </p> + <p> + One day Whiskers, with many apologies and much embarrassment, asked the + exchange editor to lend him a quarter, which request having been complied + with, he put on his much rubbed high hat and hurried from the room. + </p> + <p> + “It's funny the old man's hard up so soon,” the exchange editor said to + the editorial writer at the next desk, “It's only two days since pay-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does he sink his money?” asked the editorial writer. “His + sleeping-room costs him only $3 a week, and, eating the way he does, at + the cheapest hash-houses, his whole expenses can't be more than $8. No one + ever sees him spend a cent. He must sink it away in a bank.” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn't he any relatives?” + </p> + <p> + “He never spoke of any, and he lives alone. Wotherspoon, who lodges where + he does, says no one ever comes to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “He certainly doesn't spend money on clothes.” + </p> + <p> + “No; and he never drinks at his own expense.” + </p> + <p> + “He's probably leading a double life,” said the exchange editor, + jestingly, as he plunged his scissors into a Western paper, to cut out a + poem by James Whitcomb Riley. + </p> + <p> + Without making many acquaintances, Whiskers, by reason of his hirsute + peculiarity, became known throughout the building, from the business + office on the ground floor to the composing-room on the top. When he went + into the latter one day and passed down the long aisle between the long + row of cases and type-setting machines, with a corrected proof in his + hand, a certain printer, who was “setting” up a clothing-house + advertisement, could not resist the temptation to give labial imitation of + the blowing of wind. The bygone joke concerning whiskers and the wind was + then current, and a score of compositors took up the whistle, so that all + varieties of breeze were soon being simulated simultaneously. Whiskers + coloured sightly, but, save a dignified straightening of his shoulders, he + showed no other sign that he was conscious of the rude allusion to his + copious beard. + </p> + <p> + Whiskers chose Tuesday for his day off. + </p> + <p> + It was on a certain Tuesday evening that one of the reporters came into + the exchange editor's room and casually remarked: + </p> + <p> + “I saw your anti-shaving friend, who sits at that desk, riding out to the + suburbs on a car to-day. He was all crushed up and carried a bouquet of + roses.” + </p> + <p> + “That settles it,” cried the editorial writer to the exchange editor, with + mock jubilation. “There can be no doubt the old man was leading a double + life. The bouquet means a woman in the case.” + </p> + <p> + “And his money goes for flowers and presents,” added the exchange editor. + </p> + <p> + “Some of it, of course,” went on the editorial writer, “and the rest he's + saving to get married on. Who'd have thought it at his age?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he's not over forty. It's only his whiskers that make him look old. + One can easily detect a sentimental vein in his composition.” + </p> + <p> + “That accounts for his fits of abstraction, too. So he's found favour in + some fair one's eyes. I wonder what she's like.” + </p> + <p> + “Young and pretty, I'll bet,” said the exchange editor. “He's impressed + her by his dignified aspect. No doubt she thinks he's nothing less than an + editor-in-chief.” + </p> + <p> + The next day Whiskers was taciturn, as his office associates now recalled + that he was wont to be after “his day off.” Doubtless his thoughts dwelt + upon his visits to his divinity. He did not respond to their efforts to + involve him in conversation. + </p> + <p> + He was observed upon his next day off to take a car for the suburbs and to + have a bouquet in his hand and a package under his arm. The theory + originated by the editorial writer had general acceptance. It was passed + from man to man in the office. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard about the queer old duck with the whiskers, who writes in + the exchange room? He's engaged to a young and pretty girl up-town, and + eats at fifteen-cent soup-shops so that he can buy her flowers and wine + and things.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Old Whiskers in love! That's a good one!” + </p> + <p> + One day while Whiskers' pen was busily gliding across the paper, the + exchange editor broke the silence by asking him, in a careless tone: + </p> + <p> + “How was she, yesterday, Mr. Croydon?” + </p> + <p> + Whiskers looked up almost quickly, an expression of almost pained surprise + on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you thought because you didn't tell us, it wouldn't out. But you've + been caught. I mean the lady to whom you take roses every week, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + Whiskers simply stared at the exchange editor, as if quite bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pardon me,” said the exchange editor, somewhat abashed. “I didn't + mean to offend you. One's affairs of the heart are sacred, I know. But we + all guy each other about each other's amours here. We're hardened to that + sort of pleasantry.” + </p> + <p> + A look of enlightenment, a blush, a deep sigh, and an “Oh, I'm not + offended,” were the only manifestations made by Whiskers after the + exchange editor's apology. + </p> + <p> + It was inferred from his manner that he did not wish to make confidences + or receive jests about his love-affairs. + </p> + <p> + A time came when Whiskers seemed to have something constantly on his mind. + Not content with one day's vacation each week, he would go off for periods + of three or four hours on other days. + </p> + <p> + “Do you notice how queerly the old man behaves?” said the editorial writer + to the exchange editor thereupon. “Things are coming to a crisis.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the wedding, of course.” + </p> + <p> + This inference received a show of confirmation afterward when Whiskers had + a private interview with the managing editor, received an order on the + cashier for all the money due him, and for a part of the managing editor's + salary as a loan, and quietly said to the exchange editor that he would be + away for a week or so. The editorial writer happened to be at the + cashier's window when Whiskers had his order cashed. So when the editorial + writer and the exchange editor compared notes a few minutes later, the + latter complimented the former upon the correctness of his prediction that + Whiskers' marriage was imminent. + </p> + <p> + “He didn't invite us,” said the exchange editor, “but then I suppose the + affair is to be a very quiet one, and we can't take offence at that. The + old man's not a bad lot, by any means. Let's do something to please him + and to flatter his bride. What do you say to raising a fund to buy them a + present, in the name of the staff?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm in for it,” said the editorial writer, producing a half-dollar. + </p> + <p> + They canvassed the office and found everybody willing to contribute. The + managing editor and the assistant editor-in-chief had gone home, but as + they had shown kindness to Whiskers, and were, in fact, the only two men + on the staff who knew anything about his private affairs, the exchange + editor took his chances and put in a dollar for each of them. + </p> + <p> + “And now, what shall we get—and where shall we send it?” said the + exchange editor. + </p> + <p> + “Not to his lodging-house, certainly. He'll probably be married at the + residence of his bride's parents, as the notices say. We'd better get it + quick, and rush it up there—wherever that is—somewhere + up-town.” + </p> + <p> + “But say,” interposed the city editor, who was present at this + consultation, “maybe the ceremony has already come off. I saw the old man + giving in a notice for advertisement across the counter at the business + office an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we may be able to learn from that where the bride lives, anyhow, + and some one can go there and find out something definite about the happy + pair's present and future whereabouts,” suggested the editorial writer. + </p> + <p> + “That's so,” said the city editor. “The notice is in the composing-room by + this time. I'll run up and find it.” + </p> + <p> + The city editor left the editorial writer and the exchange editor alone + together in the room, each sitting at their own desk. + </p> + <p> + “What shall we get with this money?” queried the former, touching the + bills and silver dumped upon his desk. + </p> + <p> + “Something to please the woman. That'll give Whiskers the most pleasure. + He evidently loves her deeply. These constant visits and gifts speak the + greatest devotion.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, but what shall it be?” + </p> + <p> + The two were battling with this question when the city editor returned. He + came in and said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “I found the notice. At least, I suppose this is it. What is the old man's + full name?” + </p> + <p> + “Horace W. Croydon.” + </p> + <p> + “This is it, then,” said the city editor, standing with his back to the + door. “The notice reads: 'On March 3d, at the Arlington Hospital for + Incurables, Rachel, widow of the late Horace W. Croydon, Sr., in her 59th + year. Funeral services at the residence of Charles—'” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” interrupted the editorial writer, in a hushed voice, “that is a + death notice.” + </p> + <p> + “His mother,” said the exchange editor. “The Hospital for Incurables—that + is where the flowers went.” + </p> + <p> + The editorial writer's glance dropped to the desk, where the money lay for + the intended gift. The exchange editor sat perfectly still, gazing + straight in front of him. The city editor walked softly to the window and + looked out. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV. — THE BAD BREAK OF TOBIT MCSTENGER + </h2> + <p> + “I'm a bad man,” said Tobit McStenger, after three glasses of whiskey. And + he was. In making the declaration, he echoed the expression of the + community. + </p> + <p> + He looked it. Not only in the sneering mouth above the half-formed chin, + and in the lowering eyes of undecided colour beneath the receding brow, + but also in every shiftless attitude and movement of his great gaunt body, + and even in the torn coat and shapeless felt hat—both once black, + but both now a dirty gray—his aspect proclaimed him the preeminent + rowdy of his town. + </p> + <p> + When out of jail he was engaged in oyster opening at Couch's saloon, or + selling fresh fish, caught in the river, or vagrancy in the streets of + Brickville. He lived in a log house containing two rooms, by Muddy Creek, + an intermittent stream that flowed—sometimes—through a corner + of the town. He was a widower and had a son nine years old, little Tobe, + who went to school occasionally, but gave most of his day to carrying a + paper flour-sack around the town and begging cold victuals, in obedience + to paternal commands, and throwing stones at other boys, who called him + “Patches,” a nickname descended from his father. + </p> + <p> + Little Tobe's face was always black, from the dust of the bituminous coal + that he was compelled to steal at night from the railroad companies' yard. + His attire was in miniature what his father's was in the large, as his + character was in embryo what the elder Tobit's was in complete + development. With long, entangled hair, a thin, crafty face, and stealthy + eyes, he was a true type of malevolent gamin, all the more uncanny for the + crudity due to his semirustic environments. + </p> + <p> + Such were Tobit and little Tobe, the most conspicuous of the village + “characters” of Brickville, a Pennsylvania town deriving sustenance from + its brick-kiln, its railroads, and its contiguous farming interests. + </p> + <p> + It was town talk that Tobit McStenger was a hard father; drunk or sober, + he chastised little Tobe upon the slightest occasion. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Tobit McStenger, after admitting his severity as a parent + before the bar in Couch's saloon, “let any one else lay a finger on that + kid! Just let 'em! They'll find out, jail or no jail, I'm ugly!” And he + went on to repeat for the thousandth time that when he was ugly he was a + bad man. + </p> + <p> + Whereupon the other loungers in Couch's saloon, “Honesty Tom Yerkes,” the + hauler, Sam Hatch, the bill-poster, and the rest, agreed that a man's + manner of governing his household was his own business. + </p> + <p> + Tobit McStenger had his word to say upon all village topics. When in + Couch's saloon one night he learned that the school directors had decided + to take the primary school from the tutorship of a woman and to put a man + over it as teacher, Tobit pricked up his ears and had many words to say. + He was working at the time, and he spoke in loud, coarse tones, as he + wielded his oyster-knife, having for an audience the usual dozen barroom + tarriers. + </p> + <p> + “I know what that means,” cried Tobit McStenger. “It means they ain't + satisfied with having our children ruled with kindness. It means Miss + Wiggins, who's kep' a good school, which I know all about, fer my son's + one of her scholars—it means she don't use the rod enough. They've + made up their minds to control the kids by force, and they went and hired + a man to lick book learnin' into 'em. Who is the feller, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Pap” Buckwalder read the answer to Tobit's question from the current + number of the Brickville <i>Weekly Gazette</i>. + </p> + <p> + “The new teacher is Aubrey Pilling, the adopted son of farmer Josiah + Pilling, of Blair Township. He has taught the school of that township for + three winters, and is a graduate of the Brickville Academy.” + </p> + <p> + Sam Hatch, standing by the stove, remembered him. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that's the backward fellow,” said he, “that the girls used to guy. + His hair and eyebrows is as white as tow, and when he'd blush his face + used to turn pink. He always walked in from the country, four miles, every + morning to school and back again at night. There ain't much use getting + him take a woman's place. He's about the same as a woman hisself. He + hardly talks above a whisper, and he's afraid to look a girl in the face.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't he the boy Josiah Pilling took out o' the Orphans' Home, here about + twenty years ago?” queried Pap Buckwalder. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” replied Hatch. “I heerd somethin' about that when he went to the + 'cademy here. He was took out of a home by a farmer, who gave him his name + 'cause the boy didn't know his own, nor no one else did, and so he was + brought up on the farm.” + </p> + <p> + “So that's the sort o' people they've put the education of our children + into the hands uv!” exclaimed Tobit McStenger. “Well, all I got to say is, + let him keep his hands off my boy Tobe, or he'll find out the kind of a + tough customer I am.” + </p> + <p> + Tobit McStenger, in the few weeks immediately following this change in the + primary school, remained continuously industrious, to the surprise of all + who knew him. As Tobit was an expeditious oyster-opener, Tony Couch, the + saloon-keeper who employed him, was much rejoiced. Tobit toiled at + oyster-opening and little Tobe became regular in his attendance at school. + </p> + <p> + The new school-teacher, a broad, awkward, bashful youth, painfully blond, + came to town and accomplished that for which he had been called. He + brought discipline to the primary school, an achievement none easier for + the fact that many of his pupils were in their teens, and incidentally he + suspended Tobit McStenger the younger. + </p> + <p> + When little Tobe, glad of the enforced return to the liberties of his + begging days, brought home his soiled first reader and told his father + that the teacher had sent him from school with orders not to return until + he could learn to keep his face clean, the father became swollen with an + overflowing wrath. He swore frightfully, and started off, vowing that he + would “show the white-faced foundling how to treat decent people's + children.” + </p> + <p> + And he had two tall drinks of whiskey put on the slate against him at + Couch's and proceeded to carry out his threat. + </p> + <p> + It was a cold day in December. Pilling, the teacher, sat near the stove in + the little square school-room, listening to the irrepressible hum of his + restless pupils and the predominating monotonous sound of a small girl's + voice reciting multiplication tables. + </p> + <p> + “Three times three are nine,” she whined, drawlingly; “three times four + are twelve, three times—” + </p> + <p> + The little girl with the braided hair stopped short. A loud knock fell + upon the door. + </p> + <p> + A boy looked through the window, evidently saw the one who had knocked, + then cast a curious look at Pilling, the teacher. Pilling observed this, + and asked the boy: + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of hesitation, the boy replied: + </p> + <p> + “It's old Patchy—I mean, Tobe McStenger's father.” + </p> + <p> + Pilling, whose bashfulness was manifest only in the presence of women, had + the utmost calmness before his pupils. He walked quietly to the door and + locked it. + </p> + <p> + McStenger, furious without, heard the sound of the bolt being thrust into + place, whereupon he began to kick at the door. Pilling turned the chair + facing his class and told the girl with the braided hair to continue. + </p> + <p> + “Three times five are fifteen, three times six—” + </p> + <p> + A crashing sound was heard. McStenger had broken a window. Pilling looked + around, as if seeking some impromptu weapon. While he was doing so, + McStenger broke another window-pane with a club. Then McStenger went away. + </p> + <p> + That evening, Pilling had Tobit McStenger arrested for malicious mischief. + The oyster-opener was held pending trial until January court. He was then + sentenced to thirty days more in the county jail. Meanwhile little Tobe + mounted a freight-train one day to steal a ride, and Brickville has not + seen or heard of him since. He enlisted in the great army of vagabonds, + doubtless. Perhaps some city swallowed him. + </p> + <p> + Tobit McStenger felt at home in jail. It was not a bad place of residence + during the coldest months. But for one defect, jail life would have been + quite enviable; it forced upon him abstinence from alcoholic liquor. + </p> + <p> + Every period of thirty days has its termination, and Tobit McStenger + became a free man. He returned to his old life, opening oysters during + part of the time, idling and drinking during the other part. He made no + attempt to spoil the peace of Aubrey Pilling, and he only laughed when he + heard of the disappearance of Little Tobe. + </p> + <p> + Pilling, by his success in conducting the primary school, had won the + esteem of Brickville's citizens. His timidity had diminished, or, rather, + it had been discovered to be merely quietness, self-communion, instead of + timidity. He had shown himself less prudish than he had been thought. + Occasionally he drank whiskey or beer, which was looked upon as a good + sign in a man of his kind. + </p> + <p> + Tobit McStenger did not know this. He invariably evaded mention of + Pilling. People wondered what would happen when the two should meet. For + Tobit was known to be revengeful, and he was now, more than ever, in + speech and look, a bad man. + </p> + <p> + The expected and yet the unexpected happened one night in Couch's saloon,—the + scene of most of the eventful incidents in Tobit McStenger's life since he + had dawned upon Brickville. Tobit and Honesty Yerkes, Pap Buckwalder, old + Tony Couch himself, and half a score others were making a conversational + hubbub before the bar. + </p> + <p> + In walked Aubrey Pilling. He came quietly to an unoccupied spot at the end + of the bar and ordered a glass of beer, without looking at the other + drinkers. Some one nudged Tobit McStenger and pointed toward the + white-haired young pedagogue. The noise of talk broke off abruptly. + </p> + <p> + McStenger placed his back against the bar, resting his elbows upon it, and + turned a scornful gaze toward Pilling, who had taken one draught from his + glass of beer. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Tony,” began McStenger, in his big, growling voice, “who's your + ladylike customer? Oh, it's him, is it? Well, he needn't be skeered of me. + I don't mix up with folks o' his sort. You see, people could only expect + to be insulted through their children by fellows of his birth—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Mack!” whispered Tony Couch, whose sense of deportment advised him + that McStenger was treading forbidden ground. Pilling had not looked up. + He stood quietly at some distance from the others, intent upon his glass + of beer on the bar before him, perfectly still. + </p> + <p> + But McStenger went on, more loudly than before: + </p> + <p> + “By fellows, as I said, who came from orphans' homes, and never knew who + their parents was, and whose mothers may have been God knows what—” + </p> + <p> + Pilling, without turning, had lifted his glass. With an easy motion he had + tossed its remaining contents of beer into the face of Tobit McStenger. + The latter drew back from the splash of the liquid as if stung. Then, with + a loud cry of rage, he leaped toward Pilling. The teacher turned and faced + him. + </p> + <p> + McStenger clapped one huge hand against Pilling's neck, and in an instant + thereafter his long, bony fingers were pressing upon the teacher's throat, + in what had the looks of a fatal clutch. But Pilling, with both his arms, + violently forced McStenger from him. The teacher took breath and McStenger + reached for a whiskey decanter. The others in the saloon looked on with + eager interest, fearing to come between such formidable combatants. Tony + Couch ran out in search of the town's only policeman. McStenger advanced + toward the teacher. + </p> + <p> + Pilling was farm bred. He had chopped down trees with his right arm alone + in his time. Pilling thrust forth his arm with unexpected suddenness. Upon + the floor, six feet behind his antagonist, was a cuspidor with jagged + edges. + </p> + <p> + And Tobit McStenger slept with his fathers. + </p> + <p> + The jury acquitted the teacher on the plea of self-defense. The loungers + in Couch's saloon judiciously said that it was a very bad break for Tobit + McStenger to have made. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI. — THE SCARS + </h2> + <p> + My friend the tune-maker has often unintentionally amused his + acquaintances by the gravity with which he attributes significance to the + most trivial occurrences. + </p> + <p> + He turns the most thoughtless speeches, uttered in jest, into prophecies. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he used to say to us at a café table, “you may laugh. But + it's astonishing how things turn out sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “As for instance?” some one would inquire. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. But I could give an instance if I wished to do so.” + </p> + <p> + One evening, over a third bottle, he grew unusually communicative. + </p> + <p> + “Just to illustrate how things happen,” he began, speaking so as to be + audible above the din of the café to the rest of us around the table, + “I'll tell you about a man I know. One February morning, about eight years + ago, he was hurrying to catch a train. There was ice on the sidewalks and + people had to walk cautiously or ride. As he was turning a corner he saw + by a clock that he had only five minutes in which to reach the station, + three blocks away. An instant later he saw a shapely figure in soft furs + suddenly describe a forward movement and drop in a heap to the sidewalk, + ten feet in front of him. A melodious light soprano scream arose from the + heap. A divinely turned ankle in a quite human black stocking was + momentarily visible. He was by the side of the mass of furs and skirts in + three steps. + </p> + <p> + “He caught the pretty girl under the arms and elevated her to a standing + posture. She recovered her breath and her self-possession promptly and + glowed upon him with the brightest of smiles. He had never before seen + her. + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, thank you,' she said; adding, with the unconscious exaggeration of a + schoolgirl, 'You've saved my life.' + </p> + <p> + “Realizing the absurdity of this speech, she blushed. Whereupon her + rescuer, feeling that the situation warranted him in turning the matter to + jest, replied: + </p> + <p> + “'That being the case, according to the rules of romance, I ought to marry + you, like all the men who rescue the heroines in stories.' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh,' she answered, quickly, 'this isn't in a novel; it's real life.' + </p> + <p> + “'Yes; besides which, I see by the clock over there I have only four + minutes in which to catch a train. Good morning.' + </p> + <p> + “And he ran off without taking a second glance at her. He arrived at the + station in due time. + </p> + <p> + “Three years after that he married the most charming woman in the world, + after an acquaintance of only six months. + </p> + <p> + “This woman is as beautiful as she is amiable. Nature has not been guilty + of a single defect in her construction. A tiny scar upon her knee is all + the more noticeable because of its solitude. + </p> + <p> + “It is a peculiarity of scars that each has a history. The history of this + one has thus far, for no adequate reason, remained a family secret. + </p> + <p> + “Another noteworthy fact about scars is that they may be, and in many + cases they are, useful for purposes of identification. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you anticipate the dramatic climax of my story, gentlemen. + Nevertheless, let me give it, for the sake of completeness, in the form of + a dialogue between the husband and the wife. + </p> + <p> + “'How came the wound there?' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, I fell against the corner of a paving-stone one icy morning three + years ago.' + </p> + <p> + “'And to think that I was not there to help you up!' + </p> + <p> + “'True; but another young man served the purpose, and I'm afraid he missed + a train on my account.' + </p> + <p> + “'What! It wasn't on the corner of —— and —— + Streets?' + </p> + <p> + “'It was just there. How did you know?' + </p> + <p> + “So you see, as they completely proved by comparing recollections, the + little speech uttered in merriment had been prophetic, a fact that they + probably would never have learned had it not been for the identifying + service of the scar.” + </p> + <p> + “But if this has been kept a family secret, how do you happen to know it, + and by what right do you divulge it?” one of us asked. + </p> + <p> + The ballad composer blushed and clouded his face with tobacco smoke; and + then it recurred to us all that “the most charming woman in the world” is + his wife. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII. — “LA GITANA” + </h2> + <p> + This is not an attempt to palliate the foolishness of Billy Folsom. It is + not an essay in the emotional or the pathetic. You may pity him or + reproach him, if you like, but my purpose is not to evoke any feeling + toward or opinion of him. I do not seek to play upon your sympathies or to + put you into a mood, or to delineate a character. I simply tell the story + of how certain critical points in a man's life were accompanied by music; + how a destiny was affected by a tune. Anything aside from mere narrative + in this account will be incidental and accidental. The manifestations of + love, of wounded vanity, of recklessness; of even the death itself, are + here subsidiary in interest to the train of circumstance. He who underwent + them is not the hero of the recital; she who caused them is not the + heroine. The heroine is a melody, the waltz tune of “La Gitana.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody remembers when the tune was regnant. Its notes leaped gaily from + the strings of every theatre orchestra; soubrettes in fluffy raiment and + silk stockings yelled it singly and in chorus; hand-organs blared it + forth; dancers kicked up their toes to it; it monopolized the atmosphere + for its dwelling-place; it was everywhere. + </p> + <p> + Until one night, however, it did not touch the ear of Billy Folsom. He had + stayed late in the country, under the delusion that he was hunting. It + seems there are a few shootable things yet in certain parts of + Pennsylvania, and Folsom had the time and money to linger in search of + them. He came back to town in fine, exhilarating November weather, and on + one of these evenings when the joy of living is keenest, he and I strolled + with the crowd. Why I strolled with Folsom I do not know, for he was not a + man of ideas. He was even so bad as to be vain of his personal appearance, + especially upon having resumed the dress of the city after months of + outing. + </p> + <p> + We passed one of these theatres whose stages are near the street. A + musical farce was current there. From an open window came the tune, + waylaying us as we walked. The orchestra was playing it fortissimo. You + could hear it above the footfalls, the laughter, and the conversation of + the promenaders. + </p> + <p> + Folsom stopped. “Listen to that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, 'La Gitana.' It's all around. It's a catchy thing, and suits this + intoxicating weather.” + </p> + <p> + “It goes to the spot. Let's go inside. What's the play?” + </p> + <p> + He turned at once toward the main entrance of the theatre. + </p> + <p> + “A farce called 'Three Cheers and a Tiger,'—a Hoyt sort of a piece. + The little Tyrrell is doing her tambourine dance to the music.” + </p> + <p> + “Never heard of the lady,” he said to me. And then to the youth on the + other side of the box-office window, “Have you any seats left in the front + row?” + </p> + <p> + Folsom always asked for seats in the front row. This time it was fatal. As + we walked up the aisle, Folsom ahead, the little Tyrrell shot one casual + glance of her gray eyes at him, as almost any dancer would have done at a + front row newcomer entering while she was on the stage. In the next + instant her eyes were following her toe in its swift flight upward to the + centre of the tambourine that her hand brought downward to meet it. But + the one glance across the footlights had been productive. Folsom sat + staring over the heads of the musicians, his gaze fastened upon the little + Tyrrell, who was leaping about on the stage to the tune of “La Gitana.” + His lips opened slightly and remained so. His eyes feasted upon the flying + dancer in the rippling blond wig, his ears drank in the buoyant notes. + </p> + <p> + It is well known that power lies in a saltatorial ensemble of white lace + skirts, pale blue hose, lustrous naked arms, undulating bodice, magnetic + eyes, flying hair, and an unchanging smile, to focus the perceptions of a + man, to absorb his consciousness, aided by a tune which seems to close out + from him all the rest of the world. + </p> + <p> + And there, while this plump little girl danced and the frivolous, stupid + crowd looked eagerly on, from all parts of the overheated theatre, began + the tragedy of Billy Folsom. + </p> + <p> + He gazed in rapture, and when she had finished and stood panting and + kissing her hands in response to applause, he heaved an eloquent sigh. + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to meet that girl,” he whispered to me, assuming a tone of + carelessness. + </p> + <p> + Thereafter he kept his eye fixed upon the wings until she reappeared. And + the rest of the performance interested him only when she was in view. + </p> + <p> + I knew the symptoms, but I did not think the malady would become chronic. + </p> + <p> + He managed to have himself introduced to her a week later in New York by + Ted Clarke, the artist, who made newspaper sketches of her in some of her + dances. Folsom saw her going up the steps to an elevated railway station. + He ran after her, in order to be near her. He followed her into a car, + where Ted Clarke, recognizing her, rose to give her his seat. She rewarded + the artist by opening a conversation with him, and Folsom availed himself + of his acquaintance with Clarke to salute the latter with surprising + cordiality. She looked a few years older and less girlish without her + blond wig but she was still quite pretty in brown hair. She treated Folsom + with her wonted offhand amiability. He left the train when she left it, + and he walked a block with her. With pardonable shrewdness she inspected + his visage, attire, and manner, for indications of his pecuniary and + social standing, while he was indulging in silly commonplaces. When they + parted at the quiet hotel where she lived she said lightly: + </p> + <p> + “Come and see me sometime.” + </p> + <p> + To her surprise, perhaps, he came the next day, preceded by several dozen + roses and a few pounds of bonbons. + </p> + <p> + Every night thereafter he was at the theatre where she was appearing, + watching her dance from the front row or from the lobby, agitated with + mingled pleasure and jealousy when she received loud applause, angry at + the audience when the plaudits were not enthusiastic. When their + acquaintance was two weeks old, she allowed him to wait for her at the + stage door, and at last he was permitted to take her to supper. + </p> + <p> + There was a second supper, at which four composed the party. We had a room + to ourselves, with a piano in the corner. The event lasted long, and near + the end, while the other soubrette played the tune on the piano, and + Folsom kept time by clinking the champagne glass against the bottle, the + little Tyrrell, continually laughing, did her skirt dance, “La Gitana.” + </p> + <p> + Thus with that waltz tune ever sounding in his ears, he fell in love with + her; strangely enough, really in love. She, having her own affairs to + mind, gave him no thought when he was not with her, and when they were + together she deemed him quite a good-natured, bearable fellow, as long as + he did not bore her. + </p> + <p> + He made several declarations of love to her. She smiled at them, and said, + “You're like the rest; you'll get over it. Meanwhile, don't look like + that; be cheerful.” At certain times, when circumstances were auspicious, + when there was night and electric light and a starry sky with a moon in + it, she was half-sentimental, but such moods were only superficial and + short-lived, and she invariably brought an end to them with flippant + laughter or some matter-of-fact speech that came with a shock to Billy, + although it did not cool his adoration. + </p> + <p> + Billy became quite gloomy. He was the veritable sighing lover. Although + for a month he was admittedly the chief of her admirers and saw her every + day, he seemed to make no progress toward securing a hospitable reception + for and a response to his love. + </p> + <p> + One day, as they were walking together on Broadway, she said: + </p> + <p> + “You're always in the dumps nowadays. Really you must not be that way. + Doleful people make me tired.” + </p> + <p> + And thereafter Billy, possessed by a horrible fear that his mournful + demeanour might cause his banishment from her, kept making desperate + efforts to be lively, which were a dismal failure. It was ludicrous. The + gayer he affected to be, the more emphatic was his manifest depression. So + she wearied of his company. One day he called at her hotel, and, as was + his custom, went immediately to her sitting-room without sending in his + card. Before he knocked at the door, he heard the notes of her piano; some + one was playing the air of “La Gitana” with one finger. After two or three + bars, the instrument was silent. Then a man's voice was heard. Billy + knocked angrily. Miss Tyrrell opened the door, looked annoyed when she saw + him, and introduced him to the tenor of a comic opera company of which she + recently had been engaged as leading soubrette. Billy's call was a short + one. + </p> + <p> + At eight o'clock that evening he sent this note to her from the café where + he was dining: + </p> + <p> + “Will be at stage door with carriage at eleven, as before.” + </p> + <p> + He was there at eleven. So was the tenor. The little Tyrrell came out and + looked from one to the other. Billy pointed to his waiting carriage. The + dancer took the tenor's arm and said: + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry I can't accept your invitation, Mr. Folsom. Really I'm very + much obliged to you, but I have an engagement.” + </p> + <p> + She went off with the tenor, and Billy went off with the cab and made + himself drunker than he had ever been in his life. At dawn his feet were + seen protruding from the window of a coupé that was being driven up + Broadway, and he was bawling forth, as best he could, the tune which had + served indirectly to bring the little Tyrrell into his life. + </p> + <p> + After that night, it was the old story, a woman ridding herself of a man + for whom she had never cared, and who indeed was not worth caring for. But + the operation was just as hard upon Folsom as if he had been. You know the + stages of the process. She began by being not at home or just about to go + out. He wrote pleading notes to her, in boyish phraseology, and she + laughed over these with the tenor. He made the breaking off the more + painful by going nightly to see her dance that fatal melody. He watched + her from afar upon the street, and almost invariably saw the tenor by her + side. He drank continually, and he begged Ted Clarke to tell her, in a + casual way, that he was going to the dogs on account of her treatment of + him. Whereupon she laughed and then looked scornful, saying: “If he's fool + enough to drink himself to death because a woman didn't happen to fall in + love with him, the sooner he finishes the work the better. I have no use + for such a man.” + </p> + <p> + No one has, and I told Billy so. But he kept up his pace toward the goal + of confirmed drunkenness. He ceased his attendance at the theatre where + she danced, only after he learned that the tenor had married her. But that + dance of hers had become a part of his life. Its accompanying tune was now + as necessary to his aural sensibilities as food to his stomach. He + therefore spent his evenings going to theatres and concert-halls where “La + Gitana” was likely to be sung or played. He rarely sought in vain. The + melody was to be found serving some purpose or other at almost every + theatre that winter. It was the “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay” of its time. + </p> + <p> + Some men who drink themselves to death require years and wit to complete + the task. Others save time by catching pneumonia through exposure due to + drink. Billy Folsom was one of the pneumonia class. He “slept off” the + effects of a long lark in an area-way belonging to a total stranger. A + policeman took him to his lodgings by way of the station house, and a day + later his landlord sent for a doctor. Five days after that I went over to + see him. He was in bed, and one of his friends, a man of his own kind, but + of stronger fibre, was keeping him company. Billy told us how it had come + about: + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't have gone on that racket if it hadn't been for one thing. I'd + made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, and I was walking along full of + plans for reformation. Suddenly I heard the sound of a banjo, coming from + an up-stairs window, playing a certain tune I've got somewhat attached to. + I saw the place was a kind of a dive and I went in. I got the banjo-player + to strum the piece over again, and I bought drinks for the crowd. Then I + made him play once more, and there were other rounds of drinks, and the + last I remember is that I was waltzing around the place to that air. Two + days after that the officer found me trespassing on some one's property by + sleeping on it. I dropped my overcoat and hat somewhere, and it seemed + there must have been a draft around, for I caught this cold.” + </p> + <p> + I told Folsom to stop talking, as he was manifestly much weaker than he or + his friend supposed him to be. There ensued a few seconds of silence. A + loud noise broke upon the stillness with a shocking suddenness. It was the + clamour of a band-piano in the street beneath Folsom's window, and of all + the tunes in the world the tune that it shrieked out was “La Gitana.” I + looked at Folsom. + </p> + <p> + He rose in his bed and, clenching his teeth, he propelled through their + interstices the word: + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” + </p> + <p> + He remained sitting for a time, his hair tumbled about, his eyes wide open + but expressive of meditation as the notes continued to be thumped upward + by the turbulent instrument. Presently he said, in a husky voice: + </p> + <p> + “How that thing pursues me! It's like a fiend. It has no let-up. It + follows me even into the next world.” + </p> + <p> + He sat for a moment more, intently listening. Then, with a quick, peevish + sigh, he fell back from weakness. We by his side did not know it at the + instant, but we discovered in a short time what had taken place when his + head had touched the pillow, for he remained so still. + </p> + <p> + And that was the last of Billy Folsom, and up from the murmuring street + below came the notes of the band-piano playing “La Gitana.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII. — TRANSITION + </h2> + <p> + Three of us sat upon an upper deck, sailing to an island. The day was + sunlit, the wind was gentle, and the faintest ripple passed over the sea. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see the tremulous old man sitting over there by the pilot-house + absorbing the sunshine? He reminds me of another old man, one whom I + watched for six years, while he faded and died. He never knew me, but he + walked by my house daily and I walked by his. It was an interesting study. + The conclusion of the process was so inevitable. The time came when he did + not pass my house. Then he took the sunlight in a bow-window on the second + floor of his residence. So closely had I watched his decadence during the + six years that I was able to say to myself one morning, 'There will be + crape on his door before the day is out.' And so there was.” + </p> + <p> + The bon-vivant laughed rather mechanically, but the other, he who makes + verses so dainty that the world does not heed them, smiled softly and + sympathetically to me and said: + </p> + <p> + “You are right. Nothing is so fascinating as the study of a progress—a + development or a decline. The inevitability of the end makes it more + engrossing, for it relieves it of the undue eagerness of curiosity, the + feverishness of uncertainty.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am content rather to live than to contemplate life,” said the + bon-vivant. “It's true I have given myself up to observing anxiously such + an advancement as you describe—a vulgar one you will say. When I was + a very young man I was a very thin man. I determined to amplify my + dimensions. I followed with careful interest my daily increase toward my + present—let us not say obesity, but call it portliness.” + </p> + <p> + “You are inclined to be easy upon yourself,” I commented. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I am—in all matters.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause the verse-maker, throwing away his cigarette, took up again + the theme that I had introduced. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is an engaging occupation to note any progression, even when it + is toward a fatal or a horrible culmination. But when it is to some + beautiful and happy outcome, this advancement is an ineffably charming + spectacle. Such it is when it is the unfolding of a flower or the filling + out of a poetic thought. + </p> + <p> + “But no growth nor transformation in the material world is more entrancing + to observe than that by which a young girl becomes a lovely woman. + </p> + <p> + “This transition seems to be sudden. It is not so. It is rapid, perhaps, + as life goes, but each stage is distinctly marked. All men have not time + to watch the change, however, and so most men awaken to its occurrence + only when it is completed. Such was the case of the young and lowborn + lover of Consuelo in George Sand's romance. Do you remember that + incomparable scene in which he suddenly begins to notice that some feature + of Consuelo is handsome, and, with surprise, calls her attention to its + comeliness? She, equally astonished and delighted, joins him in the visual + examination of her charms, and the two pass from one attraction to the + other, finally completing the discovery that she is a beautiful woman. + </p> + <p> + “The Italian gamin was not the sort of man to have anticipated this + transfiguration and to have watched its stages. + </p> + <p> + “You may argue that his delight at suddenly opening his eyes to the + finished work was greater than would have been his pleasure at + contemplating the alteration in process. Doubtless his was. As to whether + yours would be in such a case, depends upon your temperament. + </p> + <p> + “I have experienced both of these pleasures. Perhaps it may be due to + certain special circumstances that I cherish the memory of the more + lasting delight, even though it was tempered by occasional doubts as to + the end, more tenderly than I do the more sudden and keen awakening. + </p> + <p> + “There is a woman who first came under my observations when she was + thirteen years old. She was then agreeable enough to the eye, more by + reason of the gentleness of her expression than for any noteworthy + attractions of face and figure. Her face, indeed, was plain and + uninteresting; her figure unformed and too slim. Her hair, however, was + charming, being soft and extremely light in colour. She seemed awkward, + too, and timid, through fear of offending or making a bad impression. + </p> + <p> + “For a reason I was particularly interested in her. I knew, young as I + then was, that plain girls, in many cases, develop into handsome women. + </p> + <p> + “At fourteen her hair showed indications of changing its tint. Its + tendency was unmistakably toward brown. This was temporarily unfavourable, + but a brightening of the blue eyes and a newly acquired poise of the head, + with a step toward self-confidence in manner, were compensating + alterations. + </p> + <p> + “At fifteen there came an emancipation of mind and speech from schoolgirl + habits. A defensive assumption of impertinent reserve, varied by fits of + superficial garrulity, gave way to real thoughtfulness, to natural + amiability. Then came, too, an emboldenment of the facial outline, a + constancy to the colour of the cheeks, a certainty of gait, and the first + perceptible roundness of contour beneath the neck. + </p> + <p> + “At sixteen she had adorable hands, and she could wear short sleeves with + impunity. A rational, unforced, and coherent vivacity had now revealed + itself as a characteristic of her mode and conversation. Her ankles had + long before that grown too sightly to be exhibited. Such is so-called + civilization! Her hair seemed to darken before one's eyes. The oval of her + face attracted the attention of more than one of my artist friends. + </p> + <p> + “At seventeen she had learned what styles of attire, what arrangements of + her hair, were best suited to display effectively her comeliness. + </p> + <p> + “This was one of the greatest steps of all. + </p> + <p> + “The simplest draperies, she found, the least complicated headgear, were + most advantageous to her appearance. + </p> + <p> + “A taste for reading the most ideal and artistic of books, as well as her + liking for poetry, the theatre, music, and pictures had implanted that + exalted something in her face which cannot be otherwise acquired. + </p> + <p> + “When she was eighteen people on the street turned to look at her as she + passed. + </p> + <p> + “At nineteen her figure was unsurpassable. Indeed, I think there cannot be + a more beautiful and charming woman in America. She is now twenty. + </p> + <p> + “It was my privilege to view closely the bursting of this bud into bloom.” + </p> + <p> + The fin de siècle versewright became silent and lighted a fresh cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Will you permit me to ask,” said I, “what were the especial facilities + that you had for observing this evolution?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, softly, a tender look coming into his eyes. “She is my + wife. She was thirteen when I married her. Suddenly placed without means + of subsistence, knowing nothing of the world, she came to me. I could see + no other way. We are very happy together.” + </p> + <p> + The pretty narrative of the rhymer put each of us in a delectable mood. + The notes of a harp and violins came from the lower deck in the form of a + seductive Italian melody. White sails dotted the far-reaching sea. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX. — A MAN WHO WAS NO GOOD + </h2> + <h3> + Hearken to the tale of how fortune fell to the widow of Busted Blake. + </h3> + <p> + The outcome has shown that “Busted” was not radically bad. But he was + wretchedly weak of will to reject an opportunity of having another drink + with the boys—or with the girls—or with anybody or with + nobody. + </p> + <p> + In the days of his ascendancy, when he was a young and newly married + architect, he was a buyer of drinks for others. Waiters in cafés vied with + each other in showing readiness to take his orders. He was rated a jolly + good fellow then. No one would have supposed it destined that some fine + night a leering barroom wit should reply to his whispered application for + a small loan by pouring a half-glass of whiskey upon his head and saying: + </p> + <p> + “I hereby christen thee 'Busted.'” + </p> + <p> + The title stuck. Blake, through continued impecuniosity, lost all shame of + it in time; lost, too, his self-respect and his wife. Mrs. Blake, a gentle + and pretty little brunette, had wedded him against the will of her + parents. She had trusted, for his safety, to the allurements of his + future, which everybody said was bright, and to his love for her. + </p> + <p> + The years of tearful nights, the pleadings, the reproaches, the seesaw of + hope and despair, need not here be dwelt upon. They would make an old + story, and some of the details might be shocking to the young person. They + reached a culmination one day when she said to him: + </p> + <p> + “You love drink better than you love me. I have done with you.” + </p> + <p> + She was a woman and took a woman's view of the case. + </p> + <p> + When he came back to their rooms that night, she was not there. Then he + knew how much he loved her and how much he had underestimated his love. + </p> + <p> + She did not go to her parents. There was a very musty proverb that she + knew would meet her on the threshold. “You made your bed, now lie on it.” + Her father was a man of no originality, hence he would have put it in that + way. + </p> + <p> + She got employment in a photograph gallery, where she made herself useful + by being ornamental, sitting behind a desk in the anteroom. + </p> + <p> + I know not what duties devolve upon the woman who occupies that post in + the average photographer's service; whatever they are she performed them. + But within a very short time after she had left the “bed and board” of + Busted Blake, she had to ask for a vacation. She spent it in a hospital + and Busted became a father. She resumed her chair behind the + photographer's desk in due time, found a boarding-house where infants were + not tabooed, and managed to subsist, and to care for her child—a + girl. + </p> + <p> + Somebody lived in that boarding-house who knew Busted Blake, and it was + through inquiries resulting from, this somebody's jocularly calling him + “papa” one night in a saloon that Busted was made aware of his accession + to the paternal relation. + </p> + <p> + When the poor wretch heard the news, he made a prodigious effort to keep + his face composed. But the muscles would not be resisted. He burst out + crying, and he laid his head upon his arm upon a beer-flooded table and + wept copiously, causing a sudden hush to fall upon the crowd of topers and + a group to gather around his table and stare at him,—some mystified, + some grinning, none understanding. + </p> + <p> + The next day he made a herculean effort to pull himself together. He + obtained a position as draughtsman from one who had known him in his + respectable period, and he went tremblingly and sheepishly to call upon + his wife and child. + </p> + <p> + The consequence of his visit was a reunion, which endured for two whole + weeks. At the end of that time she cast him off in utter scorn. + </p> + <p> + How he lived for the next two years can be only known to those who are + familiar through experience with the existence of people who ask other + people on the street for a few cents toward a night's lodging. By those + who knew him he was said to be “no good to himself or any one else.” He + acquired the raggedness, the impudence, the phraseology of the vagabond + class. He would hang on the edge of a party of men drinking together in + front of a bar, on the slim chance of being “counted in” when the question + went round, “What'll you have?” He was perpetually being impelled out of + saloons at foot-race speed by the officials whose function it is, in + barrooms, to substitute an objectionable person's room for his company. + </p> + <p> + One winter Sunday morning he slept late on a bench in a public square. + Awakened by an officer, he arose to go. Hazy in head and stiff at joints, + he slightly staggered. He heard behind him the cooing laugh of a child. He + looked around. It was himself that had awakened the infant's mirth—or + that strange something which precedes the dawn of a sense of humour in + children. The smiling babe was in a child's carriage which a plainly + dressed woman was pushing. He looked at the woman. It was his wife and the + pretty child was his own. + </p> + <p> + He walked rapidly from the place, and on the same day he decided to leave + the city. He had herded with vagrants of the touring class. The methods of + free transportation by means of freight-trains and free living, by means + of beggary and small thievery in country towns, were no secret to him. He + walked to the suburbs, and at nightfall he scrambled up the side of a + coal-car in a train slowly moving westward. + </p> + <p> + What hunger he suffered, what cold he endured, what bread he begged, what + police station cells he passed nights in, what human scum he associated + with, what thirst he quenched, and with what incredibly bad whiskey, are + particulars not for this unobjectionable narrative, for do they not belong + to low life? And who nowadays can tolerate low life in print unless it be + redeemed by a rustic environment and a laboured exposition of clodhopper + English and primitive expletives? Low life outside of a dialect story and + a dreary village? Never! + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Blake and the child lived in a fair degree of comfort upon the + mother's wages, but often the mother shuddered at thought of what might + happen should she ever lose her position at the photographer's. + </p> + <p> + Consumption had its hold on Busted Blake when he arrived in the + mining-town called Get-there City, in Kansas, one evening. Get-there City + had not gotten there beyond a single straggling street of shanties. But it + had acquired a saloon, although liquor-selling had already been forbidden + in Kansas. + </p> + <p> + Busted Blake, with ten cents in his clothes, entered the saloon and asked + in an asthmatic voice for as much whiskey as that sum was good for. + </p> + <p> + While awaiting a response, his eyes turned toward the only other persons + in the saloon,—three burly, bearded miners of the conventional + big-hatted, big-booted, and big-voiced type. Above their heads and against + the wall was this sign, lettered roughly with charcoal, under a crudely + drawn death's head: + </p> + <p> + “Five thousand dollars will be paid by the undersigned to the widow of the + sneaking hound that informs on this saloon. This is no meer bluf. P. + GIBBS.” + </p> + <p> + Blake, after a brief coughing fit, looked up at the man behind the bar,—a + great thick-necked fellow with a mien of authority, and yet with a certain + bluff honesty expressed about his eyes and lips. This man, whose air of + proprietorship convinced Blake that he could be none other than P. Gibbs, + had first looked sneeringly at the ten cents, but had shown some small + sign of pity on hearing the ominous cough of the attenuated vagrant. He + set forth a bottle and glass. + </p> + <p> + “Help yerself,” said P. Gibbs. While Blake was doing so, Mr. Gibbs went + on: + </p> + <p> + “Bad cough o' yourn. Y' mightn't guess it, but that same cough runs in my + fam'ly. It took off a brother, but it skipped me.” + </p> + <p> + Here was a bond of sympathy between the big, law-defying saloon-keeper and + the frail toper from the East. Busted Blake drained his glass and + presently coughed again. P. Gibbs again set forth the bottle, and this + time he drank with Blake. Before long, by dint of repeated fits of + coughing on the part of Blake, the sympathy of P. Gibbs was so worked upon + that he invited the three miners in the saloon to join him and the + stranger. + </p> + <p> + Blake slept in a corner of the saloon that night. He left the next + morning, a curious expression of resolution on his face. + </p> + <p> + During the next three weeks he was now and then alluded to in P. Gibbs's + saloon as the “coughing stranger.” + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the third week, at nine o'clock in the evening, when the + lamps in P. Gibbs's saloon were exerting their smallest degree of dimness + and the bar was doing a good business, the door opened and in staggered + Busted Blake. His staggering on this occasion was manifestly not due to + drink. His face had the hideous concavities of a starved man and the + uncertainty of his gait was the token of a mortal feebleness. His + emaciation was painful to behold. His eyes glowed like huge gems. + </p> + <p> + The crowd of miners looked at him with surprise as he entered. + </p> + <p> + “The coughing stranger!” cried one. + </p> + <p> + “The coffin stranger, you mean,” said another. + </p> + <p> + Busted Blake lurched over to the bar. His eyes met those of P. Gibbs on + the other side, and the latter reached for a whiskey-bottle. + </p> + <p> + Blake fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a piece of soiled paper, + which he laid on the bar under the glance of P. Gibbs. + </p> + <p> + “Keep that!” said Blake, in a husky voice, whose service he compelled with + much effort. “And keep your word, too! That's where you'll find her.” + </p> + <p> + P. Gibbs picked up the paper. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “That woman's name there. It's the name of my widow; the address, too, of + a photograph man who will tell you where she is. Get the money to her + quick, before the governor and the troops comes down on you to close you + up. And don't let her know how it comes about. Pick a man to take it to + her,—let him pay his expenses out of it,—a man you can trust, + and make him tell her I made it somehow, mining or something, so she'll + take it. You know.” + </p> + <p> + P. Gibbs, who had listened with increasing amazement, opened wide his eyes + and drew his revolver. He spoke in a strangely low, repressed voice: + </p> + <p> + “Stranger, do you mean to say—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's it,” shrieked Busted Blake, turning toward the crowd of + intensely interested onlookers. “And I call on all you here to witness and + to hold him to his word. That's no mere bluff he says in his notice there, + and I'm the sneaking hound that informed. My widow is entitled to $5,000. + I did it in Topeka, and for proof, see this newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + P. Gibbs fired a shot from his revolver through the newspaper that Blake + pulled from his shirt. Then the saloon-keeper brought his weapon on a + level with Blake's face. + </p> + <p> + “It's good your boots is on!” said P. Gibbs, ironically. + </p> + <p> + But he did not fire. Blake stood perfectly still, awaiting the shot, and + feebly laughing. + </p> + <p> + So the two remained for some moments, until Blake suddenly sank to the + floor, quite exhausted. He died within a half-hour on the saloon floor, + his head resting in the palm of P. Gibbs, who knelt by his side and tried + to revive him. + </p> + <p> + At the next dawn, a man whom they called Big Andy started East, and the + piece of paper that Blake handed to P. Gibbs was not all that he took with + him. The United States marshal arrived and duly closed Gibbs's saloon, + which reopened very shortly afterward, minus the $5,000 offer. + </p> + <p> + And Big Andy found the widow of Busted Blake, to whom he told a bit of + fiction in accounting for the legacy conveyed by him to her that would + have imposed upon the most incredulous legatee. When she had recovered + from the surprise of finding herself and her child provided with the means + of surviving the possible loss of her situation, she forgave the late + Busted, and there was a flow of tears unusual to a boarding-house parlour + and unnerving to Big Andy. + </p> + <p> + Presently she asked Andy whether he knew what her husband's last words had + been. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” said Andy. “I heard'm plain and clear. Pete Gibbs,—the other + executor of the will, you know,—Pete says, 'It's all right, pardner, + me and Andy'll see to it,' and then your husband says, 'Thank Gawd I've + been some good to her and the child at last.'” + </p> + <p> + Which account was entirely correct. When Big Andy had returned to + Get-there City, and related how he had performed his mission, he added: + </p> + <p> + “I'd been such a lovely liar all through, it's a shame I had to go an' + spoil the story by puttin' in some truth at the finish.” + </p> + <p> + They put up a wooden grave-mark where Blake was buried, and after his name + they cut in the wood this testimonial: + </p> + <p> + “A tenderfoot that was some good to his folks at last.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX. — MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO + </h2> + <p> + Near the uneven road among the hills a small field of stony ground lay + between woods and cultivated land. Nothing grew upon it and no house could + be seen from it. The sun beat upon it and crows flew over it to and from + the woods. + </p> + <p> + Along the road trudged a thin old negro with stooping back and gray wool. + His knees were bent and his cumbrously shod feet pointed far outward from + his line of progress. He wore an aged frock coat and a battered stiff hat, + although the month was June. His small face, beginning with a smoothly + curved forehead and ending with a cleanly cut chin, was mild and + conciliating, shiny, and of the colour of light chocolate. He carried a + tin bucket full of cherries. Pop Thornberry was returning to the town. + </p> + <p> + Pop, whose proper name was Moses, and who was a deacon in the African + Methodist Church, made his living this way and that way. He did odd jobs + for people, and he fished and hunted when fishing and hunting were in + season. + </p> + <p> + On this June day he had risen early and walked three miles to pick + cherries “on shares.” He had picked ten quarts and left four of them with + the farmer whose trees had produced them. At six cents a quart he would + profit thirty-six cents by his walk of six miles and his work of a + half-day. + </p> + <p> + The sun was scorching and Pop was tired. He decided to rest in the barren + field, at its very edge in shade of the woods. He climbed the zigzag fence + with some labour and at the expense of a few of his cherries. He sat down + upon a little knob of earth, took off his hat, drew a red handkerchief + from the inside thereof, and slowly wiped his perspiring brow. + </p> + <p> + He looked up at the sky, which was so brightly blue that it made his eyes + blink. He sought optical relief in the dark green of the woods. Then, in + steadying his pail of cherries between his legs, he turned his glance to + the ground in front of him. + </p> + <p> + His attention was caught by a lump of earth that sparkled at points In the + sun's rays, a mere clod composed of clay and mica, lying In the dry bed of + a bygone streamlet. Because it glittered he picked it up and examined it. + After a time he bethought him that he was yet two and a half miles from + town and very hungry. He arose, somewhat stiff, and put the shining clod + in his coat-tail pocket. On his way back to the road he noticed other + little earth lumps that shone. He resumed his walk townward, his knees + shaking regularly at every step, as was their wont. + </p> + <p> + At three o'clock in the afternoon he had reached home, sold his cherries, + and dined on dried beef and bread in his little unpainted wooden house on + the edge of the creek at the back of the town. + </p> + <p> + He owned his house and a small lot upon which it stood. Near it was a + flour-mill, whose owner held a mortgage upon Pop's house and lot. The old + negro had been compelled to borrow $200 to pay bills incurred during the + illness and subsequent funeral of the late Mrs. Thornberry, and thus to + avoid a sheriff's sale. Hence came the mortgage. It would expire on the + 10th of September. Pop was almost ready to meet that date. He already had + $192 hidden in his cellar, unknown to any one. + </p> + <p> + He had heard rumours of the mill-owner's desire to build an addition to + his mill. To do this would necessitate the acquisition of contiguous + property. But Pop had not suspected any ulterior motive when the miller + had offered to lend him the money. + </p> + <p> + “I kin soon lay by 'nuff t' pay off d' mohgage, w'en I ain't got no one + but m'se'f t' puvvide foh no moah,” he had said, after the loan had been + made. + </p> + <p> + And, having dined on this June day, he took twenty cents from the amount + received for cherries and placed it in a cigar-box to be added to the + $192. He kept that sixteen cents with which to purchase provisions for + to-morrow, and then he walked down the quiet street to the railway + station. He often made a dime by carrying some one's satchel from the + station to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + The railroad division superintendent, a well-fed and easy-going man, came + down from his office on the second floor of the station building and saw + Pop sitting on a baggage-truck. The old negro, forgetful of the clod in + his coat-tail pocket, had felt it when he sat down. He had taken it out of + his pocket and was now casually looking at it as he held it in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Pop!” said the division superintendent, upon whose hand time was + hanging heavily. “What have you there?” + </p> + <p> + “Doan' know, Mistah Monroe. Doan' know, sah. Looks like jes' a chunk o' + mud.” + </p> + <p> + He held out the clod to Mr. Monroe. + </p> + <p> + The spectacle of the division superintendent talking to the old negro + attracted a group of lazy fellows,—the driver of an express wagon, + the man who hauls the mail to the post-office, a boy who sold fruit to + passengers on the train, two porters, with tin signs upon their hats, who + solicited patronage from the hotels. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Pop,” said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, “this lump + looks as though it contained gold.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” put in the expressman, “that's how gold comes in a mine. I've often + handled it. That's the stuff, sure.” + </p> + <p> + The fruit-selling boy and the mail-man grinned. Pop Thornberry opened wide + his mouth and eyes and softly repeated the word: + </p> + <p> + “Goal!” + </p> + <p> + “I'd be careful of it,” advised Mr. Monroe, handing the clod back to the + negro. + </p> + <p> + Pop took it with a trembling hand and looked at it. Presently he asked: + </p> + <p> + “W'at'll you give me foh dat air goal, Mistah Monroe.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a piece like that would be no use to me. It has to be washed and it + wouldn't be worth while putting just one piece through the whole process + of cleaning. Now. If you have a lot of it, we might go into partnership in + the gold business.” + </p> + <p> + Before the old man could answer to this pleasantry a whistle was heard up + the track, and Pop was forgotten in the excitement attending the arrival + of the train. + </p> + <p> + Dislodged from the baggage-truck, the old man looked around for Mr. + Monroe, but the superintendent had disappeared. Pop did not seek to carry + any satchels that day. His mind was full of other matters. He went behind + the station and sat down beside the river. + </p> + <p> + “Goal!” That meant proper tombstones for the graves of his wife and + children, a new pulpit for the African Methodist Church, equal to that of + the African Baptist Church, future ease for his somewhat weary legs and + arms and back. + </p> + <p> + The next afternoon the division superintendent found himself awaited at + his office door by Pop Thornberry, who was very dusty and who carried a + basket heavy with clods of clay and mica. He had been out to the arid + field that morning. + </p> + <p> + “H-sh!” whispered Pop. “Doan' say a word, Mistah Monroe! Hyah's a lot o' + dem air goal lumps, and I know weah dey's bushels moah,—plenty 'nuff + to go into pahtnehship on.” + </p> + <p> + The superintendent, looked bewildered, then amused, then ashamed. + Embarrassed for a reply, he finally said: + </p> + <p> + “I haven't time to talk to you now, Pop. Besides, I've made up my mind not + to go into the gold business. You see, I'm rich enough already. Good day.” + </p> + <p> + Thereafter Pop lay in wait for Mr. Monroe daily, but the superintendent + always avoided him. Pop neglected to earn his living and spent his time + going about town with his basket of clods in search of the superintendent. + Finally being openly ignored by Mr. Monroe when the two met face to face, + Pop became angry and took his secret to a jeweller on Main Street. The + jeweller laughed and told Pop that the gold in the basket must be worth at + least a thousand dollars, but he was not in a position to buy crude gold. + Then the jeweller made known to many that Pop Thornberry was crazy over + some lumps of mud and mica that he mistook for gold. + </p> + <p> + After that, people would stop Pop on the street and say: + </p> + <p> + “Let's see a piece of the gold in your basket.” + </p> + <p> + Pop, astonished that his secret was out, but somewhat proud at being + thought the possessor of a treasure, would hesitate and then comply. The + small boys soon recognized in Pop's delusion a new means of fun. Observing + the solicitude with which he watched his clod while out of his own hands, + they would innocently ask for a glimpse into his basket. This granted, + they would grasp a piece of his treasure and run away, greatly annoying + the old man, who was in a state of keen distress until he recovered the + abstracted clod. These affairs between Pop and the boys were of hourly + recurrence. They diverted barroom loungers and passers-by. + </p> + <p> + Pop called on one local capitalist after another, seeking one who would + buy his gold or aid into preparing it for the market. All laughed at his + delusion, deeming it harmless, and all gave him good reason for not + accepting his offer of business partnership. So he went from the bank + president to the baker, from the member of congress for whom he had voted + to the barber, from the hotel proprietor to the bartender. The negroes of + the town, feeling that their race was humiliated in Pop, began to hold + aloof from him. No serious-minded person who learned of his delusion gave + it a second thought. + </p> + <p> + “Say Pop, where do you get this gold, anyhow?” asked a tobacco-chewing + gamin at the railroad station one day. + </p> + <p> + “Dat's my business,” replied Thornberry, with some dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said his questioner, “I know. Tobe McStenger followed you out the + other day and saw where you got it. He'd a brung some in hisself, but it + wasn't on his property.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Pop, you better look out,” put in a telegraph operator, “or you'll + be taken up for trespassing. 'Tisn't your land, you know, where you find + your gold.” + </p> + <p> + There was no truth in the assertion of the gamin. No one had taken the + trouble to follow Pop in his semiweekly excursions to the barren field. + But the old man knew that the field was not his. A ludicrous expression of + overwhelming fright came over his face. + </p> + <p> + Three days afterward, the farmer who owned the worthless field was + astonished when Pop offered to buy it. + </p> + <p> + “But what on earth do you want that land fer?” asked the farmer, sitting + on his barnyard fence. + </p> + <p> + Pop made a guilty attempt to appear guileless, and told the farmer that he + wished to build a shanty and raise potatoes. He was tired of living in + town and sought the quietude of the hills. + </p> + <p> + “Bein' as dat ere fiel' ain't good foh much, I thought you might be + willin' to paht with it,” explained Pop. + </p> + <p> + The farmer eventually agreed to build a shanty on the field and sell it to + Pop for $180. Pop desired immediate occupancy. There was a legal hitch, + owing to the badness of the land and the questionable condition of Pop's + mind. But the transfer of the property was finally recorded. + </p> + <p> + Pop no longer had to fear arrest for trespass. His gold field was now + legally his. But he was still kept uneasy by his inability to make his + gold marketable. His uneasiness increased as September approached. He had + applied to the purchase of the field the sum saved to cancel the mortgage + upon his house at the rear end of the town. + </p> + <p> + The three days before the foreclosure of the mortgage were days of + exquisite anguish to Pop. When the foreclosure came and he and his goods + were turned out on the banks of the creek to make room for the + mill-owner's improvements, his mental turmoil ended. He took the crisis + calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Jes' wait,” he said to a neighbour who had stopped at sight of the + moving-out. “Wait till I get dat ere goal on de mahket. I'll bull' a mill + dat'll drive dis yer mill out o' d' business. Den I'll done buy back dis + yer ol' home.” + </p> + <p> + But the next day, when the unexpected happened,—when builders began + to tear down his house,—the enormity of his deed dawned upon him. + After a day of moaning and staring, as he sat amidst his household goods + on the bank of the creek, he became animated by a deep rage against the + mill-owner. Now more than ever had he a special purpose for enriching + himself by means of his treasure across the hill. + </p> + <p> + The coming of two circuses in succession had taken the interest of the + boys away from Pop during August and part of September. Now they turned + again to him for amusement. First they besieged the abandoned stable to + which he had conveyed his goods, and in which he slept,—for he had + not found will to betake himself from the town he had so long inhabited, + and his shanty in the field remained unoccupied. His purchase of the land + had betrayed to general knowledge the location of his treasure, of which + he continued to bring in new specimens. + </p> + <p> + One October day he had just come from vainly attempting to induce the + postmaster to join him in the enterprise of exploiting his gold-field. In + front of the post-office, he was met by some boys coming noisily from + school. They surrounded him and demanded to see the gold in his basket. As + the town policeman was sauntering up the street, Pop felt safe in + refusing. The boys, also observing the officer of the law, contented + themselves with retaliating in words only, + </p> + <p> + “Say, Pop,” cried one of them, “you'd better keep an eye on your + gold-field. Nick Hennessey knows where it is, and he's gittin' up a + diggin' party to take a wagon out some night and bring away all your + gold.” + </p> + <p> + The boys, laughing at this quickly invented announcement, ran off after a + hand-organ. The old man stood perfectly still, or as nearly so as the + feebleness of his legs would permit. + </p> + <p> + That evening Pop was missing from the town. And when Abraham Wesley, who + had often lent his shotgun to the old man, went to look for that weapon, + intending to shoot glass balls in the fairgrounds across the river, the + fowling-piece too was missing. + </p> + <p> + Pop had gone out to protect his possession. Three nights passed and three + days. The few country folk and others who travelled that way during this + time saw the old man walking about in his field or sitting in front of his + shanty, his shotgun on his shoulders, his eyes fixed suspiciously on all + who might become intruders. Night and day he patrolled his little domain. + </p> + <p> + At dusk of the third day a lively party was returning to the town in a + wagon from a search for nuts. The full moon was rising and the merrymakers + were singing. One of the girls was thirsty. When she saw the shanty in the + rugged field, she asked a young man to get her a glass of water at the + hut. The wagon stopped and the youth climbed astride the rail fence. + Suddenly an unnaturally shrill and excited voice was heard: + </p> + <p> + “Hyah, you, doan' come no farder! Dese yer's my premises!” + </p> + <p> + From behind the empty shanty appeared the thin old negro, bareheaded, his + shotgun at his shoulder, a striking figure against the rising moon. + </p> + <p> + The young man descended from the fence into the field. There came a flash + and a crack from Pop Thornberry's gun. The youth felt the sting of a piece + of birdshot in his leg. Howling and limping, he turned quickly over the + fence into the wagon, which made a hasty flight. + </p> + <p> + The next morning some idlers went out from the town to the scene of the + adventure. They found the old man lying hatless in the middle of the + field, face downwards, upon the shotgun. He had died of sheer exhaustion, + on guard—and on his own land, as befit an honest citizen who had + never intruded upon the peace of other men. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI. — AT THE STAGE DOOR + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Courtesy of <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>.Copyright, 1892, by J. + B. Lippincott Company.] + </p> + <p> + First let me explain how I came to be sitting in so unsavoury a place as + Gorson's “fifteen cent oyster and chop house” that night. Most newspaper + men—the rank and file—receive remuneration by the week. Those + not given over to domesticity, those who enjoy that alluring regularity + identical with liberty, fare sumptuously, as a rule, on “pay-day.” + Thereafter the quantity and quality of the good things of life that they + enjoy diminish daily until the next pay-day. + </p> + <p> + Pay-day with us was Friday. This was Thursday night. I having gone to + unusual lengths of good cheer in the early part of that week, had now + fallen low, and was duly thankful for what I could get—even at + Gorson's. + </p> + <p> + As my glance wandered over my table, over the beer-bottles and the + oysters, beyond the crowd of ravenous and vulgar eaters and hurrying + waiters, to the street door, some one opened that door from the outside + and entered. An odd looking personage this some one. + </p> + <p> + A person very tall and conspicuously thin. These peculiarities were + accentuated by the dilapidated frock coat that reached to his knees, and + thus concealed the greater portion of his gray summer trousers, which + “bagged” exceedingly and were picturesquely frayed at the bottom edges, as + I could see when he came nearer to me. He wore a faded straw hat, which + looked forlorn, as the month was January. His face, despite its angularity + of outline and its wanness, had that expression of complacency which often + relieves from pathos the countenances of harmlessly demented people. His + hair was gray, but his somewhat formidable looking moustache was still + dark. He carried an unadorned walking-stick and under his left arm was + what a journalistic eye immediately recognized as manuscript. From the + man's aspect of extreme poverty, I deduced that his manuscripts were never + accepted. + </p> + <p> + As he passed the cashier's desk, he stopped, lowered his body, not by + stooping in the usual way, but by bending his knees, and with a quick + sweep of his eyes by way of informing himself whether or not he was + observed, he picked up a cigar stump that some one had dropped there. + </p> + <p> + Then he walked with a rather shambling but self-important gait to the + table next mine, carefully placed his manuscript upon a chair, and sat + down upon it. He was soon lost in a prolonged contemplation of the limited + bill of fare posted on the wall, a study which resulted in his ordering, + through a hustling, pugnacious-looking waiter, a bowl of oatmeal. + </p> + <p> + A bowl of oatmeal is the least expensive item on the bill of fare at + Gorson's. When I hear a man ordering oatmeal in a cheap eating-house, my + heart aches for him. I had just the money and the intention to procure + another bottle of beer and another box of cigarettes. The sum required to + obtain these necessaries of life is exactly the price of a bowl of oatmeal + and a steak at Gorson's. So I hastily arose to go, and on my way out I had + a brief conversation with the bellicose-appearing waiter, which resulted + in my unknown friend's being overwhelmed with amazement later when the + waiter brought him a warm steak with his oatmeal and said that some one + else had already paid his bill. I did not wait to witness this result, for + the man looked one of the sort to put forth a show of indignation at being + made an object of charity. + </p> + <p> + An hour later I saw him walking with an air of consequence up Broadway, + smoking what was probably the bit of cigar he had picked up in the + restaurant. He still carried his manuscript, which was wrapped in a soiled + blue paper. As I was hurrying up-town on an assignment for the newspaper, + I could not observe his movements further than to see that when he reached + Fourteenth Street he made for one of the benches in Union Square. + </p> + <p> + It was by the size, shape, and blue cover that I recognized that + manuscript two days later upon the desk of the editor of the Sunday + supplementary pages of the paper, as I was submitting to that personage a + “special” I had written upon the fertile theme, “Producing a Burlesque.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask what that stuff is wrapped in blue?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. A crank in the last stages of alcoholism and mental depression + brought it in yesterday. It's an idiotic jumble about Beautiful Women of + History, part in prose and part in doggerel.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you'll reject it?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. I'll ease his mind by telling him the subject lacks + contemporaneousness. Have a cigarette? By the way, have you any special + interest in the rubbish?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I only think I've seen it before somewhere. What's the writer's name + and address?” + </p> + <p> + “It's to be called for. He didn't leave any address. From that fact and + his appearance, I infer that he doesn't have any permanent abode. Here's + his name,—Ernest Ruddle. Not half as much individuality in the name + as in the man. I remember him because he had a straw hat on.” + </p> + <p> + The burlesque production which had served as material for my Sunday + article saw the light for the first time on the following Monday night. + There being no other theatrical novelty in New York that night, the town—represented + by the critics and the sporting and self-styled Bohemian elements—was + there. The performance was to have a popular comedian as the central + figure, and was to serve, also, to reintroduce a once favourite + comic-opera prima donna, who had been abroad for some years. This stage + queen had once beheld the town at her feet. She had abdicated her throne + in the height of her glory, having made the greatest success of her career + on a certain Monday night, and having disappeared from New York on + Tuesday, shortly afterward materializing in Paris. + </p> + <p> + There was abundant curiosity awaiting the appearance of Louise Moran, as + the playbills called her. It was whispered, to be sure, by some who had + seen her in burlesque in London, after her flight from America, that she + had grown a bit passée; but this was refuted by the interviewers who had + met her on her return and had duly chronicled that she looked “as rosy and + youthful as ever.” Brokers, gilded youth, all that curious lot of + masculinity classified under the general head of “men about town,” crowded + into the theatre that night, and when, after being heralded at length by + the chorus, the returned prima donna appeared, in shining drab tights, she + had a long and noisy reception. + </p> + <p> + My friendly acquaintance with the leading comedian and the stage manager + had served to obtain for me an unusual privilege,—that of witnessing + the first night's performance from the wings. As I looked out across the + stage and the footlights, and saw the sea of faces in the yellowish haze, + a familiar visage held my eye. It was in the front row of the top gallery, + and was projected far over the railing, putting its owner in some risk of + decapitation. An intent look on the pale countenance at once distinguished + it from the terrace of uninteresting, monotonous faces that rose back of + it. The face was that of my man of the restaurant and of the blue-covered + manuscript. + </p> + <p> + I stood, somewhat in the way of the light man, where my eye could command + most of the stage, and a brief section of the auditorium, from parquet to + roof. The star of the evening, having rattled off, with much sang-froid + and a London intonation, a few lines of thinly humourous dialogue, came + toward the footlights to sing. While the conductor of the orchestra poised + his baton and cast an apprehensive look at her, she began: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I'm one of the swells + Whose accent tells + That we've done the Contenong.” + </pre> + <p> + When she had sung only to this point, people in the audience were + exchanging significant smiles. There was no doubt of it; Louise Moran's + voice had lost its beauty. The years and joys of life abroad had done + their work. We now knew why she had given up comic opera and had gone into + burlesque. The house was so taken by surprise that at the end of her + second stanza, where applause should have come, none came. There was no + occasion for her to draw upon her supply of “encore verses.” + </p> + <p> + Unprepared for the chilling silence that followed her song, she bestowed + upon the audience a look of mingled astonishment, pain, and resentment. + But she recovered self-possession promptly and delivered the few spoken + lines preceding her exit gaily enough. Her face clouded as soon as she was + off the stage. She abused her maid in her dressing-room and sent the + comedian's “dresser” out for some troches. The state of her mind was not + improved by the sound of a hail-storm-like sound that came from the + direction of the stage shortly after,—the applause at the leading + comedian's entrance. + </p> + <p> + As the newspapers said the next day, the only honours of that performance + were with the comedian. The star of Louise Moran had set. Not only was her + singing-voice a ruin, but the actress had grown coarse in visage. The once + willowy outlines of her figure had rounded vulgarly. On the face, audacity + had taken place of piquancy. Even the dark gray eyes, which somehow seemed + black across the footlights, had lost some lustre. + </p> + <p> + Why had the once lovely creature come back from Europe to disturb the + memories of her other radiant self, and to turn those dainty photographs + of her earlier person into lies? + </p> + <p> + Every man in the house was thinking this question at the end of the first + act. + </p> + <p> + She had another solo to sing in the second act. It was while she was + attempting this that my glance strayed to the man in the gallery. His face + this time surprised me. + </p> + <p> + It wore a look of ineffable sympathy and sorrow. Surely tears were falling + from the sad eyes. + </p> + <p> + This pity touched me. It was so solitary. The feeling of the rest of the + audience was plainly one of resentful derision at being disappointed. + </p> + <p> + After the performance I waited for the comedian. He was called before the + curtain and a speech was extorted from him. There were but a few faint + cries for the actress, to which she did not respond. She had summoned the + manager to her dressing-room. While she hastily assumed her wraps for the + street, she was excitedly complaining of the musical director “for not + knowing his business,” the comedian for “interfering” in her scenes, the + composer for writing the music too high, and the librettist for supplying + such “beastly rubbish” in the way of dialogue. + </p> + <p> + “Very well; I'll call a rehearsal to-morrow at ten,” the conciliatory + manager replied. “You talk to Myers” (the musical director) “yourself + about it. And you can introduce those two songs you speak of. Myers will + fix the other music to suit your voice.” + </p> + <p> + “And you start Elliott to write over the libretto at once,” she commanded, + “and see that that song and dance clown” (the comedian) “never comes on + the stage when I'm on, if it can be helped, or I won't go on at all. + That's settled!” + </p> + <p> + The comedian and I left the stage door together. The actress's cab was + waiting at the opposite side of the dark alley-like street upon which the + stage door opened. This street or court, stretching its gloomy way from a + main street, is a place of tall warehouses, rear walls, and bad paving. + The electric light at its point of junction with the main street does not + penetrate half-way to the stage entrance, and the blackness thereabout is + diluted with the rays of the lonely, indifferent gas-lamp that projects + above the old wooden door. Farther on, an old-fashioned street-lamp marks + the place where the alley turns to wind about until it eventually reaches + another main street. + </p> + <p> + This dark region, the feeble lamp above the stage door, the shadows + opposite, have a peculiar charm, especially at night. One would not think + that within that door is a short corridor leading to the mystic realm + which the people “in front" idealize into a wonderful inaccessible + country, the playworld. Back here, especially on a rainy night and before + the playworld's inhabitants begin to sally forth to partake of terrestrial + beer and sandwiches, one seems millions of miles away from the crowds of + men and women in the theatre and from the illumined street in front. + </p> + <p> + The ordinary world, when passing this strange place, peers in curiously + from the main street. Sometimes folks wait at the corner of the street to + see the stage people come out. If the piece is a burlesque or a comic + opera, much life moves in the darkness back here. Light comes from the + up-stairs windows of the theatre, the dressing rooms of the subordinate + players being up there. Snatches of song from feminine throats, mere + trills sometimes, isolated fragments of melody, break into the silence. + These are always numerous during the half-hour after the performance and + before the actors have left the theatre. Chorus girls in ulsters emerge in + troops, usually by twos, from the door beneath the light, and it is + constantly opening and shutting. In the gloom opposite the door hover a + few bold youths, suddenly become timid, smoking cigarettes and trying to + look like men of the world. As the comedian and I came forth, one of these + young men struck a match to light a cigarette. The momentary flash + attracted my eye, and I saw in the farthest shadow, with his gaze upon the + stage door, my man of the restaurant, and the manuscript, and the gallery. + If possible, he looked more haggard than before, and, as it was cold, he + shivered perceptibly. + </p> + <p> + “Whom can he be waiting for, I wonder?” I said, aloud. + </p> + <p> + The comedian, thinking that I alluded to the cabman, half-asleep upon his + seat, replied, as he turned up the collar of his overcoat: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's waiting for Miss Moran. She didn't always go home from the + theatre in a cab. She acquired the habit abroad, I suppose. How she's + changed. I knew her in other days.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? I didn't know that. Tell me about her.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a common story. She's the result of a mercenary mother's schemes. + She's not as old as people think, you know. Her career has been eventful, + which makes it seem long. But I was in the cast, playing a small part in + the first play she ever appeared in, and that was only twelve years ago. + She was about twenty-one then. She waited on customers in her mother's + little stationery store, until one day she eloped with a poor young fellow + whom she loved, in order to escape a rich old man whom her mother had + selected for a son-in-law. She could have endured poverty well enough, if + the mother hadn't done the 'I—forgive—and—Heaven—bless—you—my—children' + act, after which she succeeded in making the girl quarrel with her husband + continually. She was a schemer, that mother. A theatrical manager, whom + she knew, was introduced to the girl, who was more beautiful then than + ever afterward. The mother managed to have the girl's husband discharged + from the bank where he was employed on the same day that the manager made + the girl an offer to go on the stage. The boy naturally wanted to keep his + wife with him, but the mother told him he was a fool. + </p> + <p> + “'I'll travel with her,' she said, 'and you stay here and get another + situation.' The wife, intoxicated at the prospects of stage triumphs, + urged, and the boy gave in. + </p> + <p> + “A year or so after that, the girl had drifted completely out of the + husband's life, as they say in society plays, the mother managed to bring + about the estrangement so promptly. + </p> + <p> + “The husband stayed at home and got work in a railroad office or + somewhere, so as to earn money with which to drink himself to death—I + say, let's go in here and eat. If we go to the club, I'll be bored to + death with congratulations.” + </p> + <p> + We turned into a lighted vestibule and mounted the stairs to a modest + little café over a Broadway saloon. There, over the cigars and Pilsner + presently the comedian continued the story: + </p> + <p> + “When the husband learned that to his charming mother-in-law's + machinations he owed the loss of his position and his wife, he bided his + time, like a sensible fellow, and one day he called upon the old lady at + her flat. Without a word, he proceeded to pull out much of her hair and + otherwise to disfigure her permanently, which, as she was a vain woman, + made her miserable the rest of her days. Then he disappeared, and has not + been heard of since. It seems strange the thing never got into the + newspapers. By the way, you won't print this story, my boy, until she or I + leave the profession.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Are you the only man who knows it?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it was general gossip in the profession at that time.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you get it so straight?” + </p> + <p> + “She told me. I knew her well in those days. Oh, use the story if you + like, only don't credit it to me. She's very mad because I made a hit + to-night and she didn't.” + </p> + <p> + “But what was the name of her husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil!—his name was—what was it, anyhow? By Jove, I + can't think of it! It'll come back to me, though, and I'll let you know + later. He had literary aspirations, by the way. She used to laugh at the + poetry he had written about her. Poor boy!” + </p> + <p> + The next night, radical changes having been effected in the burlesque, the + prima donna made a more creditable showing. I happened to be at the stage + door again when she came out with her maid after the performance, as I had + under my guidance one of the newspaper's artists, who had been making some + sketches of life behind the scenes. She was in a gayer mood than that in + which she had been on the previous night. + </p> + <p> + As she was entering the cab, I heard a muffled exclamation, which came + from the shadow opposite the stage door. Dimly in that shadow could be + seen a form with arms outstretched toward the woman, as in an involuntary + gesture. The cab rolled away. The form emerged from the darkness and + wearily strode by. It was that of my manuscript man. He had the same straw + hat, stick, and frock coat. + </p> + <p> + “That queer old chap must be really in love with her,” I thought, smiling. + Such things often happen. I knew a gallery god—but that will keep. + Evidently here was an amusing case, not without its aspect of pathos. + </p> + <p> + Being in that vicinity on the following night, I strolled up to the stage + door, merely to see whether the straw hat would be there again. There it + was, patiently waiting, scourged by the most ferocious of January winds. + </p> + <p> + Doubtless the man came here every night to catch a glimpse of his + divinity. He was quite unobtrusive, and I was probably the only one who + noticed his constant attendance. I learned at the newspaper office that he + had called for the rejected manuscript bearing his name,—Ernest + Ruddle. Then for a time I neither saw nor thought of him. + </p> + <p> + One night, in the last of January,—the coldest of that savage + winter,—I happened again to be in the corridor leading to the stage + door, having come from within the theatre in advance of my friend the + comedian, with whom I was to have supper at the Actors' Athletic Club. The + actress's cab was waiting. The dark little portion of the world back there + was deserted. + </p> + <p> + Along the corridor, through which the sound of chorus girls' laughter + came, strolled the comedian, his cigar already lighted and behind it his + cheerful, hearty, smooth-shaven visage appearing ruddy from the recent + washing off of “make-up.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he began, thrusting his hand into his overcoat pockets. “By the + way, while I think of it, I just passed Miss Moran coming from the + dressing-room, and suddenly that name came back to me, the name of her + husband. It was a peculiar name,—Ernest Ruddle.” + </p> + <p> + Ernest Ruddle! the name on the manuscript! The man of the restaurant and + the gallery, the tears, the waiting at the stage door, were explained now. + Ere we reached the stage door, the actress herself appeared in the + corridor, on the arm of her maid. She was laughing, rather coarsely. We + stepped aside to let her pass out into the night. + </p> + <p> + “So the manager said he'd give me $50 more on the road,” she was saying, + “and I said he would have to make it $75 more—gracious! what's + this?” + </p> + <p> + She had stumbled over something just outside the threshold of the stage + door. Her companion stooped, while the actress jumped aside and looked + down at the large black object with both fright and curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “It's a man,” said the maid; “drunk, or asleep, or dead. He looks frozen. + He's a tramp, I guess; hurry away! We'll tell the policeman on the + corner.” + </p> + <p> + The actress passed on, with a final look of half-aversion, half-pity, at + the prostrate body. The comedian and I were both by that body within two + seconds. + </p> + <p> + “Frozen or starved, sure!” said the comedian. “Poor beggar! Look at his + straw hat. Observe his death-clutch on the cane.” + </p> + <p> + From down the alley came two sounds: one was a policeman's approaching + footsteps; the other, of a woman's laughter. What, to be sure, was the + dead or drunken body of an unknown vagabond to her? + </p> + <p> + And it seems strange that I, who never exchanged speech with either the + woman or the man, was the only one in the world who might recognize in the + momentary contact of the living with the dead, a dramatic situation. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII. — “POOR YORICK” + </h2> + <p> + [Footnote: Courtesy of <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>. Copyright, 1892, by + J.B. Lippincott Company.] + </p> + <p> + The name by which he was indicated on the playbills was Overfield. His + real name was buried in the far past. By several members of the company to + which he belonged he was often called “Poor Yorick.” + </p> + <p> + I asked the leading juvenile of the company—young Bridges, who was + supposed to attract women to the theatre, and for whose glorification “The + Lady of Lyons” was sometimes revived at matinées—how the old man had + acquired the nickname. + </p> + <p> + “I gave it to him myself last season,” replied Bridges, loftily. “Can't + you guess why? You remember the graveyard scene in 'Hamlet.' The skull of + Yorick, you know, had lain in the earth three and twenty years. Yorick had + been dead that long. Well, the old man had been dead for about the same + length of time,—professionally dead, I mean. See?” + </p> + <p> + It was true that, so far as being known by the world went, the old man was + as good, or as bad, as dead. He no longer played other than quite + unimportant parts. + </p> + <p> + It was said by some one that he was the poorest actor and the noblest man + in the country; a statement commended by Jennison, an Englishman who + usually played villains, to this, that his were the worst art and best + heart in the profession. + </p> + <p> + Poor Yorick was a thin man, with a smooth, gentle face, lamblike blue + eyes, and curling gray locks that receded gracefully from his forehead. He + had just an individualizing amount of the pomposity characteristic of many + old-time actors. He was not known to have any living kin. He permitted + himself one weakness, a liking for whiskey, an indulgence which was never + noticed to have brought appreciable harm upon him. + </p> + <p> + Once I asked him when he had made his début. He answered, “When Joe + Jefferson was still young and before Billie Crane was heard of.” + </p> + <p> + “In what rôle?” + </p> + <p> + “As four soldiers,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “How could that be?” + </p> + <p> + He explained that he had first appeared as a super in a military drama, + marching as a soldier. The procession, in order to create an illusion of + length, had passed across the stage and back, the return being made behind + the scenes four times continuously in the same direction. + </p> + <p> + The old man took uncomplainingly to the name applied to him by Bridges. He + must have known what it implied, for surely he could not have mistaken + himself for “a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.” His + non-resentment was but an evidence of his good nature, for he was aware + that it was not a very general custom of actors to give each other + nicknames, and that his case was an exception. + </p> + <p> + When he was playing the insignificant part of the old family servant of a + New York banker, in the most successful comedy of that season, he came to + know Bridges better than ever before. Poor Yorick had little more to do in + the play than to come on and turn up some light, arrange some papers on a + desk, go off, and afterward return and lower the light. Bridges was doing + the rôle of the bank clerk in love with the banker's daughter. Yorick and + Bridges, through some set of circumstances or other, were sharers of the + same dressing-room. + </p> + <p> + Upon a certain Wednesday, and after a matinée, the two were in their + dressing-room, hastily washing up their faces and putting on their street + clothes. Said the old man: + </p> + <p> + “Did you notice the pretty little girl in the upper box? She reminds me of—” + here his voice fell and took on suddenly a tone of sadness—“of some + one I knew once, long ago.” + </p> + <p> + Bridges, drying his face with a towel before the big mirror, did not + observe the old man's change of voice, nor did he heed the last part of + the sentence. + </p> + <p> + “Notice her?” he answered, with a touch of triumphant vanity in his manner + of speech. “I should say I did. She was there on my account. I'm going to + make a date with her for supper after the performance to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Old Overfield, sitting on a trunk, stared at Bridges in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know her?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied the leading juvenile. “That is, I have never met her, but + she's been writing me mash notes lately, asking for a meeting. In the last + one she said she could get away from her house this evening, as her + father's out of town and her mother is going over to Philadelphia this + afternoon. So she invited me to have supper with her to-night, and was + good enough to say she'd occupy that box this afternoon, so I could see + what she was like. Didn't you observe her embarrassment when I came on the + stage? I paid no attention to her first letter. But, having seen her, you + bet I'll answer the last one right away. Don't you wish you were me, old + fellow?” + </p> + <p> + The old fellow stood up and looked at Bridges severely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do wish I were you,—just long enough to see that you don't + answer that girl's letter. Surely you don't mean to!” + </p> + <p> + “Hello! What have you got to do with it? Do you know the young woman?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't. But I can easily guess all about her. She's some romantic + little girl, still pure and good, afflicted with one of those idiotic + infatuations for an actor, which is sure to bring trouble to her if you + don't behave like a white man. You want to show her the idiocy of writing + those letters, by ignoring them. You know that actors who care to do + themselves and the profession credit make it a rule never to answer a + letter from a girl like that, unless to give her a word of advice. Come, + my boy, don't disgrace yourself and profession. Don't spoil the life of a + pretty but foolish girl who, if you do the right thing, will soon repent + her silliness, and make some square young fellow a good wife.” + </p> + <p> + Bridges had continued to dress himself during this long speech, assuming a + show of contemptuous indignation as it progressed. When Overfield, + astonished at his own eloquence, had subsided, the young man replied, in a + quiet but rather insolent tone: + </p> + <p> + “Look here, old man, don't try to work the Polonius racket on me. I don't + like advice, and I'm going to meet that girl, see? She arranged the whole + thing herself; she's to be at a certain spot at eleven-thirty P.M. with a + cab. All I've got to do is to signify my assent in a single line, which + I'm going to write and send by messenger as soon as I get out of here. Of + course, if the girl was a friend of yours, it would be different, but she + isn't, and if you want to remain on good terms with me, you won't put in + your oar. Now that's all settled.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it? Well, young man, I don't want to remain on good terms with anybody + I can't respect. I can't respect a man who would take advantage of a + love-struck girl's ignorance of life. If you meet her, you will simply be + obtaining favours on false pretences, anyhow, for you know you're not + really half the fascinating, romantic, clever youth that you seem when + you're on the stage speaking another man's thoughts. That girl is probably + good, and she looks like some one I used to know. If I can save her, I + will, by thunder!” + </p> + <p> + “Really, old man, you're quite worked up. If you could act half that well + on the stage, you'd be doing lead, instead of dusting furniture while the + audience gets settled in its seats.” + </p> + <p> + Old Yorick stood for a moment speechless, stung by the insult. Then he + took up his hat, excitedly, and left the dressing-room without a word. + </p> + <p> + Some of the other members of the company wondered at the angry, flushed + look on his face when he hurried through the corridor to the stage door. A + few minutes later he was seen walking down the street, apparently much + heated in mind. When he reached a certain café he went in, sat down, and + called for whiskey. He remained alone in deep thought, mechanically and + unconsciously answering the salutations bestowed upon him by two or three + acquaintances who strolled in. Suddenly he nodded thrice, as if denoting + the acquiescence of his judgment in some plan of action formed by his + inventive faculty. He rose quickly, paid his bill at the cashier's desk, + and moved rapidly across the street to the —— Hotel. Passing + in through a broad entrance, he turned aside to a writing-room, where, + without removing his soft hat, he sat down at a desk. + </p> + <p> + He was soon immersed in the composition of a letter, which caused him many + contractions of the brow, many lapses during which he abstractedly stared + at vacancy, many fresh beginnings, and the whole of the two hours allowed + him before the evening's performance for dinner. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished the letter, he carefully read it, and made a few + corrections. Then he folded it up, put it in an envelope, and placed it + unsealed in his inside coat pocket. He arose with an expression of + resolution about his eyes that was quite new there. + </p> + <p> + Ascertaining by the clock in the thronged main corridor that the time was + ten minutes after seven, the old man rushed into the café, where he + devoured hastily a chicken croquette, and swallowed a cup of coffee and a + glass of whiskey before starting to the theatre. He was in his + dressing-room and in his shirt-sleeves, touching up his eyebrows, when + Bridges arrived. A cool greeting passed between the two. + </p> + <p> + “You sent the note?” asked the old man. + </p> + <p> + “What note?” gruffly queried Bridges, taking off his coat. + </p> + <p> + “To that girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly.” + </p> + <p> + A curious look, unobserved by Bridges, shot from Poor Yorick's eyes. It + seemed to say, “Wait, things may happen that you're not looking for.” + </p> + <p> + At about the time when Bridges and Yorick were dressing for the + performance, a newspaper reporter, wishing to make a few notes of an + interview that had been accorded him by a politician staying in the hotel + at which the old man had written his long letter, went into the + writing-room and made use of the desk where the actor had sat earlier in + the evening. Several sheets of blank paper were scattered over it. One of + them contained almost a page of writing. Yorick had negligently left it + there. It was a beginning made by him before he had succeeded in obtaining + a satisfactory wording for his thoughts. This rejected opening read: + </p> + <p> + “My DEAR, FOOLISH YOUNG LADY:—Something has happened which prevents + Mr. Bridges from keeping the appointment with you, and you're much better + off on that account, for nothing but unhappiness can come to you if you + allow yourself to be carried out of your senses by your infatuation for a + man who has neither the brains nor the manliness which he seems to have + when playing parts that call for the mere simulation of these gifts. Never + make an appointment with a man you do not know, especially a young and + vain actor who has once got the worst of it in a divorce suit. You'll be + thankful some day for this advice, for I know what I speak of. I was once, + years ago, just such an actor. The woman got into all sorts of trouble + because she wrote me such letters as you have written Bridges, and brought + to an early end a life that might have been very happy and youthful. + Looked like you, and it is a memory of what she lost and suffered that + makes me wish to save you. My dear young ——” + </p> + <p> + There were yet two lines to spare at the foot of the page. The newspaper + man, interested by the fragment, thrust it into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + When Poor Yorick had finished his final scene in the comedy at the ——Theatre + that night, he made haste to dress and to leave the playhouse. But he + loitered near the stage entrance, keeping in the shadow on the other side + of the alley, out of the range of the light from the incandescent globe + over the door. + </p> + <p> + Bridges was slightly surprised, on returning to his dressing-room, to find + that Yorick had already gone. But he attributed this to the ill feeling + that had arisen on account of the intended meeting with the girl of the + letters and the box. + </p> + <p> + The leading juvenile attired himself for the conquest carefully but + rapidly. When he was ready he surveyed his reflection complacently in the + long mirror, assuming the slightly languid look that he intended to + maintain during the first half-hour of the supper. He retained the dress + suit which he wore in the second and third act of the play, and which he + rarely displayed outside of the theatre. He flattered himself that he was + quite irresistible, and wondered whether she would take him to Delmonico's + or to some quiet little place. He indulged, too, in some vague speculation + as to what the supper might result in. The girl was evidently of a rich + family, but her people would doubtless never hear of her making a match + with him, that divorce affair being in recent memory. A marriage was + probably out of the question. However, the girl was a beauty and this + meeting was at least worth the trouble. So he donned his coat and hat and + swaggered out of the theatre. He had no sooner turned from the alley upon + which the stage door opened than Yorick, unnoticed by him, darted out in + pursuit. Ten minutes' walking brought the leading juvenile near the spot + where he was to be awaited by the girl in the cab. Yorick, whose only + means of ascertaining the place of meeting was to follow Bridges, kept as + near the young actor as was compatible with safety from discovery by the + latter. Bridges, strutting along unconscious of Yorick's presence a few + yards behind, had half-traversed the deserted block of tall brown stone + residences, when he saw a cab standing at the corner ahead of him. He + quickened his pace in such a way as to warn the old man that the eventful + moment was at hand. The cab stood under an electric light before an + ivy-grown church. + </p> + <p> + Yorick, with noiseless steps, accelerated his gait. Bridges, as he neared + the cab, deflected his course toward the curbstone and threw his head back + impressively. This little action, interpreted rightly by the pursuer, was + the old man's cue. Yorick suddenly rushed forward with surprising agility. + </p> + <p> + Before Bridges could be seen by the occupant of the cab for which he was + making, he was dazed by a blow on the side of the head, just beneath the + ear, and knocked off his feet by a sound thump on the same spot. He + reeled, clutched at the air, and fell heavily upon the sidewalk. There he + lay stunned and silent. + </p> + <p> + Yorick, not waiting to see what became of the man whom he had felled, + dashed forward to the cab. Opening the door, he caught a momentary vision + of a white, round face, with big, scared eyes, above a palpitating mass of + soft silk and fur, and against a black background. He thrust toward her + the letter, which he had quickly drawn from his pocket, and whispered, + huskily: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bridges couldn't come. Here's a note.” + </p> + <p> + Then he slammed the cab door, and called out in a commanding tone: + </p> + <p> + “Drive on there! Quick!” + </p> + <p> + The cabman, who had evidently received directions in advance from the + girl, jerked his reins, and the cab moved forward, turned, and rattled + away, the horse at a brisk trot. + </p> + <p> + Yorick speedily left the scene. At the next corner he met a policeman, to + whom he said: + </p> + <p> + “There's a man lying on the sidewalk back there by the church. I don't + know whether he's drunk or not.” + </p> + <p> + He was off before the officer could detain him. + </p> + <p> + Bridges spent the night in a station-house, recovering from the effects of + a fall, which the police attributed to drunkenness. Assuming that he had + received his blows from some masculine relative or admirer of the girl, he + gave a false account of the bruises when the next night he asked the + manager for a few nights of rest and enabled his understudy to obtain a + chance long coveted. + </p> + <p> + The leading juvenile manifestly thought best not to attempt a renewal of a + flirtation with a young woman who had so formidable a protector; and the + girl herself, whatever became of her, addressed him no more epistles of + adoration, or of any sort whatever. + </p> + <p> + Yorick got from the stage manager permission to change his dressing-room. + Thereafter he and Bridges maintained a mutual coolness, until one day the + leading juvenile, warmed by cocktails, melted, and addressed the old man + familiarly by his nickname. + </p> + <p> + “Old fellow,” said Bridges, over a café table, “when I come to play + Hamlet, I'll send for you to act Poor Yorick. You'd do it well. You're + always best, you know, in parts that don't require you to come on the + stage at all.” + </p> + <p> + The old man smiled grimly and then shrugged his shoulders at this + pleasantry. When he died the other day, he left a curious will, in which, + after naming several insignificant legacies, he bequeathed his skull “to a + so-called actor, one Charles Bridges, to be used by him in the graveyard + scene when he shall have become able to play Hamlet,—if the skull be + not disintegrated by that time.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIII. — COINCIDENCE + </h2> + <p> + Max took us down into a German place into the bowels of the earth. It was + a bit of Berlin transplanted to Philadelphia and thriving beneath a + Teutonic eating-house. Imagine a great cellar, with stone floor, + ornamented ceiling, massive rectangular pillars of brown wood, substantial + tables, heavy mediaeval chairs, crossbeams bearing pictures of peasant + girls and lettered with sentiments of good cheer in German, and walls + covered with beer-mugs of every size and device. + </p> + <p> + Scores of men sat talking at the tables, smoking, devouring sandwiches, + upturning their mugs of beer over the capacious receptacles provided by + nature. + </p> + <p> + The mediaeval chairs appealed to the romanticism that lies beneath + Breffny's satirical exterior; and when Max called our attention to the + fact that the mugs of beer came through apertures from caves beneath the + street, we were content. + </p> + <p> + For the hour, the problem of human happiness was solved for us three by + three foaming mugs, three sandwiches, and tobacco. + </p> + <p> + Here communed we three, blown from various winds, to this local Bohemia: + Max, native of the free German City of Frankfort, operatic manager in Rio + Janeiro, musician in New York, Denver resident by adoption, Philadelphia + newspaperman by preference; Breffny, born in a Spanish village, reared in + Continental countries, professedly an Irishman, but more than half-Latin + in temperament and appearance, a cyclopedia for the benefit of his + friends, and myself. + </p> + <p> + The talk ran to the imposture recently attempted by young Mr. Herdling, + who claimed that the dead body found at Tarrytown was that of his wife. + </p> + <p> + “A very touching fake,” said Max. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; thanks to the skill of the reporters who wrote up his story,” cried + Breffny. + </p> + <p> + “We visited many morgues in search of her, Louise and I,” said I, quoting + the most effective passage of the narrative. + </p> + <p> + “I did know of one case of a husband starting off at random to find his + runaway wife,” observed Breffny. + </p> + <p> + “As there's yet an hour to midnight, we have time for one of your + stories.” + </p> + <p> + “I can tell this in five minutes. All I know of the story is the + beginning. No one ever heard of the end. It was like this: + </p> + <p> + “When I lived in Glasgow, I knew a young fellow there who was timekeeper + in a shipyard. He was a very quiet, pleasant boy, so bashful that I used + to wonder how he had ever summoned the courage to propose to the pretty + Scotch girl who was his wife. As I got to know more of the pair, I divined + the secret. Although poor, he was of good Glasgow parentage, while the + wife had been a country girl so eager to get to the city that she had + courted him while he was on a visit to the village in which she had lived. + She had merely used him as a means for finding the life for which she had + longed. + </p> + <p> + “How much he really loved her was never suspected until he came home one + evening and found that she had run away with the youngest son of one of + the proprietors of the shipyard. + </p> + <p> + “He learned within a week that they had sailed for America. He packed a + valise, took the money that he had saved, and started out. + </p> + <p> + “'But where are you going to look for them?' I asked him. + </p> + <p> + “'To America,' he said, turning toward me, his face drawn and gaunt with + the grief that he had survived. + </p> + <p> + “'But America is a vast country.' + </p> + <p> + “'I will hunt till I find her.' + </p> + <p> + “'And when you find her—you will not kill her, surely!' + </p> + <p> + “'I will try to get her to come back to me.' + </p> + <p> + “He took passage in the steerage, and I do not know what happened to him + after that.” + </p> + <p> + Each of us hid his emotions in his beer-mug. Then Max ordered fresh mugs, + and said that Breffny's story recalled a somewhat similar thing that he + had witnessed in Denver. + </p> + <p> + “When I was a reporter out there, I was standing one evening in front of a + hotel. A crowd collected to see the body of a guest brought out and placed + upon an ambulance. + </p> + <p> + “'Where are you taking him, and what is it?' I asked the driver. + </p> + <p> + “'To the lazaretto. Smallpox.'” + </p> + <p> + For a moment, while he was being lifted into the ambulance, the victim's + face was visible. A loud cry was heard in the crowd. It came from a + ragged, wild-looking man, whose unkempt beard made him look much older + than I afterward found him to be. As the ambulance hurried off, he ran + after it, shouting: + </p> + <p> + “'I must see that man! Stop! I must ask him something!' + </p> + <p> + “But he tripped upon a horse-car track, and when he had staggered to his + feet, the ambulance was out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “I ran into the hotel and asked the clerk about the lazaretto patient. He + was a young European—an Englishman—they thought, who had + arrived from the East two days ago, and whose condition had just been + discovered. + </p> + <p> + “Coming out, I went to the tramp who had cried out at the sight of the ill + man. I found him seated on the curbstone, weeping like a child. I asked + him why he wished to see the smallpox victim, and said that I could get + him admission to the lazaretto, if he would tell me what he knew, and + wouldn't let any other reporter have the story. + </p> + <p> + “He jumped up eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “'It's this,' he said. 'That man ran away with my wife, and I've hunted + them over sea and land. This is the first sight I've had of him.' + </p> + <p> + “'Then,' I said, 'if you mean to harm him, I'm afraid I can't bring you to + him.' + </p> + <p> + “'Him!' said the ragged man, disdainfully. 'I don't want to hurt him. I + only want to find out where she is. I swear I wouldn't harm either of + them.' + </p> + <p> + “I accompanied him to the city physician, with whom he had a long talk. + That official finally promised to take him to the lazaretto. The doctor + led the man to the side of the iron bed where the smallpox patient lay. + The latter started like a frightened child at sight of his pursuer. + </p> + <p> + “'Remember,' said the doctor to the sick man, 'you have scarcely a chance + for life. You would do well to tell the truth.' + </p> + <p> + “'Only tell me where she is,' pleaded the husband, 'and I'll forgive you + all.' + </p> + <p> + “The sick man gasped: + </p> + <p> + “'I left her in Philadelphia—at the station. She had smallpox. It + was from her I got it. I was a coward—a cur. I left her to save + myself. The money I had brought from home was nearly all gone. Ask her to + forgive me.' + </p> + <p> + “He was dead that evening. The husband was then upon an east-bound + freight-train. The newspaper telegraphed to Philadelphia, but nothing + could be found out about the woman. I've often wondered what became of the + man.” + </p> + <p> + The loud hubbub of conversation,—nearly all in German,—the + shouts of the waiters, the noise of their footfalls upon the stone floor, + the sound of mugs being placed upon tables and of Max draining his “stein” + of beer, bridged the hiatus between the ending of Max's narrative and the + beginning of my own: + </p> + <p> + “Your story reminds me of one to which the city editor assigned me on one + of my 'late nights.' I took a cab and went to the station-house. The case + had been reported by a policeman at Ninth and Locust Streets, who had + called for a patrol-wagon. From him I got the story. He had seen the thing + happen. + </p> + <p> + “He was walking down Locust at half-past twelve that night, and was + opposite the Midnight Mission, when his attention was attracted to the + only two persons who were at that moment on the other side of the street. + One was a man of the appearance of a vagabond, coming from Ninth Street. + The other was a woman, who had come from Tenth Street, and who seemed to + walk with great difficulty, as if ready to sink at every step from + weakness. + </p> + <p> + “The woman dropped her head as she neared the man. The man peered into her + face, in the manner of one who had acquired the habit of examining the + countenances of passers-by. + </p> + <p> + “The two met under the gas-lamp that is so conspicuous a night feature of + the north side of Locust Street, between Ninth and Tenth. + </p> + <p> + “The woman gave no attention to the man. So exhausted was she that she + leaned helplessly against the fence. The man ran forward, shrieking like a + lunatic. + </p> + <p> + “'Jeannie!' + </p> + <p> + “The woman lifted her eyes in a dull kind of amazement and whispered: + </p> + <p> + “'Donald!' + </p> + <p> + “She fell back, but he caught her in his arms and kissed her lips a dozen + times, with a half-savage gladness, crying and laughing hysterically, as + women do. + </p> + <p> + “When the policeman had reached the pair, the woman had seen the last of + this world. + </p> + <p> + “Afterward we found that she had been discharged from the municipal + hospital, where she had been in the smallpox ward two weeks before; and we + surmised that she had virtually had nothing to eat since then. + </p> + <p> + “At the station-house the man explained that the woman was his runaway + wife. He had started in search of her two years before, with no other clue + as to her whereabouts than the knowledge that she had sailed for America + with a man named Ferriss—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” cried Max. “Was the name Archibald Ferriss? That was the name of + the man who died in the Denver lazaretto—” + </p> + <p> + But Max was stopped by Breffny, who almost shouted in excitement: + </p> + <p> + “And the name of the son of McKeown & Ferriss, of Glasgow, in whose + shipyard was employed as timekeeper the Donald Wilson—” + </p> + <p> + “Donald Wilson was the name of the man who met his wife that night in + front of the Midnight Mission,” said I, in further confirmation. + </p> + <p> + It was remarkable. One of the three chapters of this tragic story had + entered into the experience of each of us three who sat there emptying + stone mugs. Now, for the first time, was the story complete to each of us. + </p> + <p> + “But what became of the man?” asked Breffny. + </p> + <p> + “When the police lieutenant spoke of having her body interred in Potter's + Field, the husband spoke up indignantly. He brought forth two gold pieces, + saying: + </p> + <p> + “'I have the money for her grave. I saved this through all my wanderings, + because I thought that when I should find her she might be homeless and + hungry and in need.' + </p> + <p> + “So he had her buried respectably in the suburbs somewhere, and I was too + busy at that time to follow up his subsequent movements. It is enough for + the story that he found his wife.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIV. — NEWGAG THE COMEDIAN + </h2> + <p> + It was not his real name or his stage name, but it was the one under which + he was best known by those who best knew him. It had been thrown at him in + a café one night by a newspaper man after the performance, and had clung + to him. Its significance lay in the fact that his “gags”—supposedly + comic things said by presumably comic men in nominal opera or burlesque—invariably + were old. The man who bestowed the title upon him thought it a fine bit of + irony. + </p> + <p> + Newgag received it without expressed resentment, but without mirth, and he + bore its repetition patiently as seasons went by. He was accustomed to + enduring calmly the jests, the indignities that were elicited by his + peculiar appearance, his doleful expression, his slow and bungling speech + and movement, his diffident manner. + </p> + <p> + He was one of the forbearing men, the many who are doomed to continual + suffering of a kind that their sensitiveness and timidity make it the more + difficult for them to bear. + </p> + <p> + Undying ambition burned beneath his undemonstrative surface; dauntless + courage lay under his lack of ability. + </p> + <p> + He was an extremely spare man, of extraordinary height, and the bend of + his shoulders gave to his small head a comical thrust forward. His black + hair was without curl, and it would tolerate no other arrangement than + being combed back straight. It was allowed to grow downward until it + scraped the back of Newgag's collar, a device for concealing the + meagreness of his neck. + </p> + <p> + He had a smooth, pale face, slanting from ears to nose like a wedge, and + the dimness of the blue eyes added to its introspective cast. He blushed, + as a rule, when he met new acquaintances or was addressed suddenly. He had + a gloomy look and a hesitating way of speech. An amusing spectacle was his + mechanical-looking smile, which, when he became conscious of it, passed + through several stages expressive of embarrassment until his normal + mournful aspect was reached. + </p> + <p> + As he usually appeared in a sack coat when off the stage, the length of + his legs was divertingly emphasized. After the fashion of great actors of + a bygone generation, he wore a soft black felt hat, dinged in the crown + from front to rear. + </p> + <p> + He had entered “the profession” from the amateur stage, by way of the + comic opera chorus, and to that chance was due his being located in the + comic opera wing of the great histrionic edifice. He had originally + preferred tragedy, but the first consideration was the getting upon the + stage by any means. Having industriously worked his way out of the chorus, + he had been reconciled by habit to his environment, and had come to aspire + to eminence therein. He had reached the standing of a secondary comedian,—that + is to say, a man playing secondary comic rôles in the pieces for which he + is cast. He was useful in such companies as were directly or indirectly + controlled by their leading comedians, for there never could be any fears + of his outshining those autocratic personages. Only in his wildest hopes + did he ever look upon the centre of the stage as a spot possible for him + to attain. + </p> + <p> + His means of evoking laughter upon the stage were laborious on his part + and mystifying to the thoughtful observer. He took noticeable means to + change from his real self. It mattered not what was the nature of the part + he filled, he invariably assumed an unnatural, rasping voice; he stretched + his mouth to its utmost reach and lowered the extremities of his lips; he + turned his toes inward (naturally his feet described an abnormal angle) + and bowed his arms. Brought up in the school which teaches that to make + others laugh one must never smile one's self, he wore a grotesquely + lugubrious and changeless countenance. Such was Newgag in his every + impersonation. When he thought he was funniest, he appeared to be in most + pain and was most depressing. + </p> + <p> + “My methods are legitimate,” he would say, when he had enlisted one's + attention and apparent admiration across a table bearing beer-bottles and + sandwiches. “The people want horse-play nowadays. But when I've got to + descend to that sort of thing, I'll go to the variety stage or circus ring + at once—or quit.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a happy thought, old man,” said a comedian of the younger school, + one night, when Newgag had uttered his wonted speech. “Why don't you + quit?” + </p> + <p> + Such a speech sufficed to rob Newgag of his self-possession and to reduce + him to silence. He could not cope with easy, offhand, impromptu jesters. + In truth, no one tried more than Newgag to excel in “horse-play,” but his + temperament or his training did not equip him for excelling in it; he + defended the monotony, emptiness, and toilsomeness of his humour on the + ground that it was “legitimate.” + </p> + <p> + One night Newgag drank two glasses of beer in rapid succession and looked + at me with a touching countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Old boy,” he said, in his homely drawl, “I'm discouraged! I begin to + think I'm not in it!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what's wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've dropped to the fact that, after all these years in the + business, I can't make them laugh.” + </p> + <p> + I was just about to say, “So you've just awakened to that?” but pity and + politeness deterred me. Every one else had known it, all these years. + Newgag, to be sure, should naturally have been, as he was, the last to + discover it. + </p> + <p> + Newgag thus went one step further than any comedian I have ever known. + Having detected his inability to amuse audiences, he confessed it. + </p> + <p> + People who know actors and read this will already have said that it is a + fiction, and that Newgag's admission is false to life. Not so; I am + writing not about comedians in general, but about Newgag. + </p> + <p> + That he had come to so exceptional a concession marked the depth of his + despair. I tried to cheer him. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, my boy! They give you bad parts. Go out of comic opera. Try + tragedy.” + </p> + <p> + I had spoken innocently and sincerely, but Newgag thought I was jesting. + Instead of his usual attempt at lofty callousness, however, he smiled that + dismal, marionette-like smile of his. That gave me an idea, of which I + said nothing at the time. + </p> + <p> + Several months afterward, a manager, who is a friend of mine, was suddenly + plunged in distress because of the serious illness of an actor who was to + fill a part in a new American comedy that the manager was to produce on + the next night. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth shall I do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Play the part yourself, as Hoyt does in such an emergency—or get + Newgag.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's Newgag?” + </p> + <p> + “He's a friend of mine, out of a position. I met him to-day very much + frayed.” + </p> + <p> + “Bring him to me.” + </p> + <p> + Newgag was overwhelmed when I told him of the opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “I never acted in straight comedy,” he said. “I can't do it. I might as + well try to play Juliet.” + </p> + <p> + “He wants you only to speak the lines, that's all. You're a quick study, + you know. Come on!” + </p> + <p> + I had almost to drag the man to the manager. He allowed himself, in a + semistupefied condition, to be engaged. He took the part, sat up all night + in his boarding-house and learned it, went to rehearsal almost + letter-perfect in the morning, and nervously prepared to face the ordeal + of the evening. + </p> + <p> + At six o'clock, he wished to go to the manager and give up the part. + </p> + <p> + “I can never do it,” he wailed to me. “I haven't had time to form a + conception of it and to get up byplay. You see, it's an eccentric + character part,—a man from the country whom everybody takes for a + fool, but who shows up strong at the last. I can't—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't act it. You're only engaged in the emergency, you know. Simply + go on and say your lines and come off.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all I can do,” he said, with a dubious shake of the head. “If only + I'd had time to study it!” + </p> + <p> + American plays had taken foothold, and this premier of a new one by an + author of two previous successes drew a “typical first night audience.” + Newgag, having abandoned all idea of making a hit, or of acting the part + any further than the mere delivery of the speeches went, was no longer + inordinately nervous. When he first entered he was a trifle frightened, + and his unavoidable lack of prepared stage business made him awkward and + embarrassed for a time. The awkwardness remained, but the embarrassment + eventually passed away. He spoke in his natural voice and retained his + actual manner. When the action required him to laugh, he did so, + exhibiting his characteristic perfunctory smile. + </p> + <p> + He received a special call before the curtain after the third act. He had + no thought that it was meant for him until the stage manager pushed him + out from the wings. He came back looking distressed. + </p> + <p> + “Are they guying me?” he asked the stage manager. + </p> + <p> + The papers agreed the next day that one of the hits of the performance was + made by Newgag “in an odd part which he had conceived in a strikingly + original way, and impersonated with wonderful finish and subtle drollery.” + </p> + <p> + “What does it mean?” he gasped. + </p> + <p> + I enlightened him. + </p> + <p> + “My boy, you simply played yourself. Did it never occur to you that in + your own person you're unconsciously one of the drollest men I ever saw?” + </p> + <p> + “But I didn't act!” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't. And take my advice—don't!” + </p> + <p> + And he doesn't. Upon the reputation of his success in that comedy he + arranged with another manager to appear in a play especially written for + him. He is a prosperous star now. Whatever his play or part he always + presents the same personality on the stage and he has made that + personality dear to many theatre-goers. He does not appear too frequently + or too long in any one place; hence he is warmly welcomed wherever and + whenever he returns. He is classed among leading actors, and the ordinary + person does not stop sufficiently long to observe that he is no actor at + all. + </p> + <p> + “This isn't exactly art,” he said to me, the other night, with a tinge of + self-rebuke. “But it's success.” + </p> + <p> + And the history of Newgag is the history of many. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXV. — AN OPERATIC EVENING + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + <i>A Desperate Youth</i> + </p> + <p> + The second act of “William Tell” had ended at the Grand Opera House. The + incandescent lights of ceiling and proscenium flashed up, showering + radiance upon the vast surface of summer costumes and gay faces in the + auditorium. The audience, relieved of the stress of attention, became + audible in a great composite of chatter. A host streamed along the aisles + into the wide lobbies, and thence its larger part jostled through the + front doors to the brilliantly illuminated vestibule. Many passed on into + the wide sidewalk, where the electric light poured its rays upon countless + promenaders whose footfalls incessantly beat upon the aural sense. Scores + of bicyclists of both sexes sped over the asphalt up and down, some now + and then deviating to make way for a lumbering yellow 'bus or a hurrying + carriage. + </p> + <p> + Men and women, young people composing the majority, strolled to and fro in + the roomy lobby that environs the auditorium on all sides save that of the + stage. A group of enthusiasts stood between the rear door of the + box-office and the wide entrance to the long middle aisle. + </p> + <p> + “How magnificently Guille held that last note!” + </p> + <p> + “What good taste and artistic sense Madame Kronold has!” + </p> + <p> + “Del Puente hasn't been in better voice in years.” + </p> + <p> + “But you know, Mademoiselle Islar is decidedly a lyric soprano.” + </p> + <p> + These were some of the scraps of the conversation of that group. A lithe, + athletic-looking man of thirty stood mechanically listening to them, as he + stroked his black moustache. He was in summer attire, evidently disdaining + conventionalities, preferring comfort. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly losing interest in the conversation in his vicinity, he started + toward the Montgomery Avenue side of the lobby, with the apparent + intention of breathing some outside air at one of the wide-barred exits, + where children stood looking in from the sidewalk, and catching what + glimpses they could of the audience through the doorways in the glass + partition bounding the auditorium. + </p> + <p> + He by chance cast his glance up the unused staircase leading to the + balcony from the northern part of the lobby. He saw upon the third step a + young woman in a dark flannel outing-dress, her face concealed by a veil. + She seemed to be watching some one among those who stood or moved near the + Montgomery Avenue exits, which had wire barriers. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” he said, within himself, “surely I know that figure! But I + thought she had gone to the Catskills, and I never supposed her capable of + wearing negligee clothes at the theatre. There can be no mistaking that + wrist, though, or that turn of the shoulders.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped softly to her side and lightly touched one of the admired + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + She turned quickly and suppressed an exclamation ere it was half-uttered. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Harry—Doctor Haslam, I mean! How did you know it was I?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Amy—that is to say, Miss Winnett! What on earth are you doing + here? Pardon the question, but I thought you were on the mountains. I'm + all the more glad to see you.” + </p> + <p> + While he pressed her hand she looked searchingly into his eyes, a fact of + which he was conscious despite her veil. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not here—as far as my people may know. I'm at the Catskills + with my cousins—except to my cousins themselves. To them I've come + back home for a week's conference with my dressmaker. Our house isn't + entirely closed up, you know. Aunt Rachel likes the hot weather of + Philadelphia all summer through, and she's still here. When I arrived here + this morning, I told her the dressmaker story. She retires at eight and + she thinks I'm in bed too. But I'm here, and nobody suspects it but you + and Mary, the servant at home, who knows where I've come, and who's to + stay up for me till I return to-night. That's all of it, and now, as + you're a friend of mine, you mustn't tell any one, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “But I know nothing to tell,” said the bewildered doctor. “What does all + this subterfuge, this mystery mean?” + </p> + <p> + Amy Winnett considered silently for a moment, while Doctor Haslam mentally + admired the slim, well-rounded figure, the graceful poise of the little + head with its mass of brown hair beneath a sailor hat of the style that + “came in” with this summer. + </p> + <p> + “I may as well tell you all,” she answered, presently. “I may need your + assistance, too. I can rely upon you?” + </p> + <p> + “Through fire and water.” + </p> + <p> + “I've come to Philadelphia to prevent a suicide.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You see, I've broken the engagement between me and Tom Appleton.” + </p> + <p> + “What! You don't mean it?” + </p> + <p> + There was a striking note of jubilation in the doctor's interruption. Miss + Winnett made no comment thereupon, but continued: + </p> + <p> + “I finally decided that I didn't care as much for Tom as I'd thought I + did, and then I had a suspicion—but I won't mention that—” + </p> + <p> + “No, you needn't. Your fortune—pardon me, I simply took the + privilege of an old friend who had himself been rejected by you. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't interrupt again. As I said, I concluded that I couldn't be Tom's + wife, and I told him so. He went to the Catskills when we went, you know, + as he thought he could keep up his law studies as well there as here. You + can't imagine how he took it. I'd never before known how much he—he + really wished to marry me. But I was unflinching, and at last he left me, + vowing that he would return to Philadelphia and commit suicide. He swore a + terrible oath that my next message from him would be found in his hands + after his death. And he set to-night as the time for the deed.” + </p> + <p> + “But why couldn't he have done it there and then?” + </p> + <p> + “How hard-hearted you are! Probably because he wanted to put his affairs + in order before putting an end to his life.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke in all seriousness. Doctor Haslam succeeded with difficulty in + restraining a smile. + </p> + <p> + “You don't imagine for a moment,” he said, “that the young man intended + keeping his oath.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't I? You should have seen the look on his face when he spoke it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I couldn't sleep with the thought that a man was going to kill + himself on my account. It makes me shudder. I'd see his face in my dreams + every night of my life. Then if a note were really found in his hands, + addressed to me, the whole thing would come out in the newspapers, and + wouldn't that be horrible? Of course I couldn't tell my cousins anything + about his threat, so I invented my excuse quickly, packed a small handbag, + disguised myself with Cousin Laura's hat and veil, and took the same train + that Tom took. I've kept my eye on him ever since, and he has no idea I'm + on his track. The only time I lost was in hurrying home with my handbag to + see my aunt, but I didn't even do that until I'd followed him on Chestnut + Street to the down-town box-office of this theatre and seen him buy a + seat, which I later found out from the ticket-seller was for to-night. So + here I am, and there he is.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Standing over there by that wire thing like a fence next the street.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked over as she motioned. He soon recognized the slender + figure, the indolent attitude of Tom Appleton, the blasé young man whom he + was so accustomed to meeting at billiard-tables, in clubs, or hotels. A + tolerant, amiable expression saved the youth's smooth, handsome face from + vacuity. He was dressed with careful nicety. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Haslam, “a man about to take leave of this life doesn't + ordinarily waste time going to the opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? He probably came here to think. One can do that well at the + opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Tom Appleton think?—I beg pardon again. But see, he's talking to a + girl now, Miss Estabrook, of North Broad Street. His smile to her is not + the kind of a smile that commonly lights up a man's face on his way to + death.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't suppose he would conceal his intentions from people by putting + on his usual gaiety, do you?” she replied, ironically; adding, rather + stiffly, “He has at least sufficiently good manners to do that, if not + sufficient duplicity.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't mean to offend you. My motive was to comfort you with the + probability that he has changed his mind about shuffling off his mortal + coil.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not very complimentary, Doctor Haslam. Perhaps you don't think + that being jilted by me is sufficient to make a man commit suicide.” + </p> + <p> + “Frankly I don't. If I had thought so three years ago, I'd be dust or + ashes at this present moment. It can't be that you would feel hurt if Tom + Appleton there should fail to keep his oath and should continue to live in + spite of your renunciation of him?” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you think me so vain and cruel, when I've taken all this trouble + and come all this distance simply to prevent him from keeping his oath?” + </p> + <p> + “But how in the world would you prevent him if he were honestly bent on + getting rid of himself?” + </p> + <p> + “By watching him until the moment he makes the attempt, and then rushing + up and telling him that I'd renew our engagement. That would stop him, and + gain time for me to manage so that he'd fall in love with some other girl + and release me of his own accord.” + </p> + <p> + “But think a moment. You can watch him until the opera is out and perhaps + for some time later. But if he means to die he certainly has a sufficient + share of good manners to induce him to die quietly in his own home. So + he'll eventually go home. When his door is locked, how are you going to + keep your eye on him, and how can you rush to him at the proper moment?” + </p> + <p> + “I never thought of that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you're a woman.” + </p> + <p> + She proceeded to do some thinking there upon the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said, finally, “I know what to do. I'll follow him until he does + go home, to make sure he doesn't attempt anything before that time, and + then I'll tell the police. They'll watch him.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll probably get Mr. Tom Appleton into some very embarrassing + complications by so doing.” + </p> + <p> + “What if I do,” she said, heroically, “if I save his life? Now, will you + assist me to watch him? I'll need an escort in the street, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I put myself at your command from now henceforth, if only for the joy of + the time that I am thus privileged to pass with you.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled pleasantly, and with pleasure, trusting to her veil to hide the + facial indication of her feelings. But Haslam's trained gray eye noted the + smile, and also what kind of smile it was, and the discovery had a potent + effect upon him. It deprived him momentarily of the power of speech, and + he looked vacantly at her while colour came and went in his face. + </p> + <p> + Then he regained control of himself and he sighed audibly, while she + dropped her eyes. + </p> + <p> + They were still standing upon the stairs, heedless of the confusion of + vocal sounds that arose from the lobby strollers, from the boys selling + librettos, from the people returning from the vestibule in a thick stream, + from the musicians afar in the orchestra, tuning their instruments, from + the many sources that provide the delightful hubbub of the entr'acte. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said Amy to Haslam. “Stand in front of me, so that Tom won't see + me if he looks up here as he passes. He's coming this way.” + </p> + <p> + Young Appleton, chaffing with the persons whom he had met at the exit, was + sharing in the general movement from the byways of the lobby to the middle + entrance of the parquet. The electric bell in the vestibule had sounded + the signal that the third act was to begin. Mr. Hinrichs had returned to + the director's stand in the orchestra and was raising his baton. + </p> + <p> + Arrived at the middle entrance, Appleton raised his hat to those with whom + he had been talking, as if not intending to go in just then. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hinrichs's baton tapped upon the stand, the music began, and the + curtain rose. + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn't he go in?” whispered Amy, alluding to Appleton. + </p> + <p> + But the young man yawned, looked at his watch, and departed from the lobby—not + to the auditorium, but out to the vestibule. + </p> + <p> + “He's going to leave the theatre,” said Miss Winnett, excitedly. “We must + follow.” + </p> + <p> + And she tripped hastily down the stairs, Haslam after her. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + <i>A Triangular Chase</i> + </p> + <p> + Tom Appleton sauntered out through the great vestibule, turning his eyes + casually from the marble floor up to the balconies that look down from + aloft upon this outer lobby. He was whistling an air from “Apollo” which + he had heard a few weeks before at the New York Casino. + </p> + <p> + He hastened his steps when he saw a 'bus passing down Broad Street. A leap + down the Grand Opera House steps and a lively run enabled him to catch the + 'bus before it reached Columbia Avenue. He clambered up to the top and was + soon being well shaken as he enjoyed the breeze and the changing view of + the handsome residences on North Broad Street. + </p> + <p> + Haslam's sharp eyes took note of Appleton's action. + </p> + <p> + “He's on that 'bus,” said the doctor to Amy as she took his arm on the + sidewalk. “Shall we take the next one?” + </p> + <p> + “No; for then we can't see where he gets off. Can't we find a cab?” + </p> + <p> + “There's none in sight. We can have one called here, but we'll have to + wait for it at least ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “That will never do. To think he could elude us so easily, without even + knowing that we're after him!” + </p> + <p> + Vexation was stamped upon the dainty face, with its soft brown eyes, as + she raised her veil. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I have it,” said Haslam, who would have gone to great lengths to + drive that vexation away. + </p> + <p> + “A bicycle! This section teems with bicycle shops. We can hire a tandem. + It's a good thing we're both expert bicyclists.” + </p> + <p> + “And that I'm suitably dressed for this kind of a race,” replied Amy, as + the two hurried down the block. + </p> + <p> + She stood outside the bicycle store and kept her gaze upon the 'bus, which + was growing less and less distinct to the eye as it rolled down the + street, while Haslam hastily engaged a two-seated machine. + </p> + <p> + The 'bus had not yet disappeared in the darkness when the pursuers, Amy + upon the front seat, glided out from the sidewalk and down over the + asphalt. The passage became rough below Columbia Avenue, where the asphalt + gives away to Belgian block paving. Haslam's athletic training and the + acquaintance of both with the bicycle served to minimize this + disadvantage. + </p> + <p> + The frequent stoppages of the 'bus made it less difficult for them to keep + in close sight of it. Conversation was not easy between them. Both kept + silence, therefore, their eyes fixed upon the 'bus ahead, and carefully + watching its every stop. + </p> + <p> + “You're sure he hasn't gotten off yet?” she asked, at Girard Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Certain.” + </p> + <p> + “He's probably going to his rooms down-town.” + </p> + <p> + “Or to his club.” + </p> + <p> + So they pressed southward. Before them stretched the lone vista of + electric lights away down Broad Street to the City Hall invisible in the + night. + </p> + <p> + The difficulty of talking made thinking more involuntary. Haslam's mind + turned back three years. Was it, as he had dared sometimes to fancy, a + juvenile capriciousness that had impelled this girl in front of him to + reject him when she was seventeen, after having manifested an unmistakable + tenderness for him? And now that she was twenty, and had in the meantime + rejected several others, and broken one engagement, was it too late to + attempt to revive the old spark? + </p> + <p> + His meditations were suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the girl + herself. + </p> + <p> + “Look! He's left the 'bus. He's going into the Park Theatre.” + </p> + <p> + So he was. His slim person was easily distinguishable in the wealth of + electric light that flooded the street upon which looked the broad + doorways and the allegorical facades of the Park. + </p> + <p> + The second act of “La Belle Helene” was not yet over when Appleton entered + and stood at the rear of the parquet circle. He indifferently watched the + finale, made some mental comments upon the white flowing gown of Pauline + Hall, the make-up of Fred Solomon, and the grotesqueness of the five + Hellenic kings. Then he scanned the audience. + </p> + <p> + Haslam and Amy dismounted near the theatre and entrusted the bicycle to a + small boy's care. When they had bought admission tickets and reached the + lobby, the gay finale of the second act was being given. The curtain fell, + was called up three times, and then people began to pour forth from the + entrance to drink, smoke, or enjoy the air in the entr'acte. + </p> + <p> + Appleton was involved in the movement of those who resorted to the little + garden with flowers and fountain and asphalt paving, accessible through + the northern exits. He paused for a time by the fountain, not sufficiently + curious to join the crowd that stood gaping at the apertures through which + the members of the chorus could be seen ascending the stairs to the upper + dressing-rooms, many of them carolling scraps of song from the opera as + they went. + </p> + <p> + Appleton soon reëntered the lobby and again surveyed the audience closely. + Haslam caught sight of him just in time to avoid him. Amy had resumed the + concealment of her veil. + </p> + <p> + To the surprise of his watchers, Appleton left the theatre before the + third act opened. Again he jumped upon a 'bus, but this time it was upon + one moving northward. + </p> + <p> + “It looks as if he were going back to the Grand Opera House,” suggested + Amy, as she and her companion started to repossess the bicycle. + </p> + <p> + “His movements are a trifle unaccountable,” said Haslam, thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Now you admit he is acting queerly. Perhaps you'll see I was quite + right.” + </p> + <p> + Again mounted upon the bicycle, the doctor and the young woman returned to + the chase. They were soon brought to a second stop by Appleton's departure + from the 'bus at Girard Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Where can he be going to now?” queried Amy. + </p> + <p> + “He's going to take that east-bound Girard Avenue car.” + </p> + <p> + “So he is. What can he mean to do in that part of town?” + </p> + <p> + They turned down Girard Avenue. The car was half a block in advance of + them. + </p> + <p> + “You're energetic enough in this pursuit,” Amy shouted back to the doctor + as the machine fled over the stones, “even if you don't believe in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Energetic in your service, now and always.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer. + </p> + <p> + This time her reflections were abruptly checked—as his had been on + Broad Street—by the cry of the other. + </p> + <p> + “See! He's getting off at the Girard Avenue Theatre.” + </p> + <p> + Again they found a custodian for their bicycle and followed Appleton into + a theatre. + </p> + <p> + The young man stopped at the box-office in the long vestibule, bought a + ticket, and had a call made for a coupé. Then he passed through the + luxurious little foyer, beautiful with flowers and soft colours, and stood + behind the parquet circle railing. + </p> + <p> + Adelaide Randall's embodiment of “The Grand Duchess” held his attention + for a time. Haslam and Miss Winnett, to avoid the risk of being discovered + by him, sought the seclusion of the balcony stairs. + </p> + <p> + “We had a few bars of Offenbach at the Park, and here we have Offenbach + again,” commented the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “And again, only a few bars, for there goes our man.” + </p> + <p> + Appleton, having given as much attention to the few spectators as to the + players, left the theatre and got into the cab that had been ordered for + him. + </p> + <p> + Haslam, behind the pillar at the entrance to the theatre, overheard + Appleton's direction to the driver. It was: + </p> + <p> + “To the Grand Opera House. Hurry! The opera will soon be over.” + </p> + <p> + The cab rumbled away. + </p> + <p> + “It's well we heard his order,” observed Haslam to Amy. “We couldn't have + hoped to keep up with a cab. He'll probably wait at the Grand Opera House + till we get there.” + </p> + <p> + “But we mustn't lose any time, for, as he said, the performance will soon + be over.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, 'Tell' is a long opera and Guille will have an encore for the aria in + the last act. That will give us a few minutes more.” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + <i>A Telegraphic Revelation</i> + </p> + <p> + A boy walking down Girard Avenue, as Appleton got into the cab, had been + whistling the tune of “They're After Me,”—a thing that was new to + the variety stage last fall, but is dead this summer. The air, whistled by + the boy, clung to Appleton's sense, and he unconsciously hummed it to + himself as his cab went on its grinding way over the stones. + </p> + <p> + The cabman was considerate of his horse, and he coolly ignored Appleton's + occasional shouts of, “Get along there, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + It was, therefore, not impossible for the bicyclists to keep in sight of + the coupé. + </p> + <p> + “All this concern about a man you say you don't care for,” said Haslam to + Amy, as the bicycle turned up Broad Street. “It's unprecedented.” + </p> + <p> + “It's only humanity.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't bother about following me around like this when you threw me + over.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't threaten to kill yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “No; if I had, I'd have carried out my threat. But for months I endured a + living death—or worse.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? Did you, though?” + </p> + <p> + Eager inquiry and sudden elation were expressed in this speech. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I did. Why do you ask in that way?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—you took me by surprise. Why did you never tell me it affected + you so? I thought—I thought—” + </p> + <p> + “What did you think?” + </p> + <p> + “That if you really cared for me you would have—tried again.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Then I was fatally ignorant! I thought that when you said a thing, + you meant it.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know what I meant until it was too late.” + </p> + <p> + “But is it too late—ah! see, he's getting out of the cab at the + Grand Opera House.” + </p> + <p> + They quickly switched the bicycle from the street to the sidewalk, and + both dismounted. + </p> + <p> + They were checked at the entrance to the theatre by the appearance of + Appleton. He was coming from within the building, and with him were two + women, one elderly and unattractive, the other a plump young person with + bright blue eyes in a saucy face that had more claim to piquant effrontery + than to beauty. She was simply dressed and was all smiles to Appleton. + </p> + <p> + Amy and Haslam quickly turned their backs, thus avoiding recognition, and + while they seemed to be looking through the glass front into the + vestibule, they overheard the following conversation between the blue-eyed + girl and Appleton. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad you found us at last, Tom. Three acts of grand opera are about + enough for me, thanks, and we'd have left sooner if your telegram that + you'd be in town to-night hadn't made me expect to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've been hunting for you in every open theatre in town where + there's grand opera. In your answer to my telegram from the Catskills, you + said merely you were going to the opera this evening. You didn't say what + opera, but I supposed it was this one, so I bought a ticket as soon as I + arrived in town at the down-town office. I got here after the first act, + and spent all the second act looking around for you.” + </p> + <p> + “It's strange you didn't see us. We were in the middle of row K, right.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I missed you, that's all, and I kept a watch on the lobby after the + act, thinking you'd perhaps come out between the acts. Then I went to the + Park Theatre, and then to the Girard Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + Amy and Haslam went into the vestibule. Amy was crimson with anger. Haslam + quietly said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to continue the pursuit?” + </p> + <p> + Before she found time to answer, another matter distracted her attention. + </p> + <p> + “Look! There's Mary, the housemaid, who was to stay up for me till I got + home. She has come here for me.” + </p> + <p> + The servant stood by the door leading into the lobby, in a position + enabling her to scan the faces of people coming out from the auditorium. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Miss Amy, are you here? I was waiting for you to come out. Here's a + telegram that came about a half-hour ago. I thought it might be + important.” + </p> + <p> + Amy tore open the envelope. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” she said to Haslam, “this was sent to-day from Philadelphia to me + at the Catskills, and my cousins have had it repeated back to me. And look—it's + signed by you.” + </p> + <p> + “I surely didn't send it.” + </p> + <p> + But there was the name beyond doubt, “Henry Haslam, M.D.” + </p> + <p> + “This is a mystery to me, I assure you,” reiterated the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “But not to me,” cried Amy. “Read the message and you'll understand.” + </p> + <p> + He read these words: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Appleton is very ill. His life depends upon his will-power. He tells + me that you alone can say the word that will save him. Henry Haslam, M.D.” + </p> + <p> + Haslam smiled. + </p> + <p> + “A clever invention to make you think he tried to execute his threat. Now + you know what he was doing while you were taking your handbag home. He + probably concocted the scheme on his journey. But why did he sign my name, + I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + She dropped her eyes and answered in a low tone: + </p> + <p> + “Because he knew that I would believe anything said by you.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you believe that I love you still more than I did three years ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; if it came from your own lips—not by telegraph.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her eyes now, and her lips, too; Mary the housemaid sensibly + looked another way. + </p> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From Bohemia, by Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM BOHEMIA *** + +***** This file should be named 8869-h.htm or 8869-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/6/8869/ + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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